Becoming Lucy

About two years ago there were murmurs and whispers of the possibility of the local theater performing Jekyll and Hyde.

“You’d make a great Lucy,” a friend of mine said to me.

“Really?  Who’s she?”  I asked.

Come spring, Jekyll and Hyde was not the upcoming show.  Instead we did The Sound of Music and I was cast as a nun.  This year there were whispers again that Jekyll and Hyde might be the next fall show.  It also so happened to be on national tour and when it came to town My Man bought us tickets.

I won’t go into my whole critique of that performance but the show in general I found to be intriguing, dark and a bit racy.  Not your typical community theater pick.  I left thinking that if the theater I play with does this show, I would shoot for the role of Emma.

Most people know the story of Dr.Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and that Jekyll makes a concoction that, when consumed, separates the good and bad sides of a person.  He tests it on himself, conjuring up Mr. Hyde and finding that, though the two sides were separate, they were not separable from the being that carries them. 

In the show, Dr. Jekyll is engaged to a confident, independent lady named Emma.  Mr. Hyde, however, has a more ravenous interest in a prostitute named Lucy.  She is in love with Jekyll but infatuated with Hyde. 

Ah!  Love triangles!

So I waited until I heard if Jekyll and Hyde was indeed to be the upcoming show.  Once it was announced, I set to work on researching Emma, her scenes and her songs.  Why did I choose Emma or better yet, why audition for a lead role at all?

As a rule I always audition for a lead.  I think it’s a good exercise.  Shoot for the moon and you’ll land in the stars and all that jazz.  It shows the directors that you are willing and have the gumption for it.  Also, the goal is to get a lead one day.  No one in theater says, “You know, I just really want to be an ensemble performer.  I like it best!”  To be sure, ensemble roles are fun!  I wouldn’t have kept performing if I didn’t think so but at some point you want your chance to be the front runner in the story telling.  So I always audition for leads because all they can do is tell me “no.” 

Which they did. 

Plenty. 

But I thought maybe this time…I could pull off Emma.  I can relate to her.  I remember being a young woman who had to respectfully unwrap her parents arms from her legs and say, “Thank you for all of your love and direction but now it’s time for ME to call the shots for my life.”  It doesn’t seem like it was that long ago.  I could tap into that for the character of Emma.  I know what it’s like to be married to a man who works hard and I remember when I hardly saw him at all because his career was in a such a place that he needed to keep his nose to the grind.  I remember having to be understanding and to be second to work and to reassure myself that it’s just for a time and that part of his drive is his love for me.  I could totally relate to Emma.

I talked to Christina and told her I would be auditioning for Jekyll and Hyde.

“Oo!  You’d make a great Lucy!” she encouraged.

“You think?  I am working on auditioning as Emma.”

“She’s great too!  Strong character!”

Yes, both women in this show have a strong role.  One has the power to save Jekyll from himself.  The other has the desperation and hopes that he’ll save HER from herself.

Lucy though…I didn’t feel that I could really relate to Lucy.  “I’m a good girl, I am” but as I got to know her, I realized that really, so is Lucy.  She isn’t bad.  Her station in life is bad.  She’s trapped and controlled by her pimp and by her circumstances.  If she could get out…what a LADY she could be! 

I liked her songs.  I thought…maybe I could play Lucy.  Emma though.  I know Emma.

When I have auditioned in the past, I prepared for it on my own. Well, mostly.  I have always had Christina coaching via text, email and phone.  Still, she hasn’t heard me sing. She can’t see my expressions.  She’s only been able to give me advice based on the struggles I’ve conveyed to her.  My auditions have always gone well and I accredit that to her being in my corner. 

A few months ago, a former cast mate posted that she was available to give voice lessons or audition coaching.  I jumped on the opportunity.  This is what I needed!  I needed to hear, “yes that’s good” or “oh no baby.  Don’t ever do that again.”  When I met with Danielle for coaching she asked what show and role I was auditioning for.

“I’ll tell you right now, when they look at you they will see a Lucy.  How you dress for this audition will be important if you want to convey an Emma.  You need something that shows your figure but…no cleavage.  Something very lady-like and sweet.”

Now I was starting to wonder if I was going for the right role.  When I said I always audition for leads I didn’t mean if the role was not suited for me.  Like, when we did Sound of Music, I didn’t audition as Maria.  It just doesn’t fit.  So, was I barking up the wrong tree on this one?  I was told it was do-able.  I could pull off an Emma.  Still….  I started to check out Lucy’s songs and scenes a bit.  I did enjoy singing her parts.  Her songs are full of hope and they are naively triumphant at times.

Danielle suggested I keep my focus on Emma but I should have a Lucy song in my back pocket.

“Just in case they ask to hear you as Lucy,” she said.

I also started voice lessons this Spring.  I sang Emma’s audition piece for her and she loved it!  She was very encouraging and I started to feel better about my choice.  I decided to prepare the Lucy songs too and see what she thought.  The next week I sang them for her.  She again was very complimentary.

“Which do you think was stronger?  Who should I audition for?”

“I think you should go for both!”  she said.

Hm. 

I went ahead and prepared Emma’s monologue and planned my outfit around her character.  I worked on the Lucy songs too just in case.  I kept thinking I’d go in as Emma and then if they asked, like Danielle said, then I’d be ready. 

Before auditions I went on my trip to Paris.  Weee!  Oh boy was that great for the spirit!  I came back so relaxed.  I didn’t sing the whole week and I think my vocals were happy for the vacation time as well.  When I came home I felt much more comfortable with both parts.  I went into the audition, introduced myself and said, “In the spirit of the duplicity that is Jekyll and Hyde, I’m going to audition as both Emma and Lucy.”

My auditions are always a blur to me.  They race past and then are over.  The hind sight assessment is difficult.  It’s like trying to remember a dream that you just woke up from.  What I recall of this one was that I did a nice job on the monologue, the Emma song was solid and the Lucy song…

“I messed up the end,” I confessed to Bethany.  “The last 4 notes should be belted and they fizzled.  The music director even asked me to sing that part again and, again I puttered out.  Overall, I felt it went well.  A solid audition.”

Bethany was up next to audition and had listened outside the door while I performed.

“Your Emma song was beautiful!  It sounded really good!” she said.

I waited and listened while Bethany auditioned as well.  I couldn’t hear the monologue.  Then she sang.  Her voice soared!  It was light and easy and absolutely divine!  My ear pressed to the door I blinked back proud tears!  My friend had a wonderfully successful audition.

“See you at call backs!” she said when we left.

I wasn’t so sure.  As I drove home I started to really beat myself up about those 4 words at the end of that one song.  It makes me laugh now to think about it but it’s true.  I went from feeling like I had a good and solid audition to thinking I did a terrible awful job!  Plus, I think Bethany’s amazing performance started to get to me, not gonna lie.  She out did me.

That evening we received emails inviting us to call backs as Bethany had predicted.  I reviewed what I could for it but there isn’t much one can do to prepare for a call back.  Bethany and I began to get excited about the prospect of getting to sing a duet together!  The callbacks did not say which character we were auditioning for.  I tried to find something to wear that walked the line of Emma and Lucy.  I like the fresh and innocent look headbands give and so I pulled my hair back with one and did my make up clean and light.  I wore comfortable clothes that I could dance in.

When I got to the theater we were told to grab a scene to review if we had one.  I found mine.  It was for Lucy.  Even though I had auditioned for both, I still was sure that my Emma was better.  I was taken aback. 

But I’m wearing a headband…  I know.  I’m a dork.

So the audition proceeded.  I always feel like call backs are so much more fun than the initial audition and this was no exception!  It’s so great to see other people’s offerings.  I won’t take you through the super hard dance routine we did or all of the other details but I can tell you I saw some really splendid talents!  I went home proud of what I gave and proud of the group of people to have been included with for the final auditions.

Long story longer:  I was offered the role of Lucy.  I couldn’t believe it.  I landed a lead!  Weee!  and then “Oh crap!”

I called Christina and we talked for about an hour about the journey I’ve been on that has brought me to this point.  She was excited and encouraging and a proud mentor, cause really, it is doubtful I would be where I am now with out her help.  Heck, she was the one that inspired me to start getting involved in theater to begin with!  Wow, Chris!  Think of that! 

Anywhoo, she gave me some homework for character research and development.  It’s been wonderful for setting my mind at ease about taking this on.  The work has given me something to do while waiting for rehearsals to start and also given me confidence that I’ll be able to do more than sing a song prettily.  The better I get to know Lucy, the more common ground I can find with her and in the areas where I can’t relate to her, I can at least understand. 

