I was pole vaulting in the Louvre, or maybe it was Versailles, and using the pole, an ornate blue and gold thing, to balance as I ran upon the walls about a circular room while making important announcements. This was after an earlier bit of slogging through a drying marsh of black mud and tall, desiccated yellow grass; I can't remember if I was chasing or being chased--I remember contemplating that the journey had not been very well planned, and I noticed a lack of insects or other wildlife. I suppose these weird dreams from last night are the product of several days at a professional conference where I logged a steady two to four hours of sleep per night, followed by a return home to a good night's rest on a pungently new pillow whose odor made a merry strange stew of the subconscious sorting system which had been thrust back online after a few days on unpaid leave. (I love those long sentences stitched together by descriptive clauses. I really have to make an effort to break ideas into short, simple sentences; however, I remain confident that anyone who reads this page regularly has probably completed the fifth grade, and can comprehend complex, albeit poorly written, sentences).
While those are fake, dream-memories, my conscious self treated me to some pleasant memories during the drive home from the conference. Music, perhaps, is second only to smell in stimulating memory. I'll mention two memory missives I received.
When the opening bars of "Who's Crying Now" by Journey started playing over the radio, I was transported back to high school days. We were gathered at Aaron's house to revel in a few hours of smart talk, chips, shared escapist adventure, and sweaty-palmed dice rolling. A D&D day. These guys weren't my usual playing partners, but we did get together a few times over the course of a month or two for a good dungeon crawl. I don't remember anything about that campaign (except this song playing on the radio), or even whether we completed it before we were no longer able to convene, drawn back into our separate spheres of life that seldom overlapped. Aaron was really the only one of the group that I knew well. He was a year or two behind me in school, but I knew him from band, wrestling, and cross-country. I think he played either trombone or trumpet--you know, the manly, brass instruments, not one of those sissy woodwinds. I played the trumpet--but I wish that I had also learned to play the flute because 1) they were easier to carry, and 2) Jethro Tull.
Thinking of band brings back memories of trumpet and flugelhorn--with only one or two French horns in the band, Mr. Johnson, the band director, had the three lead trumpet players switch to flugelhorns for one season of marching band to create what he called a darker more mellow brass sound. I don't remember the songs we played on those horns, but I remember painstakingly transposing the music, carefully adjusting the notes and writing them on the sheets of music paper in company with David and Lyle (I think), the other trumpeters turned flugelmeisters.
The drum line stood right behind the trumpets in the band room. I could reach behind my chair and flip the snare release on Colleen's drum when she wasn't looking--transforming it from snare to regular drum. Colleen, of course, would be unaware of the change until she started to play, reacting with anger and embarrassment. I'm not sure why she didn't bust a drum stick over my head, but I remain glad that she didn't. I think that I learned rather early in life that best results in playful insults, teasing, and friendly harassment are achieved when the target has a generally pleasant disposition, and can be depended upon not to use one's head as snare drum or one's body as a Stretch Armstrong doll. Of course, the wiser (and less hazardous) path would have been to just be a better person...and that's still an option that I'm considering...at least from time to time.
But I digress...because that's what I do. I do it well. We should all do what we do well. Memory is a crazy crumpled string of the past; following the thread may lead one down its length, or careen one in another direction where the string is crushed against another byte bight in the line, giving a simple trip down memory lane the potential to transform into an exhilarating roller coaster ride of rapid recollections.
As for the other memories. Two songs made me think of a high school sweetheart. She was also in marching and stage bands. Among other things, she played the piano. She frequently played (and sang) Billy Joel's "Piano Man." The hotel where the conference took place had a piano in the lobby. As I walked through the lobby one night after a conference session, a talented guy tickled that tune from the ivories. Another immediate and pleasant trip down the memory tube ensued. The other song came from my own playlist after my preset radio stations disappointed me with nonstop talk and commercials. This particular playlist is heavily laden with songs from ELO and Styx. Maybe the earlier song from the hotel lobby setup this little time travel trip. When "Babe" by Styx started playing, the mental Wayback Machine launched the recollection app which opened at a dance. I was with that same sweetheart, and Wayne was asking me what song I would request for the DJ to play. I thought of two songs at the time. "Babe," and "Don't Bring Me Down." I find it interesting that although I chose the latter, the former is the one that throws the lever on the Wayback Machine for me. Sherman and Mr. Peabody might have some insight into that phenomenon.
