Nobody Lost an Eye

By way of name, nomenclature, or designation, it was called Simply Market. We had seen it from the outside on our walk around the exterior of the commercial complex. 

(That picture, and more can be found here). We used the checkout pictured under the bienvenue sign.

The entrance was guarded by nicely dressed folks handing out green flyers. They weren't going to give me one, but I extended a hand in silent supplication and, unable to resist my boyish good looks and new world charm (there may have been other reasons--but I'm telling this story like I remember it), a woman handed me one of the papers. Apparently they were from a local Catholic charity, and were providing a list of things that were needed which could be purchased for donation to the charity. I thought that would be nice to do. However, under the stress of making our necessary purchases, I soon forgot all about the charitable stuff. 

"Stress?" you say. "What possible stress is involved in a simple trip to the supermarket?"
It wasn't exactly Odysseus in the cyclops' cave (here is a concise synopsis for those who have not discovered the everlasting delight that is The Odyssey). I mean...I don't think that we were in danger of having our brains dashed out and our flesh consumed, and no one lost an eye, but we were there for food and drink, and the exit was defended by a fierce cashier. We were strangers in a strange land.

We looked around at various food items, trying to decide what snacks and things we would need over the next couple days. Then we looked at the shampoo and cleaning products. It was while looking at the hair care products that I was racking my brain, trying to remember the French word for shampoo. It seems like a silly word in English. Where did we get such a word? 

For anyone who cares, the word "shampoo" comes from Hindi and was first used in 1762; but the entry also says that the first known use of shampoo was in 1838--don't know if that refers to the word, or if no one washed their hair until 1838, even though the word had been around since 1762. So we had a word for something, but no one did the action it described, or used the product so named until almost 80 years later? I suppose it's not too difficult to understand. Imagine a bottle of shampoo sent from India to Great Britain, and how it might have been received:
 "I say, Reginald, would you like to give this curious liquid a go? Sir Horace says that it's all the rage in India."
 "What exactly is it, Percival?" 
"According to the note, apparently one puts it in one's hair. Let me read what Sir Horace calls it. It had some peculiar name, I remember. Well...Oh...well, indeed. He says it's...it's... Oh, Dear me! It's some kind of poo!"
"I don't care what they're doing in India. Take it away! Horace always was such a blighter."

After looking at several bottles, I had an epiphany: the French word for shampoo is shampooing. I knew because I saw it written on the bottles. I didn't think that I would've forgotten that...but I had. It was about this time, after we had selected a few necessary products, that I had another epiphany. We didn't have a cart or basket or anything. I remedied the situation by seizing a little contraption that had been abandoned at the self-checkout which was near the hair products. It was a basket on three, wheeled legs. It turned out to be pretty handy. We got some cookies, croissants, grapes, oranges, laundry soap, shampoo, and a few other things that I can't remember at the moment. I got to explain to my wife the prices--the comma used like a decimal point--and the weights--the fruits were sold by the kilo. She didn't seem all that impressed by my explanation. 

When we got near the checkout, I had another epiphany (that was three before lunch time: a new record): In France, you're expected to bring your own grocery bags--we had not. I saw that they did have some plastic bags for 70 centimes a piece (how much for a whole one, it didn't say). I decided that we would just buy one of those for carrying our stuff back to the hotel. 

Perhaps I've created the impression that the cashier was intimidating, fierce, or otherwise cyclopean. If so, I meant that in a purely dramatic and utterly fictitious sense. She was absolutely delightful...until she came to the oranges. She looked at the bag containing the 4 oranges. Then she looked at me, and said, "Didn't you weigh these?" The other fruits had been in containers that gave the weight and price. The oranges, I had placed in the bag and weighed, but hadn't punched the buttons on the computerized scale that would print the price on an adhesive sticker, which I was then supposed to stick to the bag. I had figured that there would be a scale at the checkout and the cashier could do that. Rather than explain all of this, I told her that I had not weighed the oranges. "Would you like to go do that?" She asked with a pleasant smile. Truthfully, I didn't want to do that. That was why I hadn't done it before; I had no idea how to operate the scale to make the printer work. Instead, overjoyed that I was understanding perfectly everything that she was saying, I agreed. I probably would've ran out into traffic if she had suggested it.

I took the oranges back to the scale. Once again, the kindness of strangers came to my rescue. A gentleman who could tell that I didn't have a clue helped me operate the machine to get the sticker. And by "helped me operate" I mean that he made the selections on the touch screen while I watched. I thanked him, and returned to the checkout. 