I watched a scene the other day and I went back into my turtle shell. 

“What am I thinking?!  I’m too prude for this!”

“Lucy’s is a tragic story that should be told!”  Christina said, “A woman in the wrong profession who is shown a little kindness and civility, can’t escape her station and is tempted by someone she can’t handle.  She never really had a chance to escape her life, the life she was born into.”

“I think the scene makes me uncomfortable because it should.  As Lucy, Hyde and I should make the audience uncomfortable here.”

“Yes, and you have to be Lucy and not you.  You have time to prepare.  You can do this!!”

I talked to Caren too. 

“I do think people’s reactions have been funny,” she said.  “When I tell someone your part they say, ‘Yes!  That’s perfect for her!  She’ll be great!’  and I’m thinking, ‘doesn’t anyone know how prude she is?!”

“Ha ha!  So true!  I have been surprised by the women who cheer ‘YES’ when I tell them Lucy is a whore.  This isn’t a feminist power role.  Hers is a sad story, really.”

So there it is.  My first lead role and I’m a whore.  The lead whore of the Red Rat.  Yep.  My grandma would be so proud!!  Ha ha!  Truthfully, she really would be.  She would already be making her arrangements to come out and see the show and asking me what she should wear.

“Cool your jets Grandma,” I would tell her.  “It’s not until September.”

 

 

Blessings

I met Alima when she was a shy little grade-schooler.  She hid behind her mom’s skirt while I introduced myself to her.  I think we had a sleepover that very night!  Fast forward 27 years and Alima and I find ourselves living 45 minutes apart, despite moves domestic and international.  When she sent me an invite to her baby shower I knew just what to get her!

Truth is, my standard gift at baby showers is nursery art work but I was particularly excited to do Alima’s because I knew it would not be the standard nursery theme.  I pow-wowed with the mom-to-be to verify.

“We painted the nursery gray.  We don’t have an actual theme.  I’d like the accents to be bright colored, globally eclectic and gender neutral.  That being said, I do like owls and elephants.”

An artists dream!  Free artistic license!!!

While in Iceland I was inspired by their use of color to counter their gray skies and bleak landscape.  On the side of one of the bold colored buildings was this art piece:
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I loved the interesting choice of colors, the movement and shapes, and the hidden birds.  I thought that I could do something like that for Alima’s nursery and maybe incorporate owls. 

The sun was coming in to my workspace in such a lovely way.  I pulled back my curtains and set my easel up in the sunshine.  I can’t function with out music so I searched my iPod for the just right playlist and then I examined the blank canvas for a long time. 

Starting a piece is always the hardest part for me.  There’s always a touch of fear in that first stroke of color.  My paint brush is poised over the canvas, loaded with paint and self doubt until I finally take a deep breath and give it a go.  Once that part is over the rest usually becomes pretty easy.  I figure out ways to manipulate the paint to go where I want it, to be cool or hot, convey darkness or light.  Most of the time.  Sometimes though I feel like the paint is manipulating me.  Sometimes the piece has a mind of it’s own and I find myself  lead down a different road then I had intended to be.

I knew I wanted to put owls in Alima’s piece but as I began to fill in space other birds emerged.  I found a hummingbird, a crane and a dove. 

Their the hopes and blessings for this baby, I thought.  Wisdom of the owl, whimsy of a hummingbird, the Zen and balance of the crane and the peace of a dove.

I don’t usually name my art but this painting was christened “Blessing.”  There could be no other name for it. 

When it was “done” I stepped back to examine it.  The natural light from the sliding glass door softly laid over it.  I took a picture and then started to clean up my paints. 

I was pretty pleased with how it turned out.  I sent the picture to Caren for her opinion.  I looked at the photo of the painting again and noticed that the lower right portion was heavy in color and open blocks of space.  It needed some interest and light there. 

I decided to add a sprig of olive to the dove’s beak. 

Better.

I took another picture, finding that looking at it through the camera helped me to see it differently.  When I looked at the photo I felt the olive branch was a definite improvement.  Then I noticed a streak of light next to the painting.  I immediately started to cry.  The tears came before the thought that maybe I had captured a spirit in the photo. 

Was it my Grandma?  Was it just a reflection?  I had not used a flash.  I examined both photos taken in the same light with in minutes of each other and I couldn’t stop weeping. 

I didn’t feel scared or sad, just…overwhelmed with…a sense of presence?  I’m not usually into that kind of stuff.  I sent the picture to my sister.

“Amazing paiting!  Hmm…someone must’ve been visiting,”  Sissy said. 

I sent the pic to my friend, Kelli.

“G’ma.  Moving.  Seriously.”

“It’s probably just a reflection of light,” I told her, “But it made me cry when I saw it.”

“I think it’s whatever you think it is,” Kelli said.

I decided I need the opinion of someone more jaded, more cynical…Enter Shalah:

“Look to the right of the painting,” I guided her.

“Oh holy moly!  That’s a vulva.”

“Ha ha!  A vulva?”  I looked at the photo again.  Suddenly it was glaring at me.  The owl in the top right had a wing that looked…  “Oh $#!%.  No.  That’s a wing but…yeah.  Now it’s a vulva.”

“I’m just saying.  It’s a vag.”

“I meant for you to look to the right in the photo…”

“Yeah.  You mean the ghost of the giant vag?”

So sorry Grandma…

“Sigh. Yep.”

“All of it…  Just wow.”

“Damn.  I gotta do something about that lady hole now.”

“Yep.  Otherwise….VERY pretty!”

“You know I’ll be blogging about this, right?”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“Is my blogging excessive?  Am I annoying?”

“Not at all!  I love it!  Its how I keep up with you nowadays.”

“K.  Just let me know if I’ve crossed a line.”

“Always.”

“Like painting a giant vagina for my friend’s nursery.”

“Right.  That’s why I’m here.”

After that enlightening conversation…my spirit was a little less rattled and I grabbed some paint to color in the WING and ensure the art was gender neutral.

It’s a wing, damn it.

At the shower I gave Alima her painting.  I told her all that had transpired while painting it and that overwhelming feeling fell over me again. We sat on the bed in the nursery and cried.

“I showed the picture to Shalah and she said it was a giant vagina,”  I said while sniffing back tears.

Alima and I laughed as she assured me there was no vag in the painting even before I changed it.  It was a beautiful day!  Perfect weather.  Alima was in full on Baby Glow as she basked in the light of her friends and family’s love for her!  It was hard to part with “Blessings” but I’m so glad it’s Alima’s and that it has a happy home over her little one’s crib.

Gone Squatchin’

One of the latest trends in Paris was the high top tennis shoe.  Not a chunky basketball kind but not as light as a canvas converse either.  There was even a glam twist on it: the high heeled high top.  I remember back in the 90′s seeing something like this but it was a tennis shoe that had a stiletto type heel to it.  Ugly.  These are not like that.  They are more like a wedge.  I bought a fabulous black leather pair!  I’ve not seen anything like it here in the States but I’m pretty sure in another year or so they will be everywhere.

What do high heeled high tops have to do with Squatchin’, you ask?  And what is Squatchin’ anyway?

It seems that every year my sons latch onto some new passion.  It was once all things pirate, then Star Wars, Samurai and the like.  Some of these passions stick and some go by the way-side.  This year’s passion has been Big Foot. 

Apparently there is some nut job on TV who hunts for Big Foot, aka Sasquatch.  He tells you all about their sounds, smells, habits, appearance and then he goes out and investigates Big Foot sightings.  The best is when he shakes his head and says, “This one is obviously a hoax because we all know that Sasquatch do not have 4 toes,” or something like that.  Cracks me up!

Well the boys love the show and they are constantly practicing their Big Foot calls and Wood Knocks.  (Don’t ask me what Wood Knocks are.  I don’t really know.)  When we are out and around town they keep their eyes to the ridge in case there is a Squatch out hiking.  They desperately want to go to Washington state because that’s where the most concentrated population of Squatches live.  They are believers and if you’re not then you are shunned.

This year Buddy decided that he wanted a Big Foot birthday party.  He wanted his friends to come over to camp and to go Squatchin’.  If you haven’t connected the dots yet, that means to go Sasquatch hunting.  Sounded easy enough.  I made invitations for Buddy to deliver while I was abroad and when I returned, I hit the ground running with the party planning. 

