Travelin'

 

We traveled through a sea of corn and soybean plants, the prow of our craft plowing the rolling waves of verdure. Mile after mile of lush growth surrounded us as far as the eye could see. To be honest, we couldn't see very far because the corn tended to be taller than the windows of the little white ship in which we sailed.

We were off to the Midwest, crossing Wyld-oming, a Nebrask, and the Wa of Io to traverse the mighty Mrs. Ippi into the Illinois country to Carthage and Nauvoo. We book-ended the tour with jails -- from which we were released on our good looks and charm (or perhaps encouraged to leave with all possible speed would be more accurate).

Everything was interesting, and the sites, along with the company, helped to remind me that there are more important things than concerts and cruises, shows and shops, and so forth. If families are forever, both family and forever deserve our attention in daily allotments. 

We had wild nights of pulse-pounding cribbage games--yes, we live life in the fast lane with no guard rail. Some were run-away affairs and others came down to crucial one point nail-bitters. For the record, I think I came out ahead at 4 wins to the 3 wins by the other players. I left my contact solution at a previous hotel, but our hotel that night at Keokuk was in the Walmart parking lot, so I was able to run over and pick up a small bottle 10 minutes before it closed. I had believed that Walmarts were open 24/7, but that one was closing at 11.

The stories in the car were a high point. The patriarch told of his motorcycle trip at 15 across Idaho into Wyoming, which included a rain storm, a flat tire, a broken spark plug, and an accidental death. There was the time he wore a girl's swimming suit, the incident of the blasting cap in the fireplace, and many more. We even got a few of the stories recorded.

On the ox-cart ride in Nauvoo, we learned that oxen pull so slowly that it may be faster to lay on one's belly and breaststroke across the prairie. The performing missionaries were particularly fun and we had a nice visit with a few of them after one of their performance. Unfortunately, we missed what was supposed to be the best performance that involved all 30 of them because it was moved back an hour and we were out of time. We took a wagon ride behind a team of Percherons and enjoyed the tour. If I have the choice to travel by ox or Percheron, unless it's to my death, I'll choose the latter. We visited Browning's gun shop and a few other places. All of the folks giving the tours were well informed and exemplary hosts for the brief time that we were their guests. The guide at Carthage jail enhanced the tale by walking through the motions in the upper room as he related the story of mob attack, the death of Hiram, wounding of John Taylor, and Joseph's shooting and falling from the window.

I made a command decision to take the detour to Missouri to see Liberty jail. We got there just before closing and the guide took pity on us to take us on the tour. Another win for our triple attack of good looks, wit, and charm -- or an example of the kindness of the folks who do those tours.

I was disappointed that Mound City, MO, doesn't actually contain any mound builder sites, and that I came so close to Cahokia without realizing it and going to see the place. Everything else has to go in the win category for this trip--except, I just remembered, for the breaded pork chop sandwich at the Casey's gas and convenience store in Nauvoo. There's a reason the item is entirely concealed in wrap; even the ketchup and swiss cheese I added could not redeem the hardened shingle between two slices of bun. On the other hand, the Nashville chicken wings at the Maverick station in Rock Springs, Wyoming had exactly the right amount of spice to make me want more. -- You can see that we patronized only the finest dining establishments. I particularly enjoyed some small powdered donuts of a brand with which I was not familiar from a gas station in Missouri where the clerk recognized the Boise State Bronco logo on the patriarch's hat. When we picked up a bag of a familiar brand of similar items the next day near Brigham City, Utah, the clerk congratulated us on our "healthy" breakfast choice. I stared into her green eyes and noted that we refused to compromise when it comes to nutrition.

Those are the highlights of the 2023 trip, our third annual celebration of sharing the same name.

Surprises, pleasant and otherwise

We left the Louvre, but I wasn't sure about our next move. One part of me wanted to find a nice restaurant in Paris where my last remaining wad of euros might be exchanged for a delicious dinner and memorable evening with my bride. I explained my dilemma. She didn't want to find a restaurant. We took the public transit back to the hotel. We arrived in a blustery storm --if that's not the name of an automobile, it should be. The tempest--which is a car name-- lashed us with the wet and windy fury of a thousand scourges. 

We made out way via the bureaucratic elevator back to our room. We had a brief rest, and perused the area for restaurants; it looked like we would have to take a taxi. The storm had ceased, but there didn't seem to be anything other than hotel restaurants within walking distance. We both agreed that we didn't want to eat at our hotel again. The rather bad experience associated with the meal from the previous evening stuck in our memories like a burr in a horse's tail. A short while later, we found ourselves, reluctantly, seated at our hotel restaurant--all of the other options involved more time and energy than we possessed. After traipsing around Paris all day, being taken in ambuscade, intimidating other would-be ambuscaders, repeatedly surmounting insurmountable stairs, wandering through museums, strolling down the Champs-Elysees, and otherwise rollicking and rolling in the history and scenic glory of Paris like dogs in a rotting deer carcass, our search for adventure had been sated; our get up and go had got up and went; our exhaustion rating exceeded our desire for more experience points.