At the checkout, I found a curious situation. My wife, who speaks no French, was carrying on a conversation with the cashier, who spoke no English. I don't think either of them could tell me what the conversation was about. The cashier asked me if I wanted to buy the bag for 70 centimes. I informed her that we wanted to buy the bag, and we completed the transaction. The cashier was pleasant throughout. My wife did inform me that the old lady in line behind us was not pleasant throughout; when I had gone back to weigh the oranges she had exchanged some words with the cashier in tone that denoted neither patience nor cheer. I felt bad about that,,,because I'm usually the guy behind the people who don't have their act together, and I know how it feels; but I'm pretty sure she made it out without being eaten by the cyclops. So she should be happy about that.

Breakfast in Versailles

Excitement...and the desire to shower again...roused us from our bed. My wife had been worried that we would end up, in Griswald European Vacation fashion, sharing a community bathroom with strangers. I did try to dispel that fear, but couldn't unequivocally state that it wasn't a remote possibility--part of my "keep expectations low" style of husbandship. So every private shower was a victory. This may have been the most impressive part of the trip for my wife...no shared bathrooms.

Breakfast, and the purchase of groceries and supplies were next on the list for the morning. We went into the mall and found that every place was still closed. The breakfast places wouldn't be open for at least another half hour. We decided to hunt the elusive Monoprix (see link from previous post). It was the largest store in the mall, a superstore. How tough could it be to locate? Besides, I knew that it was at the same end of the mall as our hotel.

Turns out, "elusive" was an entirely a propos description for the Monoprix. Elmer Fudd had better luck finding Bugs Bunny than we had stalking this huge (literally building-sized), stationary object. My confidence began to suffer. I began to doubt that I had actually seen a Monoprix listed in this mall. We finally went outside and walked around the outside of the complex, or a part of it. It was a long walk...like Shire to Mordor long...give or take an orc. No Monoprix. I began to suspect a Romulan cloaking device. That's exactly what it was...sort of, almost.

In the previous post, I mentioned construction next door to the hotel. Part of the mall was undergoing some remodeling, and had been entirely blocked off. Yep. That part included the Monoprix. No megastore for groceries and supplies for us. Once more, I had planned to amaze my wife. Once more, Fate had blown smoke in my face, and said drolly, "Didn't see that one coming, did you? I own you, kid." I appreciate when I get called, "kid." It makes me feel young; it takes away the sting.

We did find the Lindt store, and my wife made me take a picture of it:

We skipped the restaurant breakfast, because we didn't want to walk back to that place (we had already put in more than a mile), and grabbed le petit dejeuner at a Brioche Doree stand (apparently there are some of these in the U.S. too). I had a pain au chocolate; my wife had a croissant; we each had orange juice; it was the special: one viennoiserie and a juice for 3 or 4 euros. This was my first pain au chocolat in roughly 30 years (some of them were rougher than others--meaning the years, not the food). When I had lived in Paris long ago, I had eaten pain au chocolat almost every day. They came in various sizes and quality. These were large and delicious baked goods, and we enjoyed them. We had taken "a jumbo across the water," in the words of Supertramp, and eaten breakfast in Versailles.

Next: The super market experience.

Reflections on fine dining

Within the Palace of Versailles is the Hall of Mirrors (pictured below). It is beautiful--mirrors, windows, chandeliers, and reflections of all. When I saw it for myself, the tourists were thicker than maggots in an eviscerated cow's carcass --I remember the first time I saw that as  kid, the image has stuck with me. I think Versailles will stick with me as well. 

I don't mean the palace; although, that is a part of the experience. My experience at Versailles in May was even more stunningly glorious than the maggoty carcass had been shocking to my young self. I'm not sure if that odd juxtaposition adequately conveys the indelible impression made in both cases; but it will have to do.

The entire trip was magnificent, but if I had been forced to return home after the time at Versailles, it still would have been worth it. I will long reflect with exquisite joy on the experience.

Often, adventures that we will later remember fondly begin contrary to our aspirations. So began this experience. I had booked our hotel right next to the Parly 2, one of the largest shopping centers in Europe. The founders were inspired by the American way of life to create this Eldorado west of Paris, according to the website. I knew the mall contained some eating places, and also a huge store, Monoprix, that sold just about everything, including groceries. Everything we could possibly need would be right next door! I was quite brilliant. My wife was going to be so impressed with my foresight. 