My friend, Alicia, also has boys who Believe and she was all too ready to help me execute a Squatchin’ expedition.  My idea was that I would supply the kids with survival gear, some words of “wisdom” and then send them off into our back property to “hunt” for Big Foot.  I figured their imaginations would do the rest.

“It would be so fun if on the day before you and I go out and plant ‘evidence!’” Alicia enthusiastically began to brain storm.

“Yeah!  We could leave bits of hair and foot prints.  Oh man!  Last year I almost bought the boys these snow shoes that had like a big bear paw on the bottom of it.  That would’ve been perfect for making prints,” I said.

“We’ll figure it out,” Alicia assured.

One Pizza Night with the Mountain Folks, I mentioned the Squatchin’ party.  Caren’s Man immediately volunteered to dress up as Big Foot and tromp around in the woods to scare the kids a bit and add some excitement to the adventure.

“I for see a sling shot to the head,” Sissy warned when I told her the plan.

I laughed remembering Bug’s Renaissance themed party.  Caren’s Man came dressed in a rented suit of armor.  When the kids saw him they all raised their swords.  Caren’s Knight thought they were cheering for his fabulous costume but then they all yelled, “GET HIM!!”   They charged him and basically beat the living snot out of him.

Slow learner.

Anyway, while I was in Paris I received a text from Alicia:

“Guess what I bought today…  Big Foot snow shoes!!!”

I could’ve cried, y’all.  That’s a friend. 

So the day before the party, Alicia came over and the two of us hiked up into the back property.  Lucky for us it had snowed that week.  The snow was gone and left soft wet earth for us to make our prints in.  I had gone to a fabric store and bought a square piece of “hair.”  Alicia and I took scissors and cut off bits of hair to leave in the bushes on the trail.  We took the prints up to a rock cropping that looms over my house. 

“Oo!  We should make some sort of nest here!” Alicia thought out loud.

There are two large boulders in the crop and so we gathered dead pine needles and twigs and tossed them down between the boulders.  After we had a Sasquatch sized nest, we then cut the rest of the “hair” to add to it. 

“Sort of get in it and stomp around,” suggested Alicia.

I did as told and tried to make it look as comfortable as possible.  We climbed up on the rocks and looked down into our nest.

“Not bad,” I admired.

“You know what would make it perfect?” Alicia asked.  “BONES!”

I then put out an APB on Facebook for bones. 

“Just eat a rotisserie chicken tonight and use those,” Alicia said.

But I knew who to call.  Laurel.  It’s odd to have a “go to” person when you need a carcass…  I called Mountain Laurel:

“I…think…we might have some bones somewhere in the back of the property,” she said.  “I’ll have my son go down and see what he can find and then I’ll call you back.”

About 5 minutes later she calls back:

“Turns out, we have a couple of boxes of elk bones in the garage, including a skull or two!”

Of course she does!

The morning of the party I took Bug to his Aladdin rehearsal while Man took Buddy to his soccer game.  I was feeling spunky and decided to take my Paris shoes out for a public debut in Colorado.  A gal at Starbucks loved them! It was so fun when she asked, “Where did you get them?” to say, “Paris.”  Hee hee!  Anywhoo, after dropping Bug off and getting my now, ritual café crème, I headed to Laurel’s to pick up a box of bones.

Laurel had told me that she would leave them by the garage.  I easily found them.  There were two boxes to choose from.  I leaned in to see which one had the best offerings.  My nose was immediately accosted by the stench of death and rot.  I turned away and started to gag and then dry heave. 

Oh my lands!  Oh my lands!  This is DISGUSTING!

I didn’t know if I could bring them home.  I suddenly no longer cared about which box had the best offering.  Turned away, I took a deep breath of fresh air, grabbed a random box and dashed for the car.  I slammed the door and started to gag again.

Damn it!

When I got in the car I rolled down the window. 

Oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh!

It was so gross but I knew that Alicia was right and the this would make the Sasquatch nest authentic.  I laughed to myself at the lengths I was going through to make Buddy happy. 

This is seriously “Mountain.”

 I called Laurel and left a message thanking her for the bones.  “I knew you were the one to call!” I said through gags and heaves. 

Though Laurel only lives about a mile from me, I raced to get home.  Gagging I tore into my drive way.  As soon as the car was parked, I grabbed the box of bones and made a mad dash up the back property, toward the Squatch nest.

This was the worst because it’s a hike up and I’m still adjusting to the altitude after being away.  I was huffing and puffing over the box of bones which then caused me to gag and choke some more.  Tears were forming in my eyes as I dry heaved up the hill.  About half way up, I sat the box down so I could step away from it to catch my breath.  My hands on my knees I took some deep breaths and noticed…

Oh my lands.  I’m wearing my Paris shoes!

I did a quick look over to make sure the leather had not been scuffed or scratched.  I laughed at how utterly ridiculous it was that I was hiking a mountain in high heels with a box of smelly bones.

One step closer… I laughed to myself remembering Caren’s running joke the last few years.  Ever since I first moved here, she kept teasing me that I was always getting “one step closer” to becoming a Mountain Woman.  I decided that I had gone well beyond Mountain Woman status with this one.  This was leaps and bounds over it!

I was too far up to go back down for sensible shoes at this point, so I gathered myself together, picked up the box and ran the rest of the way up.  In heels.  Finally I got to the rock cropping.  I climbed part way up the rocks and just dumped the bones into the nest.  The smell flew out with it. 

“Argh!” I yelled and threw the box from me.  I gagged and heaved some more.  Then I called Alicia and told her between laughter and gagging what I had done.

“Ha ha ha!  Good job Mama!  Just leave them there.  When I get there, I’ll go up and arrange them if need be.  Leave the box if you have to.  I’ll take care of it too.”

The nest

I hiked back down shaking my head and trying to avoid disturbing any of the foot prints we had made the day before.  I imagined the boys finding a Big Foot print and my little high heeled print next to it and saying, “Obviously, this is a hoax because everyone knows Squatches do not wear high heels.”

I had an audition that afternoon so I showered and readied myself for that.  I did some warms ups and worried that all of the gagging and heaving might not have been the best thing for my vocal cords.  At the audition one of my friends mentioned the Squatch nest as he had seen it on Facebook.

“You do realize that you are creating a Conspiracy Theorist, right?  You are messing up your kid.”

There is no doubt that there will be therapy later for this one but really, if you can’t mess with your kids, why become a parent?  This is what it’s all about people!

It was finally Party Time.  The other explorers had arrived.  Buddy gave a brief boot camp which mostly entailed a lesson in hand signals that they would be using while on the hunt.  Alicia’s Man slung his cross bow to his back and joined My Man as they lead the boys up into the mountain.  Alicia decided to go with them to take pictures.  My job was to linger behind, close enough to see them but far enough away that they couldn’t hear me communicate with Caren’s Man, i.e.Squatchy who had his earpiece in.

I watched the crew hike up and then pause on the trail.  They had found the first foot print!  I got a thumbs up from Alicia.  It was working!  The hike was all fun and games but she said when they found the print, suddenly things got REAL.

The boys found their first foot print

Buddy’s foot next to a Sasquatch print!

Meanwhile, on my Droid:

Squatchy: *heavy breathing* I’m heading up to the ridge. *heavy breathing*

Me:  K.  That’s perfect.  They’ve stopped to look at “evidence.” 

Squatchy” *heavy breathing*

Me:  Um…the heavy breathing is making me uncomfortable.

Squatchy: Well, it’s not easy hiking a hill in a monkey suit!

Squatchy was wearing a gorilla costume that Caren had procured for the Gorilla Run we did a few years back.  I could hear the kids making excited noises and I assumed they had found the Squatch nest.

Me:  I think they’re at the nest.

Squatchy: *heavy breathing* Already?!  Oh my god.  I’m still on the other side of the ridge.  I totally freaked my dogs out.  Ha!  OK,  I’m almost to the ridge.  I hear them.  *grunting noises, heavy breathing*  Shit!  They see me!

Me:  Hahaha!  RUN!!!!

Squatchy:  Agh!  They’re coming after me!  *panting, crashing*

Me:  Out run them and hide in some bushes or something!

Squatchy: *very heavy breathing and panting…possibly some wheezing*  I did it.  I’m hiding in the bushes.  I think they’ve lost me.

In the distance we could hear the boys start to do their Sasquatch calls.

Squatchy:  *heavy breathing* Oh my god.  I think I’m going to have a heart attack. *heavy breathing*

Me:  Ha ha!  Wait.  Are you serious?  Please don’t.  Oh gah!  Caren would kill me!

