Flecks

I wore a memory today. A pair of them. I hadn't worn them in weeks. I didn't think of the memory when I slipped into them. It was later that I noticed the little yellow flecks against the black leather. There were a lot of flecks...especially in the creases and seams. To what shall I compare them? Stars in the night sky? No; the flecks were too plentiful. Gold dust? Perhaps; flecks of gold glistening in dark rock, more abundant in some spots than others. In a way, that's the best comparison.

My shoes were bespeckled, stippled; in point of fact, they were bespattered. I should have cleaned and polished them right away...but I am loathe to do so. Perhaps it is too late. Will memory dim if I scrub away the specks? Will I enjoy the remembrance less if those abundant flakes are replaced with the sheen of well-buffed polish? Will I cease to remember the walk hand-in-hand with my wife in the torrential downpour which splashed the sands of France upon my loafers?

While memory may remain intact after the shoes are polished and honed to a fine gloss, I am pleased to be forced to recall that day in Versailles when I gaze upon those sandy traces.

On a different subject, my oil gauge is still strangely afflicted with the cheerleader virus. The new switch, the new sockets, the trips to town, the muttered oaths, and bruised arm were all for naught.
***
Now, back to our regularly scheduled story.

We left Chateau Gaillard. Bayeux beckoned. We hearkened. As we left the ruins, Madame Google (It could be Mademoiselle, but the tone of her voice sounds more dame than moiselle to me.) soon sent us off on a rather narrow road. Down. The road went down. We went with it. The stairs of Cirith Ungol would have been wide in comparison.

It was a curvy, windy affair. Trees and thick brush cast an impermeable, verdant canvas over both sides of the road. Jagged patches of sky showed in the broken foliage overhead. We seemed to be alone in this downward spiral of leaves and asphalt. 

Things were not as they seemed. 

At a place where the road nearly doubled back upon itself, a black car, like some nefarious beast of Mordor, thrust itself in front of our KIA. Inasmuch as the road consisted of only one lane (or less), I can't fault the driver for being in my lane. But that driver made no attempt to keep to his side of the path. 

I slammed on the brakes, consciously ignoring the clutch, knowing that the car would stall. I hoped the added resistance of the transmission would help me stop; I don't know if it did or not. I was pretty positive that the nose of the KIA was going to ram that other car like a Roman trireme...and sink us both. 

There couldn't have been more than a centimeter between the cars when the KIA skirtched (That's a quick, brief, screech of the tires on the asphalt. It's not a word, but it should be.) to a stop. The dark beast resumed its course. Dragging a trailer behind, it drove around us, up into the verdant shadow.

Unscathed (and somehow unsoiled), we continued toward Bayeux.
***
I just looked at my shoes again. The flecks have nearly all disappeared...

Decamping

I'm skipping over a day, the best day of the trip, one of the best days ever; that day alone would have made the trip more than worth every effort and euro expended...even though we got pounded with rain. It was Mother's Day. For her present, my wife got to walk over a mile in her flats, and to be liberally laved in the lavish lacrimal offerings of the French heavens. 

So moving right along... Monday, we decamped to another location. Fortunately, our bags had plenty of room for all of our decamping equipment. Our time at Versailles had come to an end; sadly, we departed. Perhaps we were sad because we had to leave early in the morning, before anyone else at the hotel was even up, or so it seemed. We were to depart from Versailles-Chantiers, which, you may recall, was where we had arrived...near, but not exactly at the planned point of arrival in Versailles. Another benefit of that earlier faux pas (which expression always make me think that someone is referring to a fake father) was that we knew exactly where our station was located and how far it was from our hotel. That earlier missing of the mark worked out in our favor. BOOM! Winning! (Picture below of the Gare Versailles-Chantiers from this site).

We didn't take a taxi. I went out the night before we left and looked at the bus stop for the routes to figure out which bus we needed to take to get us to the train station in time to catch our early train. I determined that we should take the express, the T bus, for the best results. However, when we went to catch it, two other buses came first. I turned my nose up at the first bus like it was so much spoiled yogurt, and let it depart sans nous. However, I asked the second bus driver if his bus went to our destination, and if so, if it would get us there before our target time. He assured me that it would, and seemed amused at my concern; he dismissed any need to take the T bus, inviting us to board his coach instead. And so we did. The bus got us to the station in plenty of time...but there was another obstacle. 