It was after nine in the evening when we arrived at the hotel. We decided it was too late to try to go back to visit the Eiffel Tower that night. We needed to eat. We went next door to the mall to find a reasonably priced restaurant at which to enjoy our first meal in France. In the words of Neil Diamond, made famous by The Monkees, and later repeated by Smash Mouth, "Disappointment haunted all my dreams."

All of the restaurants were closed...except for one. I speak of that establishment known around the world for the quality of its cuisine and unforgettable atmosphere...McDonalds. 

This wasn't the dining experience that we had had in mind. In fact, it was absolutely the last place that I wanted to make part of the experience in France. I mean it was beyond the last; it wasn't even on the list. I did not want to eat at McDonalds. We wandered about the nearly empty mall in search of an alternative. Finally, reluctantly, like Napoleon at Fontainebleau in 1814, we abdicated our hopes, consigning ourselves into the hands of our culinary foes. 

It was our first experience with the automated kiosk for ordering at McDonalds. We gave it a try before deciding to order at the counter. While we waited in line, a guy with a glorified Ipad came out and took our order. I thought that was a great idea. Our order would be ready by the time we got to the counter. The only real difficulty we had was with the girl who filled the order; she couldn't seem to get it through her head that we wanted it "to go" or "a emporter."

We took the meal back to the hotel to eat. The food wasn't bad; it just wasn't the experience for which we had hoped--that's probably an analogy for life. My plans for the first night had been ruined: no time for the Eiffel Tower, and my wife's first taste of France came served on a sesame seed bun. Even now, knowing the great stuff that came after, I'm still disappointed by that first night, disappointed by my failure to deliver the anticipated awesome experience that would have impressed my wife--she would probably say that's also an analogy. 

Redshirting to Versailles

My wife isn't a Star Trek fan, but I'm pretty sure she felt like the lone redshirt in the landing party.

I know this because she had expressed some anxiety about going to France. She didn't know a word of French. She had no idea how the metro system, or currency, or anything else in the country worked. She was like a redshirt on her first mission. Fortunately, I didn't have to worry about losing her. I did have trouble at times getting her to let go of my hand so that I could look at the map. Through everything she was a fabulous 99 to my Maxwell Smart. (I know. How can she be both a redshirt and 99? She just was. I guess she felt like a redshirt, but she performed like 99. Would that combination be something like 99 Red Balloons? No. And I'm not linking to it.)

I think it took over an hour and a half, including the change of trains to get to our planned stop...except we didn't. I had made another clever Maxwell Smart maneuver when we had switched from RER B to RER C. I did get us on the C train going to Versailles...so kudos to me for that. We really shouldn't overlook that. The thing is...there are three lines of the C train that go to Versailles. Only one of those lines terminates near the chateau; that station was only about a seven minute walk from our hotel. (So says Google Maps; I don't know; I never got to make that walk). The other two lines go through the station called Versailles-Chantiers: about a fifty-seven minute walk from our hotel. Really, it's like I missed the bull's-eye on the dart board, but still hit inside the next circle. I did get us to Versailles; let's not forget that. There were countless possible wrong choices (or at least more than I would care to try to count, and so I'm not going to try), and I managed to get the wrong choice that was the very closest one to being the right choice. "Missed it by that much," as Max would say.

Did we lug our luggage the 57 minute walk to the hotel? No. In another brilliant maneuver, I had decided that we would take no luggage; we would not lug. Instead, we each had one backpack which strictly conformed to the size limitations specified for airline carry-on bags--we packed lighter for a week in a foreign land than for an overnight at the relatives. Also, we did not walk to the hotel. It was late; we were tired. There was a bus...it pulled away just before we got to it. There were, however, taxis--sleek black vehicles with drivers who looked like they could work for the Russian mafia; it was a combination that I could not resist--it might've been our best chance to appear in a movie with Liam Neeson.

The first taxi driver, in response to my question (in French) about whether he spoke English, simply pointed back to the taxi behind him. The second driver hopped out and opened his trunk. We spoke mostly in French; I was getting back in the mindset for French. I asked him how much to take us to our hotel. He said ten or twenty euros. I thought that seemed like he was padding it a bit, but I agreed. He drove us by the chateau, and through the roundabout pictured below, and by the temple.