Squatchy:  I’m OK.  Where are they now?

Me:  I don’t know.  I can’t see or hear them anymore.  I’m going in.

I began my ascension up the hill.

Me: *heavy breathing* Ugh!  I am still adjusting to the altitude I think. *heavy breathing*

Squatchy:  *heavy breathing*

Me: *heavy breathing*

Squatchy: *heavy breathing*

Me: OK.  Now I’m REALLY getting uncomfortable.

Squatchy: Have you found them yet?

Me: No.  I can’t even hear them?

Squatchy: Where are you?

Me:  I’m up near the top by Preacher’s Rock.  (A rock that looks like a pulpit.)  I’m near the barbed wire fence.

Squatchy: Stay there.  I’m coming your way.

I scanned the horizon and looked high and low for signs of the Expedition Group.  I couldn’t hear or see anyone.  I turned to the South.  Nothing.  East.  Nothing.  I turned behind me to the West and

“Aaaaaaaagh!”  I saw Squatchy coming up out of the woods in the distance. 
“Oh my lands!  You scared the crap out of me!”

Squatchy laughed.  We decided that I would go on to the East side of the hill to see if they had gone down that side and Squatchy would go back to the nest.  They were not on the East side so I headed back South toward the house.  Eventually I discovered that I could text while still on the phone with Squatchy.  I text Alicia and learned that they were waaaaay out of our area. 

Alicia:  Have the Squatch make some noises so we can get the kids to head toward him.

I gave Squatchy his instructions. Soon he was sending out the Sasquatch Yowl.

Squatchy:  How’s that?  Was that good?

Me:  It was great!  Keep doing it.

Soon all the dogs on the mountain were joining in with barks and howls.  Alicia said they heard the dogs first. 

“I wonder why all of the dogs are so upset?”  She planted.

“Yeah…” the boys wondered.  “Let’s go check it out!”

The group turned their attentions and direction toward the nest and to Squatchy.

Squatchy kept yowling.

Squatchy: I’m going to lose my voice.

Me:  You’re doing great!  Just don’t scream.  Sort of open the back of your throat like you’re going to yawn.  I’ll make some yowls too so you can rest.  YOOOOOOWL! 

Squatchy: YOOOOOWL!  I got a text from Your Man.  They’re getting close.

Me:  Yeah, Alicia text the same. She said to keep making noises!

Squatchy:  I hear them.  YOOOOOOWL!  YOOOOOWL!  *gasp*  $%&*# They see me!  *heavy breathing, crashing, panting*  Holy @#$%^ One of them has a club!  They’re gaining on me!

Me:  Ahahaha!  RUN!  Hahahaha!  It sounds like Blair Witch on this end.

Squatchy:  Aaagh!  *crash* I’m wounded!  *yelling, thrashing* CLICK

Me:  Squatchy?  Oh my gosh!  Haha!  Squatchy?  Are you OK?

From the mountain side I could hear the kids shouting and Squatchy shouting and then finally laughter!  The group slowly began their descent from the hill.  The boys were excitedly talking and, as they got closer to the house, set off in a run.  The Dads, Alicia and Squatchy joined me at home base.

“Oh my god!” Squatchy laughed, his gorilla mask off and hair drenched in sweat.  “When I saw that kid with the club…he shouted, ‘I’ll knock his head off!’ that’s when I tore off the mask and shouted ‘No!  Don’t!  It’s me!!’”

“Are you OK?  You said you were wounded,” I asked looking my neighbor over.

“I’m fine.  I’m fine.  Just exhausted!  I’m going home for a shower.”

That, Reader, is a good neighbor.  The best.

I text Caren and thanked her for letting us borrow her Big Ape.

After the kids had refreshed themselves with drink and washed their hands we headed down to the front property for a campfire and to roast hot dogs. 
With the help of the Dads and Alicia, we set up a table and a spread of chips, dogs and juice.  S’mores were roasted next and Buddy’s cake was set aside to be enjoyed another day.

The cake we never ate. Poo.

As guests left, Buddy gave them each their party favor.  This was their Survival Kit for future expeditions.  It included a flash light, first aid kit, hand warmers, camping toilet paper, beef jerkey, trail mix and a whistle.

“Mom,” he sighed as he wrapped his arms around me, “This was the best birthday party that I ever could have imagined!  Thank you SO much!”

Later in bed, Man and I laughed at the evenings events. 

“You did good Babe!”  Man congratulated me.

I chuckled, “I don’t know why I do these crazy parties.”

“Cause you love to.”

“I do!  Besides, the boys are getting older.  Soon they won’t be interested in parties like this anymore.”

“Yep.  Probably that was Buddy’s last one.”

That got me.  I cried a little because Buddy is eleven now.  He’s going to out grow me soon.  It’s the goal.  I’m proud of him but it’s still a sad bit of life.

“He’ll never forget this,”  Man said comfortingly and wrapped in his arms I cried myself to sleep.

Get Thee To Iceland

I am hesitant to disclose the fabulosity of this place to the public as I would hate for it to become overrun with tourists.  That being said, I’m pretty sure my little blog won’t reach, let alone send, hordes of people to the magical moors of Iceland.

“What made you think to go to Iceland?” has been the number one question I’ve heard from friends and family.  It’s pretty simple really.  We flew to Paris on Icelandair.  They offered a special rate to Paris if we were willing to have a one day stop over in Iceland.  Um…yeah!  I had no desire to ever go there but it would be fun to have another stamp in the passport.  We decided to tag it to the end of our trip as I could not imagine being able to enjoy it if I was anxious to get to France.

As we landed there on our way to Paris I was immediately enchanted by the moonscape below.  The earth in Iceland is the youngest on the planet.  It is still forming with active volcanoes and geysers.  In juxtaposition to the infancy of the land is a tie to ancient mysticism.  This is the land of Vikings, elves and trolls.  We read that 50% of Iceland believes in elves.  It would be the perfect setting to film a movie such as The Hobbit.  I could imagine caravans of explorers on horses, carrying their lords banner ahead of them.

Paris awaited but that short touch down in Iceland had me spellbound.  I couldn’t wait to get back and explore it myself.

Paris was great, blah, blah, blah and then we were on to Iceland.  When we exited the plane we were greeted with the choice of a shot of something strong or a beer.  We were already feeling welcomed!  Caren and I waited at the luggage carousel while Robby went to find a snyrtingar (restroom).  While we watched the bags go round and round we were awakened from out trance when a gentleman joyously shouted across the carousel, “GENO!”

“Marco!” was the response.

The next thing we knew there was a group hug of about 8-10 men.  They appeared to all be over the age of 45, rugged, weathered and strong.  They all came from different countries as we heard greetings and good natured ribbing in at least 3 different languages.  They were dressed ready to explore.  I could imagine them all clinging to the side of Everest.  These men had a bond that only a great adventure can create.  I was again swept up in the romance of it all. 

I. Love. Iceland.

We each took turns using the snyrtingert and then headed to our shuttle.  We stepped outside to grey skies and slanted sleet.  It was miserable weather but we were kind of thrilled because this is exactly what one would expect in Iceland.  Our bus though, was warm and brand spanking new.  Tourism is a new business to this country and so everything is sparkly clean and new.  Wee! 

The bus ride to Reykjavik would be a 45 minute trek across moss covered lava fields. 

It’s brown and flat, cracked and void but for some reason I found it absolutely enchanting.  Maybe it was the explorers in the airport but I could see that this could be a place of great quests! 

We were pretty much the only vehicle on the road and then out of no where was the purr of a hot rod.  A dark brown corvette pulled up next to the bus and floated past her.  Zip!  It was gone.  Probably had one of those rugged adventure guys from the airport in it.  It was probably Geno’s ride.  A few miles up the road we spied the corvette again.  There are little roundabouts that go off of the road and then sends you right back to it.  The corvette was parked in the roundabout, maybe for a picture op?  It looked like a car commercial.  Super sexy car with a come-hither landscape.

We rode along a dark and jagged coastline until signs of civilization began to pop up.  First there were quaint farm houses and then more commercial type buildings began to rise up.  Reykjavik had bright colored buildings that popped against the gray skies. 

There were tons of churches and they all had the most interesting architecture.  One looked like the pinnacle of a castle tower. 