We sat at a different table than we had the previous night. We were next to a window. Of course, it was dark enough outside that we saw little in the glass other than our own reflection. I don't remember now what I had to drink--I know that it was not Orangina. Our waiter was very nice; he was more comfortable speaking French than English. He helped me remember that the word for the bill was l'addition; by which I mean that I asked him and he told me. 

I had steak; I think my wife had the same. We really enjoyed the meal. Our expectations were guarded; by which I mean that we were just hoping not to be sick. It was really quite good. We were glad that we hadn't tried to go elsewhere. Was it overpriced? Certainly. Was it a great meal? Certainly. 

The most interesting part for me was when I took the bill to the register. A woman with whom I had spoken before was working at the register, and took my bill. Another woman who worked there walked up beside her and whispered in French, "Is this the guy you were telling me about?" I guess she either thought that that my French was so poor that I wouldn't understand, or that her whisper would not reach me. The first woman then whispered back, "Oui. C'est lui." I didn't have the nerve to ask what it was about me that they had found worthy of prior conversation. I'm pretending that it was my remarkable rugged good looks coupled with my boyish charm. I wasn't wearing the hat; so it couldn't have been that.

The meal had proved to be a pleasant surprise. The unpleasant surprise came in the dead of the night, ripping me from the comfortable and loving arms of that most pleasant of mistresses, Sleep. My bank called to see if I would like to take a survey about the kind of service that I had received in depositing a check the week before. I had the presence of mind to let the person know that I was in a foreign country, it was the middle of the night, and I did not want to take a survey. 

(Rant Notice: Pointless angry blather with no redeeming qualities follows). Of all the things that irritate me about the bank in question, the calls wanting to ask me questions about the service I have received are the worst. If I want to talk about the service, I'll call them. The calls always come at the most inopportune of times. If I could call the idiot who thought of that stupid survey idea at his/her most inconvenient time and badger him with a bunch of useless questions, I would gladly do it. I would love to have him drag himself from bed, stub his toe, bump his knee, and step on a LEGO on his way to the phone. I would ask if he would mind taking a survey about the interaction during my latest bank visit. Are the tellers able to read my signature without difficulty? Would they prefer that I turn to the left or the right as I lean on the counter while conversing with the teller? Are the camera's catching my best side? Is blue ink a problem for their scanners? On a scale of 1-10, how much would they mind never calling me again to inquire about my willingness to take a survey? 1 being, "Consider it done. It was a colossally moronic idea. We're sorry to have bothered you. It won't happen again." 10 being, "We're only in the banking business to cause you misery. We would like to shoot you in the eye with a staple gun and break your teeth out with an ashtray, but the lawsuits have forced us to settle for bothering you by telephone...forever."

Hamburger Surpise

This was on the wall of our room at the bureaucratic hotel:

It's not the exact picture; I found this one on the internet. In fact, I remembering the moon as being bigger.

Another thing we found in the room (along with the bottle of water and candy) was a menu.

I also found this one on the internet, as I did not consider the menu something of which I wanted a picture when we were there. This picture is too small for me to accurately read. The actual menu that we found in the room suffered from a similar problem--not legibility, but accuracy. We spent some time deciding what we would have. I forget now what we finally decided to have...but it sounded good.

When we arrived in the restaurant, we discovered a completely different menu. Apparently, the menu in the room was outdated; the selection upon which we had decided was not to be found on the new menu. We couldn't find anything on the new menu that interested us. Nevertheless, in our famished condition, not having eaten much of anything since our massive breakfast in Bayeux, we ordered something.

It was the kind of mistake that Americans probably make with frequency; we ordered hamburgers. They were one of the cheapest things on the menu. Our first meal at Versailles had been from McDonald's; in fact, our evening meal on the second night had been from McDonald's; both of those meals were fine. We failed to account for the fact that although the hamburgers were the cheapest things on the menu, they were way overpriced. Overpriced hamburgers are never good. We didn't account for the fact that a "chef" rather than a simple cook was preparing these burgers. A simple hamburger is beneath contempt for a "chef." A "chef" must expand, magnify, and supplement the plain ordinary hamburger. Rather than a simple but filling meal, the "chef" must concoct a masterpiece...and thereby completely ruin that acme of ordinary meat. 

They patties glistened like varnished mahogany...and were nearly as tasty. Seriously, they had been seasoned, not unpleasantly so. But they were thick. It was like trying to eat a doorjamb in a bun. I removed the lettuce; it was that single, thin, dry-but-green leaf from the outermost edge of the plant; it's the kind of lettuce that many restaurants use to hide the real food, the throw-away wrapper--it gives color to the plate but is completely unpalatable.