 We began a conversation in French about where we were going, why we had come to France, my previous experience in France, and about our families. I think he said that he had two daughters...and never mentioned the Russian mafia; I didn't detect any accent to indicate that he wasn't native French. He taught my wife two French words: bonjour, and...I forget the second one. He offered to let us out to see the temple exterior if we wanted. We were going there the next morning, and I was worried about the check-in time at the hotel, so we didn't stop. When we arrived at the hotel, I put the kibosh on any attempt at hard bargaining by giving him 20 euros, and asking if that would cover it. It was such a pleasant trip, that I was happy to give him 20; he happily accepted it.

There was construction going on at the complex of which our hotel formed a part. Construction noise never bothered us while we were there, but the ground floor was partially blocked off. To check-in we had to go to the second floor (actually the 1st floor in France...I used that as an opportunity to explain to my wife that in France, the first floor is one level up from the ground. The ground level is the RC or rez-de-chaussee). Our room was a floor or two above the check-in floor. The elevator spoke, telling us which floor we were at, and when the doors were opening and closing. Actually, it took several trips before I figured out what the elevator was saying; it was difficult to hear, and difficult to understand.

In our room we found this alien message. I couldn't tell if it was a welcome or a warning.

It was the only artwork that I can recall in that room.

The landing party had successfully arrived at the first destination...with no casualties.

Next time: We have our first meal in France.

Storm of the Century

The Last Time I Saw Paris in person was...well, let's just say it was long, long ago in a galaxy where the Jedi had only recently returned...and it was the month of May. So the touch down at Charles De Gaulle airport this May was something of an anniversary. I couldn't decide if the sprinkling of raindrops that descended as the plane taxied to the gate symbolized tears of joy and expectation, or represented an infelicitous omen. But my expectations were high, in spite of the fact that we were arriving many hours later than I had planned. I knew that we would really have to hurry to get through French customs, get to our hotel in Versailles, and get back to Paris to see the Eiffel Tower at night. The latter was intended as a special gift for my wife; I knew that she wanted to see the Eiffel Tower. I think that it was the only landmark she associated with Paris, or with France. I hoped to show her many more wonderful things than that great and glorious iron pylon...but I could at least get her to it the first night.

Tubes (speaking of which, I think it was in Paris that I heard the only song I know by that group). We seemed to move from one tube to another. It felt like someone was making sausage...and we were the ingredients. Being near the front of the plane, we were able to exit that flying cylinder rather quickly. From there we went through the tube that connected the plane to the terminal. A narrow hall and the press of the passengers behind extruded us to a stairway and to more tubes. One tube seemed to take us up and across the center of the immense circle that is the airport. 

As it turned out, we didn't go through customs...having already done that in Germany...we tried, but were unsuccessful. I saw the customs sign, I asked a uniformed guy about it; he directed us into the customs room...which was completely empty. We looked around for a couple minutes. No one came in. We decided that we weren't supposed to be there, and began to leave. As we were about to do so, a tall, cheerful woman came in and told us we didn't need to go through customs...and she seemed amused that we thought we needed to. I think the guy who had directed us into the room had told her about his little joke, and she had come to rescue us from my paranoid delusion. It wouldn't be the last time that I provided amusement for the natives...it's a gift, really.

I had two things on my mind: purchasing the Paris Museum Pass (good at many places, including some outside of Paris), and finding the metro to take us to Versailles. A girl at an information booth sold us the passes and directed us to the shuttle that would take us to the metro. She spoke English much better than I spoke French, so we mostly spoke in English--by "mostly" I mean pretty much entirely--I was still getting my sea legs, so to speak. Following her directions, we took an elevator...yep, took it right out of the building and left a big empty shaft...no, but one can imagine. Actually the elevator took us...down (and I always think of this song when the elevator goes down) a couple levels, and another moving sidewalk took us up about a half level. The shuttle, like a metro train with just one car, carried us through another tube to the train station.

We followed directions on signs, wandered back and forth a bit like a forgetful grandma who can't remember where she put her glasses, and finally asked someone where to buy our train tickets (I believe this was in French--I was getting more confident). We were directed to the ticket booth where the transaction again required two languages for consummation. We purchased our tickets which would take us on the course that I had mapped out weeks in advance: the RER B to St. Michel/Notre Dame where we would change to RER C to ride to Versailles. I also bought a carnet of 10 metro tickets for future use. We found our set of tracks, and took an elevator down to the quai. After a minute or two spent pondering the information screens, I realized that we were on the wrong side of the tracks--the train on this side would be traveling in the opposite direction from our destination. I also noted that almost everyone waiting for the train was on the other side of the tracks. The experienced traveler notes the little clues...I did too.