We finally arrived at our hotel, Marina, named such I suppose because it is in a marina.  Across from our hotel were docked fishing ships, bright as the buildings.  The lobby of Marina welcomes it’s guests with a fireplace surrounded by bright colored couches.  Couch…not really that either.  It was an amoeba shaped  structure, billowing from chaise lounges to the more bench like structure of a couch.  The fabrics were colorful and varied in print.  All of the furniture were functional pieces of art.  A wood sculpture of a man was a permanent guest at the fireplace. 

A small bar was in the lobby as well, across from the front desk which was attended by a Nordic beauty.  Her features pristine and crisp like everything else in this country.  We were checked in and the hotel restaurant was recommended.  We certainly had no plans on walking the streets of Reykjavik in the sleet so we agreed that the Marina restaurant would do after settling into our room and freshening up.

Our room was another fun treat!  Quirky and crisp.  The décor there mimics the landscapes minimalism.  The walls were cement with some parts covered in a whimsical wall paper of bright colored ropes tied in various nautical knots.  We had bunk beds.  Queen sized.  Super tall, metal bunk beds that were covered with big white fluffy down comforters.  The wood floor had a fire red, tall pile, throw rug. There was a small couch in funky fabrics.  The snartingyrter was pristine.  Small sink.  Small toilet.  Small shower.  Bland but clean and functional.

The sign above our door way read: “Spending time with your favorite people” is the reason we created this fun space.  Talk about the old days, new loves or just shoot the breeze.  Then, when you desperately need new company or fresh perspectives, we are waiting for you in the bar.

Another sign in the bathroom explains that the décor is minimal because they don’t want you to get to comfortable.  They want you to get out and get to know Iceland.

I got the impression that marketers sat around saying, “I don’t know why no one ever visits Iceland.  We’re such cool people!  I think if we can just get them here then they will get to know us and love us.”

Before leaving our room we discussed who would take the top bunk.  We finally decided it would have to be Robby.  Since she had once been a trapeze artist, we felt she could handle the ladder the safest even after the consumption of beers and Not A Beers.  After breaking in the snartengyr we headed to dinner.

To get to the dining facilities you first pass through the main bar.  There are little niches of seating areas.  Some with large tables, some are more of a living room setting with a circle of comfortable seating around a funky coffee table.  All funky, fun and inviting. 

“Can I help you ladies?” asked a happy voice behind us.  We turned to find a dark woman, a little taller than me, with a beautiful smile.

“We were just headed to the restaurant for dinner or…could we just eat here?” Caren asked.

“Of course, of course!  What do you ladies have in mind for the evening?”

“Food wise?  I don’t know.  What would you recommend?”

“Are you ladies adventurous?” she asked as she lead us to a table near the window.  “Could you trust me and leave the ordering to me?”

And we did. 

This was Alba’s bar, as it turns out her name was, and she took us under her wing.  The bar had won many awards in it’s brief time of being open.  Alba, herself is an award winning Master Sommelier.  She had the most fascinating accent that we had difficulty placing.

“Ah…the mark of an English major,” she confessed to us.  “Originally I’m from Singapore.  We moved here when I was young.”

Alba’s bar, named Slippbarinn, is known for it’s creative cocktails.  They are gourmet!  Alba gave me a Tom Selleck: Calvados, lime, Vermouth, and agave.  The Femme Fatale was appropriately awarded to Caren.  This consisted of Jasmine, Navy strength Gin, lemon, and kardamon.  For Robby, our beer drinker, Black Dog:  Vodka, sherry, grape, agave, and lava salt.   Why did I not take a picture of these concoctions?  The cocktails carried the spirit of adventure, exploration and fresh ideas in Iceland. 

“I see empty glasses!” Alba gasped.  “It makes me heart go…oo!” she said with her fingers thrumming her chest.  “Another round?  You girls still trusting me?”

After Robby’s Not A Beer she switched back to Is A Beer and Caren and I continued to let Alba make the calls for us.  Our favorite that we tried was the Basil Gimlet!  Gin, lime, basil leaves, and cracked black pepper. 

The food was great too!  Flat bread covered in pesto, goat cheese, mixed greens, bell peppers, tomatoes….is that all?  All kinds of yummy things were paraded across our table and into our bellies.

The bar has a chic lab feel as there are jars of fermenting fruits lined up on the shelving.  They are their own mixes and recipes.  The mad scientist behind it all was a little red faced guy named Asgeir who, according to Alba, has poor social skills but is a whiz with the drink! 

We learned from Daniel, one of the bartenders, that the hotel was once a factory and then it was a pharmacy/lab that his father once worked at.  They specialized in treatments for…

“You know…oh…how do you say?  Like, when you get old and you hands…” at this Daniel shaped his hand like a claw.

“Arthritis,” I say blandly.

Caren and Robby cracked up laughing as I suffer from this Old Lady malady.  Just keep bringing the drinks, kid.

Daniel went on to tell us that Marina then had a brief stint as a concert hall at which he performed at and now the hotel/bar that she is today.

“I remember when it was vacant.  I was a little kid and would play in here with my friends, you know, doing what boys do,” Daniel laughed.

I loved the long history of the place and was fascinated by Daniel’s relationship to it as well.  So cool!  Also let it be noted that the snartingartyrs at the Slippbarinn are very nice. 

This way to the snyrtingars

They are apparently unisex.  I would go into a stall that appeared to have a woman on the door and later see a man exit it and vise versa, but they were clean and modern.

Then there was Alba, another fascinating person!  Alba is soft butch with a beautiful complexion, sculpted eyebrows like the gal at the front desk, and her ears are decorated with piercings.  She moved from Singapore to Iceland as a young girl and worked as a grave digger as a child.

“A kid’s gotta have a job,” she said with a flippant smile. 

Now she is a Master Sommelier at the most happening bar in Iceland.  The title of Most Happening Bar in Iceland may not sound like much to you but the bar life is a huge part of the Icelandic culture.  The bars shut down at 4:30 a.m.  They have something for everyone from old English style pubs to the funky chic bars like Slippbarinn.

“Hang out until about a quarter til 11,” advised Alba.  “That’s when things start really getting fun.  It gets wild!”

“You will want to just go out and walk the streets around 2:30,” suggested Daniel.  “It’s crazy.  Totally crazy!”

Caren told us that this would NOT be what we do in Iceland.  Apparently she has a friend who is no stranger to “crazy” and “wild” who visited Iceland and was freaked out by the Icelandic bar scene.

I have to say the culture there is as warm and welcoming as the weather is not!  They want you there and want to share their country and themselves with you.  Where in Paris it took awhile to create friends, Iceland is your instant best friend! 

At the end of the night I thanked Alba and she gave me a bear hug, thanking me for coming and inviting me back.

In the morning I woke up to the sound of seagulls cackling outside of our window.  Such a contrast to the wake up call of the bells of Notre Dame.

“We’re not in Paris anymore,” I mumbled into my pillow.

Robby’s legs swung over the ladder.  We were up. 

“Sup Hobbs,” I greeted Robby.

We all laughed!  I meant to call her Robbs but it came out wrong.

“That’s your Hobbit name!”

“Oh great,” Robby/Wapi/Fifi/Hobbs sighed.

“Well, in Iceland you just have to add ‘vec’ to the end,” said Caren.

“Ah yes!  Hobbs-a-fifi-wapi-vec!” I re-christened Robby.

“Oh my gosh!  One night in Iceland and Michal is fluent!”  Robby laughed.

We spent the rest of our time there trying (and I stress TRYING) to shop for Icelandic souvenirs.  Everything was closed though.  I guess it takes a while for a town that stays awake until 4:30 to wake up. 

Where as the whole time we were in Paris we pretty much thought of ourselves and bought things for our husbands that WE would like for them to have; in Iceland they were all we could think about.  Our Men would LOVE it!  If Iceland were a person he would be a friendly, laid back, rugged, boozehound.  Who doesn’t like that guy?  It’s Viking land!  I could see My Man hiking lava fields or riding a snow mobile out to a geyser.

The shuttle to the airport was quiet and full of hung over 20-something-year-olds.  There were a few stories of their visits re-told but mostly there was a lot of head holding.

“It’s like the Vegas of the world,” Caren giggled.

Indeed, I could see it going that way.  For Iceland’s sake, I do wish it prosperity but I fear that it won’t be long before the secret is out and it turns into a major tourist destination.  Friends, I encourage you to visit but we must try to keep it under wraps.  Remember that it’s a cold, barren land with sideways sleet and gray skies.  Boo.  No fun to be had there….  It is not a land of beautiful Swedish Nanny types or chiseled handsome men with laser blue eyes.  Nope.  Nothing like that going on there. 