Do the things that make you think of someone, make them think of you? I doubt it; at least not usually--but sometimes..maybe.
There's something about sitting beneath the ramparts of an elegant yet imposing stone fortress, eating ice cream with your wife on a sunny day. It's as if... First let me clarify, I wasn't with "your wife"...I may not even know your wife, and I've probably never eaten ice cream with her, and certainly not on a beautiful day below the parapet, or any other pets; we were just enjoying ice cream--that's not a euphemism. I was with my wife; we were eating ice cream... It was as if we were one with the universe, and the universe was one with us. I don't think it's possible to have a terrible time while eating ice cream on a sunny day, even without a magnificent stone pile for a companion--meaning the chateau figuratively, not my actual, literal companion...my wife...not yours. Eating under the protection of the castle made us completely impervious to any negative waves.
As the French might say, C'etait formidable! I had chocolate chip mint. She had rasberry.
It was after the ice cream that the negative waves came. Sylvie had recommended that we enjoy some ice cream after the assault on the castle. She had also given me her telephone numbers: her cellphone number and the residence number. We decided to call her, as per her earlier orders, to see if she could come to pick us up. The other option, the bus, would not leave town for another hour or more. We called Sylvie. Both numbers. Several times. Neither number worked. I sent her an email, letting her know that we had not been able to reach her by phone; we would take the bus.
We went to the tourism and information center to confirm the bus schedule. It was here at this place established for helping people, especially tourists, that we met the only person in France who did not actually help us much. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties. Her tank top was of a bright pink persuasion; it was as if someone had melted a pink crayon on a 60 watt bulb, and left the bulb burning. Unfortunately, the shirt was the only bright thing about her. Actually, that is too harsh. She was nice, but not as nice as most of the people that we had met. She did try to help us. She didn't know the bus schedule, but she did look it up, and gave us a time when the bus would stop right across the street from the information center.
We had some time to kill. We walked around the square, and down to the bridge. We sat under the trees enjoying the view. Eventually, we made our way back to the bench where we had eaten lunch. A very nice bus arrived; it unloaded and stayed parked. I went to speak with the driver to see if maybe this was our bus. As I had suspected, it was a private charter bus, not our bus. The bus driver asked if I was British; I think it was the hat that fooled him.
As the time drew near for the bus to arrive, we went to the bus stop. The bus stop was next to the city hall. That building was under construction; it was wrapped in scaffolding and clear plastic sheeting; so was the bus stop. We waited nearby. After a short while, we noticed a man waiting on the other side of the street, twenty or thirty yards down. He appeared to be waiting for something. After a few minutes, he approached us; he asked if we were waiting for the bus. When I told him that we were, he informed me that the bus stop at which we waited was no good any more. He explained that the bus used to come in and make a loop, stopping at our location before finally leaving town. The new route, which had been in effect for many months, perhaps a year, eliminated the loop; the bus came through town, stopped once, and went out the other side. No bus would stop at our location. However, he was catching the bus to Compiegne. The new stop was where he had been waiting. So much for the help from the information center.
I don't remember our new friend's name. We exchanged names before we parted in Compiegne after the bus trip through the woods and villages. He worked in Pierrefonds, but lived in Compiegne. He was some kind of manager at an agricultural business. I had a very difficult time understanding him, but we appreciated his unsolicited aid. He also told us that we might have time to see the palace in Compiegne before it closed, and that we should get off the bus when it stopped at the palace. We got off the bus with him at the palace in Compiegne, thanking him sincerely for his kindness.
We went:
Far beyond those castle walls
Where I thought I heard a stranger say
The bus stop is not what it seems
And every man must meet his destiny