We took the elevator back up, walked to the other side, and took another elevator down (this would be a frequent pattern (appearing to make a wrong selection) that I would use to throw off anyone who might be tailing me--and I believe that it proved entirely successful--sort of a Maxwell Smart maneuver). As 99 and I were getting into the elevator, an elderly lady who entered behind us remarked, "C'est l'orage du siecle!" I comprehended without realizing. I looked outside to confirm her words. I could see that it was windy and rainy. "Rainy" is an understatement in the same sense as saying that one day Pompeii experienced a spot of trouble with Mount Vesuvius. The water coming from the corner of the building rushed out as if from a battery of fire hoses. The skies of France sobbed copious tears of joy at my return. I was touched...and glad to be there, but glad that I was inside.

The coming days would see the skies of this joyous land wash us with abundant tears as we walked unsheltered amid exuberant water works.

Next time: Making the most of another Maxwell Smart maneuver.

Frankfurt

I never anticipated going through customs in Germany. As you may recall, our itinerary as scheduled was supposed to go from San Francisco direct to Paris. However, that famous German Helmuth von Moltke the Elder said something like, "No plan survives contact with the enemy." He might've added, "Or with Untied Airlines." (I have spelled it that way intentionally: so the carrier will remain technically anonymous...and to make sure I don't get dragged from a flight in the future. Actually, except for the delay(s), all of the carrier personnel were very nice, helpful, and never once threatened us with removal or bodily harm--if you don't count the in-flight meals (of course, I jest--about the in-flight meals, that is.)). So I was surprised to discover that we were going through customs in Frankfurt. We hadn't reached out destination; I saw no point in going through customs until we had reached the nation of our destination (destination?).

Thinking about it now...it makes perfect sense. I don't suppose everyone on our flight was continuing. An incoming international flight would naturally have everyone pass through customs.

Well, it was nothing like I thought German customs would be. The man with whom we dealt spoke English with hardly had any accent at all. I was glad of that because the only German I know is what I had picked up from watching Hogan's Heroes; I was really hoping not to have a need to use terms appropriate for a prison camp. Nevertheless, I had my best, "Achtung!" "Schnell, schnell," "Jawohl," and "Danke, fraulein," prepared.  Also, the gentleman did not say, "Your papers, please." like on the Medal of Honor video game that my son and I used to play. I should've asked him to say that, just for fun.

"How long are you staying?" he asked, behind the glass booth, as he looked at our passports.
"Just until we can catch the connecting flight to Paris," I answered.
"No. How long are you staying in Europe?"
"Oh. About a week."
"Only France," he said with a little disappointment, as if I had started singing La Marseillaise over the top of Deutchland Uber Alles. (Right click the link to open the link in a new tab. It's one of my favorite scenes from Casablanca).
"That's all we have time for," I said.
He stamped our passports and handed them back to us.

Without any other directions having been given to us, we went through the doors that those before us had taken...to an empty room with more doors. One set of doors had signs indicating that they were for those with something to declare. I thought about declaring that I was lost and needed someone to hold my hand...except my wife was already doing that...but she was lost too. We opted to forego any philosophical declarations, or excited utterances, and proceeded through the other doors.

There were signs. We followed them. Jim and Nancy had found us, or we had found them; I don't recall which way it went. We were together again. Fortunately, the signs at the Frankfurt airport (which has its own song) were somewhat clearer than the SFO signs had been. We rode the rolling sidewalks, i.e., conveyor belts, and found our new gate where my wife took a picture of this:

Once again, we were privileged to wait...but that was a good thing. It was good because Rachel back in Boise, when she had booked us on this flight, which was a Lufthansa flight, had only been able to get seat locations for me, and Jim's wife Nancy. Jim and my wife did not have seat assignments...and no one seemed amused when I suggested that Nancy and I might be forced to continue the trip without our spouses...tough crowd. So we got right in line at the counter at our gate in order to get the ticket situation straightened out in plenty of time to board. The trouble was, there wasn't anyone at the gate counter to help us. This situation continued for some time. I made some statements about the famed German efficiency and my disappointment with the lack of any evidence of it to this point. Another person in our group made reference to the prominent political party of the nation during WWII, and kept referring to the name of the airline as the Luftwaffe. That made me a little uncomfortable, but that was all that came of it. Eventually, someone did show up at the counter to help us, and the 47 other people behind us who had similar issues. We got seats, but none of us were together. I was near the front of the plane; my wife ended up a couple rows back and across the aisle from me. Jim and Nancy, also separated (by seats, not like drawn and quartered), were much farther back in the plane. This was the last time that we saw them.