Now we are home.  We were greeted at the airport by Robby’s Man who had flowers for us all.  When I got home Buddy and Bug ran into my arms shouting “MOMMY!!!”  The house was immaculate.  There were flowers on the kitchen table and Bug had made me cupcakes.

“I was just going to make yellow cake like you like but I thought this would be more festive,” he explained handing me a confetti laden cupcake. 

Buddy grew.  He’s taller and he seems to be even more contemplative, if that’s possible.  He’ll be 11 tomorrow.  Yikes.

No more basking in the sun outside of a Parisian café.  I’m watching the snow fall as I “speak.”  No more Viking strength booze.  A mug of hot water for me!  Out of the Hobbit Hole and into the Mountain Hovel as they say.  Gotta go.  I need to use the snyrtingerten.

 

St.Regis

The French are a rather quiet people.  When you walk into a shop or restaurant you are greeted with a quietly mumbled “bonjour” from the back.  You are expected to respond the same and in similar decimals. 

Before I left for Paris my friend, Anne, gave me this tip:  Don’t talk or laugh too loudly.  You’ll be pegged as a tourist and be targeted by pick pockets.

“Don’t laugh too loudly.”  I read that part a few times.  I have a loud laugh.  It’s typically a burst and sometimes a cackle, sort of like Snoopy’s laugh.  Where a Julia Roberts type outburst of laughter may be endearing here in the States; in France it’s obnoxious.  I knew right away that this would be my albatross.

As mentioned in my previous blogs, the land lady of Juliette had recommended a café/bistro located at the tip of our Ile called St. Regis.
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After settling into Juliette we headed for St. Regis for sustenance and bevvies.

We were greeted with a hurried and mumbled “bonjour” and given a table near an open window.  This is a floor to ceiling window so it was the best of both worlds as we were inside but still could be a part of the action outside.

We pretty much stayed there the rest of the night.  Restaurants and bars there close at 2:30. We nearly closed the place down that first night.  I wouldn’t describe the staff there as “friendly” but they are kind and they are patient while you butcher their language.  After several hours of our being there our waiter did become a little more engaging.  His co-workers joined in too but they stayed in the perimeters.

“I look like Keanu Reeves.  No?”  he asked us as his co-workers leaned in for our answer.

“You do!”

He really did!  It was not the first thing I thought of when I saw him but now that he had mentioned it, there was an undeniable resemblance.  Shorter perhaps but same exotic eyes, similar mouth.  Our Keanu had a trim build, broad shoulders, small waist, and a cute bum (it must be said.)  Really, he was built a lot like My Man.  Actually, most Frenchman are built like him.

Then there was the waitress we referred to privately as Sinead.  She was named so due to her shaved coif.  She was quite friendly and a little loud for a Frenchie.  There was another waitress who was this cute little thing with short, wavy, dark hair.  We called her Pixie also because of her hair style and because she looked a tad Elfen.  Her English was not especially good and so she did not speak with us much but every now and again she would try. 

St. Regis is managed by a dark and handsome gentleman.  He always wore slim fitted dark shirts.  His hair was long-ish, black, curly and slicked back.  For a long time we called him Pit Boss but he later was christened Gaston.  It suited him to a tea.  Gaston did not fraternize with us often but he was ever present and ever aware of everything everyone was doing.

St. Regis was mostly frequented by French but now and again we would over hear American conversations.  They were typically loud enough to hear and full of indiscreet laughter.  My trio kept our conversations low and private but…we couldn’t help the laughing.  We laughed so much on this trip my stomach muscles were sore!  Tipsy or not, we were cracking it up the whole time!

On our second day of exploration we had dinner at a place on St. Germaine, another island in the Seinne.  After dinner we walked the 4 or 5 blocks back to Ile St. Louis.  When one crosses the bridge one could pretty much walk into the front door of St. Regis and so we did.

As we approached, Keanu saw us coming.  His eyes grew wide in mock horror as he ran to the door to shut it and lock it.  We all of course crumpled in laughter.  Keanu smiled, unlocked the door and gave a sweeping gesture inviting us in.  Gaston gave us a nod of acknowledgement as he made his rounds around the restaurant.  Sinead and Pixie were working as well. 

Our table from the previous night was available and so we took it.  Wapi ordered her beer and Caren and I ordered a carafe of Cote du Rhone called Antoine, as we had the previous evening.  Also frites (french fries).  We had frites at most every place we dined but the St. Regis frites are the best. 

“And what did you do today?”  Keanu asked us as he set our table with placemats and silverware.

We gave him a briefing of our day and asked him what he suggested we do the next day.

“Well…there’s la tour Eiffel…Louvre…Montmartre…”

“Oh!  I love Montmartre!”  Caren said.  “I’ve been there before.  Isn’t that the place where there are a bunch of artists sitting out in a plaza selling their paintings and things?”

“Oui, that is near there,” Keanu replied.

“Michal would love that,” Caren said.

We had some dessert that evening.  Tired from adjusting to the new time zone and from walking all day, things were pretty low key.

Every time we went to St. Regis, Keanu would ask what we had done that day and asked if we had been to Montmartre yet.  We had not and he seemed to be out of suggestions for us to do.  One night the topic of music came up.  We asked him about French music that we should maybe look into and he suggested Francis Cabrel.  When we got home that night we looked up Francis Cabrel.  It’s not bad.  His sound is kind of folksy I suppose.  We also decided it was high time that we found out what Keanu’s real name was. 

Antony.  Of course!

The next day we decided that we simply MUST go to Montmartre.

“I really think Antony gets disappointed when we say we haven’t been,” Caren said.

It was certainly a place we all wanted to go anyway, it just hadn’t fit the agenda for whatever reason.  So finally we went.  It was one of my favorites!  The plaza of artists is not actually in Montmartre but one passes through there on the way.  Moulin Rouge is also there but we never found it.  The cobble stone streets and all of the buildings with balconies were charmant.  Just adorable!  As much as we love Juliette we agreed it would be super fun to stay at a place in Montmartre one day. 

When our day had ended we were happy that we would be able to go to St. Regis and tell our new friend that we had listened to Francis Cabrel and had been to Montmartre! 

The day had been long again.  We were considering going to Regis early that evening.

“If we go in there, I don’t think I’ll be moving from that spot the rest of the night,” Caren said.  “So are we going to eat dinner here?” 

I decided to flip a coin.  That night we let the coin make our decisions.  The coin said we would dine at St. Regis.

When we walked in Gaston knowingly raised his eyebrows and nodded hello.  Sinead was working but Pixie was not.  We were greeted by a new guy who we called New Guy.  Antony was there too but he was busy.  Regis was packed.  Our table was occupied.  There was a couple of two tops but nothing where three could comfortably fit. 

“If you’d like you could sit at the bar until a table becomes available,” suggested New Guy.

“Sure!  We can do that,” we were happy to oblige.  As we headed toward the bar, Antony suddenly rushed up.

“No, no, no,” he set down his tray and began pulling up chairs and asked a woman dining alone to move down a spot as he was taking her table to create a table large enough for the three of us.  We stood there surprised by such a welcoming gesture and embarrassed to cause such a stir.

“Voila!” said the American woman that they had moved down.

“Merci!  That was really very kind of you!  I’m so sorry,” I said as we ladies took our seats.

Before we had settled into the table; placemats, glasses and silverware appeared.

Antony took our usual order.  Earlier that day Caren and I had ordered our Cote du Rhone but couldn’t remember the label that we enjoyed at St. Regis.  As he poured our wine I pointed it out to Caren.

“Antoine,” I said and gestured toward the bottle.

“No.  Antony,” answered Antony.

“Ha ha!  Yes, I know!  I was referring to the wine.  We couldn’t remember the name of it,” I laughed.  Poor Antony blushed.

“And what did you do today?” he asked us.

“Montmartre!” we told him.

His eyes brightened.  “You like it?”

“Oh we did!  I liked it a lot!”  I said.

“Tres charmant,” replied Robby.

“It is.  It’s cute, huh?”  Antony encouraged us to go on.

It was busy though and so he was in and out of our conversation.  Sometimes Sinead would bring us our order.  The bartender, New Guy and even Gaston helped to service all of the tables.  The American woman next to us got very flustered by it and was unsure of who to ask for the check from.  She eventually flagged down New Guy.

“I asked that lady for my check,” she said referring to Sinead, “but he took my order,” she now was pointing at Antony, “but sometimes he would bring me things or she would bring me things.  I just want the check!” she said in frustration.

