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.