It was a quick flight over beautiful country.

Next time: The Storm of the Century

Plane Tales (with apologies to Kipling)

We landed at SFO on "a warm San Franciscan night." Except that it was afternoon, and we were on a plane. We were tired, but we had good company; Jim and Nancy had become our traveling companions. We made our way together through the airport like a band of great white hunters on safari. In other words, we had no idea how to get where we were going, but we followed the sign of our quarry--large printed signs that often seemed contradictory or poorly placed--to reach our destination. Our destination was the international terminal, the Hotel California of airport terminals; once you enter you can check it out all you like, but you can never leave.

Once we found the international terminal and passed through the security, we knew that we had entered  A Whole New World. Sweet perfume wafted to our nostrils, beckoning us onward into the labyrinth. Stores for perfume and jewelry--Hermes, Cartier, and Swarovski--these and more promised awe and wonder in the international terminal. Perhaps there would be dancing girls with finger cymbals, veils, bells, and elaborate headdresses giving us free fruit baskets and chocolate bars. Let me just say, there wasn't any of that. No dancing girls. No free fruit. No free chocolate bars. None. At. All.

After we found our gate, we found that we hungered. The search for food began. We did find a number of eateries, each with a European flair. Based on the prices, I must surmise that each dish and simple sandwich had been carefully prepared in Europe and then shipped by private courier to the SFO international terminal. My wife and I split an outrageously priced tri-tip dish with new potatoes. Jim and Nancy had something similar. We all went back to our gate to eat our meals because there wasn't any place left to sit in the food court. As for the meal, it was delicious!

The remainder of what transpired before the plane arrived and we were allowed to board can best be described as waiting...we did a lot of it. The highlight was that we got to charge our phones. Jim eventually left to refill water bottles. After he returned, I did the same. I found a blonde girl (teenager or early 20's maybe) in sandals, yellow shorts, and a white top at the fountain, trying with only limited success to fill her bottle from the actual drinking fountain rather than the special bottle-filling station which was located where the fountain met the wall. There was a bottle outline and a button...obvious, once you notice it...if you notice it. I asked her if the other part wasn't working. She looked at me strangely (I get a lot of that), and said, "What?" in accented speech. (I'm guessing it was German). I pointed at the bottle-filling emblem. "Oh. I didn't..." she said, giving me a look that indicated how foolish she felt. She thanked me and quickly filled the bottle at the station.

Do you ever notice people? We had a lot of time to notice people coming and going from the terminal. I can still see many of them in my mind's eye. I made particular note of one guy...because of his hair. His hair was long and dark...both longer and darker than my wife's hair. The hair came to his shoulders and turned up; it reminded me of pictures of one of Jackie O's hairstyles from the 60's (here's what I mean). When he turned around, I could see that he sported a pointed moustache and goatee-like facial hair as well. I thought he looked a bit like a musketeer; the rolled up jeans and sandals did rather detract from the musketeer effect. Perhaps the incongruity is what struck me; or my own state of cranial deforestation made me envious.

At last, after a good deal of time spent waiting in lines based on our ticket type, we were allowed to board. We had to show our passports and plane tickets. My wife and I were together, but as we approached, she was directed to the right where another person was inspecting tickets and passports. I was in like Flynn...but there was no sign of my wife. I kept looking back through the stream of humanity, expecting to see my wife appear. She kept not doing that, appearing, that is. Jim and Nancy were in the stream but a little way behind me. No wife. I wondered if I should turn back and swim upstream to make sure that she had't been pulled out for special interrogation, or for some flaw in her passport or boarding pass. Just when I was about to go back, I saw her. She had stopped not appearing. She was way back there, but it was her. After we got seated on the plane with Jim and Nancy, I expected some words about not having waited for her. She had no harsh words. The problem hadn't been with her or her papers, but with the guy immediately in front of her; he had issues and had caused her to be delayed. She got through with no problems.

As for the flight itself...long, boring, miserable. I could go on, but that's not a part of the trip that I want to relive.

Next stop: Frankfurt...and the problem Rachel left for us with our tickets for the connecting flight.