New Guy responded that he would get the check for her and he said something else that now I can’t remember but in his accent the woman misunderstood him and thought that he told her she should just get out.  “To the door,” is what it sort of sounded like.  She was aghast and angry.  As she loudly began to scold him Antony was already arriving at the table with her check.  Gaston came to help smooth things over as well. 

Once she left Antony came by and looked annoyed and surprised.  We assured him New Guy did nothing wrong and that the woman just misunderstood his accent.  I really think this is the real reason people think the French are rude.  Yes, they speak English but not well.  Their quiet manner makes them seem aloof and uncaring but really why try to talk to someone who doesn’t speak your language. 

There was as a similar misunderstanding at the bakery.  They order differently in France and you don’t put your money in their hand but on the counter.  Most shops have a little tray next to the register where you can set the money.  They will set your change there as well.  Anyway, this lady in the bakery was having a hard time communicating her order to the baker.  As she got more and more agitated and I saw the baker matching her agitation I stepped in and helped.  My French is bad and very minimal so…that just goes to show you how a little can go a long way.  I think though that American’s hear that “they all speak English” and so when they are struggling to interpret and understand your accent the American’s get pissed and think they are being treated rudely.

So that night at St. Regis was fun but…we got a little out of hand ourselves that night, not gonna lie.  By “out of hand” I mean loud.  Oh and Caren broke a wine glass.  She wasn’t reaching for a glass and missing or anything, she just talks with her hands and she hit the glass wrong.  She thought she may have even gotten a shard in her lip.  That became a running joke the rest of the trip.  We all had shards in our clothes or skin at one point or another.

“I understand,” Antony said as he replaced Caren’s wine glass with a paper cup.  “You are on vacation.”

Despite the wine glass incident Caren asked if we should order another carafe.  I flipped a euro.  The coin said we should!  The coin also decided to let Antony order my dinner for me.  Suddenly there was a plate of chicken before me.

“What?  I ordered chicken?  Oh shoot…” I whispered.  “I don’t like chicken.”  I said as I tore off a piece and took a bite.  It was DELICIOUS! 

“Antony!  This is the best chicken I’ve ever had!”  I crowed to him.

“It’s not chicken,” he said.  “It’s rabbit.”

Anyway, that night we were a little embarrassed of ourselves.  What’s funny is in America our behavior would be thought nothing of, but we could sense it was not appropriate for Paris.  We first thought that maybe we should not go back but then we decided that we would not let one loud evening end our relationship with St. Regis.  We returned the next evening and behaved like ladies.  Pixie was our waitress and the first thing she said to us when we took our seats was that Antony was not there that night.  She said it in French because her English is not very good.

As much as we love Antony and were prepared for his ribbing, we were really there for Regis.  Robby ordered her beer and Caren and I ordered café crème’s.  Gaston raised a questioning brow at us and I assured him we would be angels that evening.  Robby swore that she saw Sinead filling Pixie in on our bad behavior from the previous night.  I wanted to crawl under the table.

“Nope.  We will sit here with our heads held high,” Caren instructed.

There was no loud laughing.  Just some giggling here and there.  Eventually Sinead stopped by the table.  She was on her way out for the evening. 

“Just coffee tonight ladies?” she asked noticing Caren and I’s Not Wine drinks.

“Oui.  Just coffee,” I said.

“We’re being good tonight,” Caren said.  “Just coffee for us.  Beer for Robby.”

Robby raised her glass to Sinead.

“Ah!  Good for you!  I’m off to grab a beer myself,” she said and we bid her adieu.

Our last night was no different.  We ended it at St. Regis.  Our table was available and we took it.  Still no Antony.  We were sorry we left him on the evening of our bad behavior.  Pixie was working, Sinead, New Guy and Gaston.  We ordered our frites, a half carafe of Antoine Cote du Rhone and a beer.  We toasted the end of our trip and St. Regis. Gaston actually said more to us then expressions and gestures.  He offered to let me go down into the wine cellar but we think he planned to lock me in there.  Still, he spoke.  We assured them it was our last night as we were leaving and they wished us well and hoped we’d return.

On the trip the ladies shared their old “war stories” of old boyfriends, dates and bad pick up lines.  I had very little in put to these conversations, and that’s being generous.

“I’ve never even been hit on,” I told them.

“Oh please!  Yes you have!”

“No I haven’t.”

“Remember that one guy at the Gorilla Run,” they recalled.

“Just because a guy talks to you does not mean he is hitting on you,” I argued.  “I mean, like, no one has ever offered to buy me a drink or anything.”

“Well nobody really does that!” Robby said.

“Yes they do.  I’ve been with my sister once when the bartender brought her a drink from a guy.  And I’ve seen it happen with other friends.”

Well that night at St. Regis, while we ate our frites and replayed our favorite parts of the trip, the bartender came to our table with another half carafe of our Antoine and said that it was from the gentleman at the bar.  We laughed at the irony.

“There you go Miss I’ve Never Been Hit On!” Caren goaded.

“Oh my gosh!  You guys said this never really happens.  What do we do?  Can we drink it?  I mean, I feel so bad that he’s buying us a drink and won’t get a thing for it,”   Lola had apparently left St. Regis and Mildred was in the house.

“We totally drink it!”  Caren said as she poured us a round.

“What if they come over here?” Mildred worried allowed.

“They aren’t coming over here,” Robby said.  “Gaston is already eyeballing them.  We may not be his favorites but he’s not going to let anyone bother us.”

It was a rather lovely way to say good bye to St. Regis.  We were disappointed that we couldn’t say goodbye to Antony and to thank him for putting up with us loud Americans.  Sad he couldn’t see us in our moment of triumph as we scored free bevvies, even if they were from a smarmy kind of Frenchman.

If you are ever near Ile St. Louis I highly recommend that you visit our St. Regis.  Get the frites and rabbit.  Oh and the goat cheese salad is really yummy!  Tell them we sent you!  Well….maybe not.

The Crack Of Noon

When Man turned down my invite to go to Paris, Caren so selflessly volunteered to be my travel partner. 

“We should talk to Robby for advice on where to stay and what to do there,” she suggested. “She was just there a couple of years ago.”

Consulting Robby turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to this plan.  While Robby gave us her tips on where to go, how to get there and the culture or Paris, she got caught up in it and the next thing we knew our travel group was a trio. 

One morning we met for coffee to discuss ideas for where to stay and what dates we would travel, etc.  It was still just talk at this time.  Paris was still just a wistful dream to me; a fun idea.  Robby arrived at the coffee shop armed with a lap top and calendar.  By the end of that meeting, Paris was a reality.  We had a time and a place.  The place was named Juliette on the Ile St. Louis. From the website pics, she looked too good to be true!  We gave the landlady our dates and everything was set for Spring time in Paris.

“Ladies,” Robby said after we sealed the deal, “We are going to land in Paris and head straight for the nearest wine bar.  We’ll hop from bar to bar for the rest of our time there.  There will be no sleeping!”

I laughed at Robby’s enthusiasm!  Robby is a pillar of self control and moderation.  One of the eldest of the women in our circle, she is often a source of wise council and unbiased advice.  To imagine her bar hopping and staying up into all hours of the night was a funny thought.  She would be our compass and safe guide through Paris.

Maybe my clue should’ve been when we headed straight for the bar at the airport…  Maybe it should’ve been when she started ordering her drinks on the plane…  MAYBE I should’ve known that Robby had not been joking but was dead-on-serious when she said we would hop from bar to bar when that is exactly what we did after settling into Juliette.  Robby was on vacation.  There was a new gal in town.  We didn’t know who she was until Day 2 when Starbucks christened her as Wapi but Robby was not guiding us through Paris.  Our guide would be Wapi and Wapi’s guide was her BAC (Blood Alcohol Content) level.

It had been recommended that we dine at St. Regis which was about 2 blocks from our place.  We walked in around 5 or 6 that first evening and didn’t leave until close to 2 a.m. 

In France, waiters are paid a salary.  They are not busting their hump for your tip (in fact it’s rather insulting for you to tip) and they are not shooing you out the door to replace you with a new customer.  If you wish to sit all day in a café you may.  And so we did. 

We grazed on cheese plates, frites, bread and desserts.  We enjoyed every sip of wine and café crème.  Well, except Wapi.  Wapi drinks beer and only had a Not A Beer twice the whole time.  Still, that was very exciting!  We’ve never seen that happen before!  Also, Wapi did not mix her drugs.  No caffeine and then alcohol or even the reverse.  Wapi knew what she was doing.