The burger wasn't awful; it was just thick and strange tasting. A burger should be fun to eat, with dripping condiments that complement the flavor of the beef, the bun, the tomato, and the onion. (I don't enjoy pickles on hamburgers--this one was on the side). The ground beef should be the star in this culinary play; the other performers should all be in love with the meat and cling to it longingly. Instead, this burger was a real ham, upstaging all the supporting cast, and stinking up the show. None of the other players could rescue the great ground round patty from itself. 

The fries were those thick, soggy pieces of lumber rejected by CostCo...but they were better than the burger.

The one redeeming aspect of the meal was Orangina. 

They served it in a short bottle just like that one in the picture above, with glasses in which to pour it. I remembered Orangina from my stay some 30 years earlier. I remembered it as a flat, watery, orange-pulpy drink in a blue can. In spite of my rather tepid recollection of the drink, I wanted to try it again for nostalgia's sake. 

The burger gave me a tremendous thirst. The drink hit my mouth like an artillery barrage, exploding with refreshing citrus flavor and carbonation. I fell in love with it. It was nothing like I remembered.

After we finished our meal--we had eaten most of the burgers because hunger had driven us to that extreme--we went back to the room. The aftermath of the meal is best described as extremely unpleasant in a gastrointestinal sense. I blamed the burger. I would later find out that the burger may have received a bad rap for that unpleasantness.


Next time: A Day in Paris

Bayeux

Bayeux is the place we wanted to be. Madame Google took us right to our hotel. This is actually the view from the rear, in the garden. It was a delightful little place. Our rooms were in a separate building on the left, the view of which is blocked by the trees.

I thought parking might be an issue; it wasn't I found a place on the street about 30 yards (Yards are like meters but a few inches shorter--which is strange, because meters don't have any inches. Of course, I'm referring to meters as units of distance measurement, not as in parking meters, or gas meters, which also measure things, but not in meters...which is strange, since they're called meters.) up the street from the hotel. We walked back to the hotel to discover, as had been promised on the website, that there was parking within the gates. I moved the car.

Our hostess was an interesting lady with shoulder length reddish hair, and large glasses. She spoke pretty rapidly, equally comfortable in French or English. Of course, I opted for French, so that my wife would be impressed with me; I don't think she was. Our hostess gave us a little map and circled restaurants and various sites of interest. One of those restaurants was, if I remember correctly, Le Petit Normand. We chose it for two important reasons: She recommended it, and it was nearby.

After we put our backpacks in our room, and figured out how to get our room door--which opened directly to the gravel courtyard/parking area--to lock and unlock, which was much more difficult than I had anticipated (requiring the precise and well-timed turning of the key while holding the door and knob just so), we walked to the restaurant. This edifice reposed across the street from the dining establishment:

Initially, we decided to eat at the tables outside the restaurant door by the street. We had just sat down when a car drove past. I didn't want that as part of my dining experience. I apologized for our change of heart, and asked for a table inside. I'm not so sure about the older lady behind the counter, but the young lady who served us was very pleasant. She seemed interested in everything that we did, even watching me from behind as I pulled apart the camembert nuggets in my salad. My wife thought maybe the young lady wanted to come back to the U.S. with me. Wisely, I didn't make that inquiry. I had the duck with black currant sauce. It was delicious. We also had some bread and more camembert. The server laughed when, after she asked if I was going to share it with my wife, I said, "Peut etre." She also acted amused when I protested as she gave my wife a spoon with which to share in my dessert. My wife's order didn't include the cheese, or the dessert--thus my mock protest. As for the dessert: Small cream puffs swam in a cool pool of chocolate sauce. We chased them with our spoons, dismembering, and devouring them with glee. That dinner, and the breakfast the next morning (I already related that experience here) were the two best meals, outside of the home-cooked meal at the Joly's (as told here), that we had during our visit. Our worst meal was yet to come.

I've already related the rest of the Normandy experience, including the stunning but somber American Memorial at Coleville-sur mer, at the link above. But here's a picture of a Norman warrior from the era of William the Conqueror as encounted at the Bayeux Tapestry Museum:

 It was no easy task getting him to pose in the sunshine right in the museum like that. Incidentally, I recently finished a book, The Norman Conquest: The battle of Hastings and the fall of Anglo-Saxon England. I gave it 5 stars for being highly informative, extremely interesting, and somewhat exciting.

After we left the memorial, where my wife shot these school kids,

we drove back toward Paris.

My wife got this picture of an interesting house in Normandy.

And, you can double those loyalty points on Tuesdays.

Next time (maybe), the adventure that is returning a rental car at Charles de Gaulle Airport.

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.