Anywhoo, that first night we giggled and…snorted…all the way home.  I dove into my Hobbit Hole at Juliette and slept soundly until the bells of Notre Dame rang out the next day.  We all got out of bed and Wapi got the coffee going in the French Press.  We sipped coffee as Wapi and Caren set our goal for the day and plotted our path out on the map.  Then slowly we all began to ready ourselves for that day’s adventure. 

Finally we set out at the crack of noon and went on a hunt for breakfast.  This began the routine of finding a café, having a light breakfast with café crème, using and rating the toillete, and then moving onto our land mark for the day.  We typically would make a stop at another café or brassiere between breakfast and said landmark in order to keep our BAC or BCC (Blood Caffeine Content) levels up. 

I don’t know what it is about European booze and caffeine but I don’t think it’s the same as home.  I never felt anxious or hung over.  My arthritis hardly bothered me at all despite the amounts of caffeine and alcohol that I had.  Maybe it was all of the walking?  Maybe it was our lazy mornings?  Maybe it’s all been in my head all along but I was hooked to the caffeine there with out the nasty side effects that I experience from caffeine here. 

So we went through Paris going in and out of shops and cafes and seeing things like the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower as we gave ourselves a walking tour.  Every night ended at St. Regis for a night cap and frites. Every night our heads hit our pillows at approximately 2 a.m. Every day we started with coffee while goal setting and then out into the streets of Paris again at The Crack Of Noon.

We felt fabulous!  Everything was fabulous.  The views, the food, the architecture, the people watching, the fashions.  Everything.  It was all fabuleux!  WE were fabuluex as well.  Lola was in her element.  Wapi did not think Wapi was a fabuleux name and so she wanted a fancy name for when we were being fabulous.  We named her Fifi.  Caren kept her fabulous name from her youth, Tallelulah. 

Tallelulah and Wapi being fabuleux!

Lola, Fifi and Tallelulah shopped, ate and drank and then when tired of walking we hopped into a pedi-cab.  We actually only did this once but it was absolutely fabuleux!  The driver zipped in and out of cars and buses.  We would be inches from the vehicles next to us as the bike straddled the lanes in the street.  He laughed at my terrible French, as I made fabuleux sound more like something from the Flintstones.  “Fabalabaleux!”

Since we were staying on Ile St. Louis on the Seine, we one day tried the bateau mouche to get us home.  This is a large boat taxi type thing.  A very touristy mode of transport.  Fifi lead the way, purchased our tickets and we all boarded the boat.  Tallelulah and I were content to just sit back and watch Paris float by as the sun began to set.  Fifi, however, began to get alarmed as she noticed the boat was not stopping.

“Oh my gosh.  Is this not stopping?  Are we on the wrong boat?!”  Fifi left and Wapi soon took her place.  “This is not fabuleux!  This is horrifle!” she cried.

Tallelulah and I cried as well but only because we were laughing so hard as the boat pulled up to St. Louis and began to slowly turn around to bring us back to the very place we were trying to leave.

“I got round trip tickets.  Horrifle!”

Wapi ranted and raved at herself the whole way back. 

“8:05 p.m:  The Eiffel Tower,” she joked as the boat slowly made it’s way back to the start.  “8:45 p.m:  The Eiffel Tower.  Again.”

Once off the boat I hailed us a Taxi while Wapi beat herself up the whole way home.  We grabbed some dinner and then went to St. Regis for our night cap.  Bed by 2-ish.  Out again at the Crack Of Noon.

This was the fabuleux lifestyle.  This was The Way Of Wapi.

 

Oui, Oui!

When we arrived at the airport I was half running, half dancing into the terminal.

“Oh I love it!”  Caren exclaimed,  ”Michal is so excited to go to Paris that she’s dancing!”

“What?  No!  I just need to pee,” I corrected.  ”Finding a restroom will be on the top of our agenda.  I’m sorry ladies but this is something you will have to be used to.  If I drink anything I immediately will have to Go.”

“Well, that’s OK,”  Robby sighed, “I’m the exact same way.”

Restrooms were found followed by a place to sit for Nibbles and Sips and this has remained the goal through the whole trip.  All day everyday is spent moving from Cafe to Cafe and toilette to toilette.

There are public restrooms all over the streets.  They are these huge gray port-o-potty type things.  None of us will use them but Robby has told me they are quite efficient.  There is a bowl to dispense ones waste but there is no hole in the bowl.  The sensor inside knows when you are off the bowl and then the bowl folds into the wall where the waste is rinsed out.  A clean bowl reappears for the next user.  Regardless to the efficiency, I just can’t bring myself to use them.  

One of our favorite places to Use The Facilities is Starbucks.  Sadly, I have to admit to being a patron of Starbucks in France.  It’s not for the coffee that we keep going here for but the comfort of knowing what sort of restroom we will encounter here.  The first time we went in, we all decided to get coffee while there.  They ask for your name to write on your cup just like the baristas in the states do.  Robby, Caren and I each ordered and then took turns rotating through the restroom.

“CaREN,” called the barista in his French accent.

“Mi-cal?”  Amazing to me that they mis-pronounce my name here the same way as in the USA.

“Wapi.”

Wapi.  It was the best pronounciation of Robby’s name that I had ever heard!  What’s even funnier though is it wasn’t just a mis-pronounciatian but there on the cup was written “W-A-P-I.”  Once out of the coffee shop we died laughing!  The name has stuck and our fearless leader, Robby, now has an alter ego named Wapi.  Best souvenir of this trip.

One thing Wapi has been very concerned about on this trip is that despite the availabiltiy of public restrooms, public urination is quite prevelant on the streets of Paris.  Every now and then you’ll be overcome with the smell of it.  One reason for this is that everyone in Paris has a dog and the dogs are welcome everywhere.  

“It is safe to assume that every lamp post, every tree, and everything has been peed on by a dog or a man,” she warned.

Often in the mornings you will see shop keepers scrubbing the walk way in front of their shops.  Despite all of the peeing the streets are really quite well kept and clean.  Trash cans and recycling bins are everywhere.

One afternoon we took a break from shopping to bask in the sun outside of a cafe.  We sat at a little table out front, sat down our shopping bags and ordered our wine in one swoop.  We had not been sitting long when Wapi noticed that Caren had set her shopping bag on the ground next to her chair.

“Oh God!” Wapi exclaimed.  ”I have one word for you:  Dog Pee.”

The quality of the restroom is not foretold just based on the quality of the shop or cafe.  You may be at a fine museum and find your typical public restroom scenario of multiple stalls and questionable level of cleanliness. Or, you may be at a little cafe, tucked into a remote village and find accomodations that are clean, with fresh aroma, and bright red color tiles and seat to boot!  We have developed a grading system based on 4 things: availablity, design, cleanliness and odor.  You would think cleanliness and odor go hand in hand but I’ve been in some very clean looking restrooms that stink of urine.  We blame the urinal.  Lots of unisex facilities.  

There was a very nice restraunt we chose to dine at on St. Germaine.  It was rather high end but we were ready for dinner and needed a good restroom.  We were certain this posh facility could offer us that.  There were stalls for the ladies and gents.  I had to give this one a low rank though because it was not very clean.  Often the toilets are seperate but there is one sink for both the men and ladies to share.  Not a problem.  It is a little bit of an awkward situation though when the shared sink is next to a urinal.  

Yep.  I washed my hands while one of the wait staff relieved himself in the urinal right next to me.  Fancy restraunt.

Paris is very old and the buildings are very old and so creative things have to be arranged for the plumbing and so we understand these oddities to be somewhat necessary.  This also means there is often only one toilet available.  We ladies are often rotating through the restroom.  One stays at the table to order while the other two line up for an available potty.  When one of us returns the Orderer is then free to line up.  At the end of the meal/snack/cocktails, the rotation occurs again with a Payer remaining at the table and each of us going in turn again.  We have to go whether we feel the need or not because we don’t know when the next potty will be found.  By the time all three of us have gone we are often finding whoever went first now has to go again.  We’ve decided it was a good thing our travel party was small or we would never make it to the next point of rendevous.

Peeing/restrooms may seem an odd topic of a blog on Paris but it has been a most influential force in our trip.  All decisions and most of our discussions have revolved around this issue.  Who needs to pee, where can we pee, and laughing until we pee.  Oui, oui!