I had given this schedule a great deal of thought. I had purchased and printed our tickets for our travel from Versailles to Compiegne weeks before we left. The thing is...to get to the trains, we had to pass through gates. To get the gates to open, one had to put a ticket into a slot, which would read the magnetic strip on the back of the ticket and open the gate. As you might have guessed, our home-printed tickets had no magnetic strip; additionally, the little scanner that might have read tickets such as ours, seemed to be out of order. Finally, there was no one in the booth to give us assistance. We were watching time slippin away while we were unable to make any progress toward the platform and our train. This was particularly concerning because we had to take this train to Gare Montparnasse in the south of Paris, and then take the metro to Gare du Nord in the north of Paris, and then catch our train to Compiegne. A missed train at Versailles would render our tickets for Compiegne worthless. 

Finally, with minutes to spare, two ladies arrived at the booth. An attractive blonde woman, especially cute in her little SNCF cap, and with a very helpful and friendly disposition, listened to my concern. She examined our tickets, and then pushed the magic button to let us through the gate. She also directed us to the proper platform to catch our train. And so we did. We were on our way back to Paris.

Next time: More fun with trains.

CHoPs in the garden, Ambrosia on the road

In a nutshell, there were fountains. Actually, there was no nutshell, but there were fountains. There were also hedges and pathways and statues and tourists and...the CHoPs. 

***

This is the way it happened, see. Me and my dame had a chat with the gatekeeper to the garden. He informed me that there was an entry fee that had to be payed. I informed him that I had the Paris Museum Pass; I would not pay as admission to the gardens was without charge anyway. He informed me that the pass was no good during certain events. One of those events being the water and music program which was taking place in the gardens on that very day, and for which there was in fact a charge. Whereupon, I doubled up my fist and delivered to his visage a terrible look of displeasure. Of course, this conversation took place in the French language. I hadn't had a lot experience in delivering devastating scowls in that language, but I wanted him to know that this was serious. He understood my meaning...and again told me the price of entry into those fine grounds. Now that we understood each other, I gave him the money and we passed through just as slick as you please. If you know how to speak the language, you can get what you want. 

We waltzed ourselves over to the grand stairway on the side, and descended like we was one of those King Louis and his number one dame. I must say that we looked fabulous. It was when we was crossing the parterre de l'orangerie that we seen them. They was wearing helmets and uniforms, and they must have been nine feet tall, sitting atop those great big chargers. They was obviously the Chateau Horse Patrol (CHoPs). My gal looked at me. She asked me a question. I gave her the affirmative. Quick as flash she drew down on those boys, and shot them before you could say, "Jack Robinson." I never met anyone who tried to be real quick about saying "Jack Robinson," and I'm not exactly sure that it was quite that fast, but it was quick. Here is the picture to prove it (as she did the shooting with her camera).

As you can see from the picture, we had to walk right past Pierre and Jean. We felt kind of small walking next to those giant equines. Our western quarter horses seemed like they would be midgets next to those mounts. Fortunately, they didn't have no papers on us, and we kept our noses clean. Later, my dame got a better picture:

So this whole water and music in the gardens, or fountain shows and music, was really quite the treat. (Although, I have to admit that I did not see any of that slow-motion water as shown in the video in the link, but maybe my eyes had not adjusted properly). 

Me and baby-doll enjoyed nearly every fountain in that park, listening to the music, which was of that classical variety, composed and played entirely by those dead European musical types. Although, I think we was hearing a recording as we never did get to see any fancy dressed boys in the short pants and white stockings running along the hedges with instruments in hand from one fountain to another.
***

But seriously, what a great experience. We walked and watched together, feeling the mist blown from some of the fountains, taking in various views, and shooting pictures of each other and of statues and fountains and arches while enjoying the classical strains. Truly memorable.

It's no exaggeration to say that we walked nearly 10 miles on that day, counting the mall, the temple, the palace, the gardens, and the walk there and back. On the way back we took a slight (unplanned, but productive) detour, and visited an old cathedral. 

Tired, hot, and hungry, we stopped so that I could step into a little bodega to buy a couple oranges. Those orbs of orange flesh proved to be sweet, juicy, and delicious. On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the top of the enjoyment level, those oranges scored a 20! Sweet ambrosia to my taste buds; truly we partook of heavenly bliss concealed in a peel. 

Next time: I will babble more about some aspect of the trip.

We march on the palace

By the look of the crowd, it might almost have been October 5, 1789. However, there were no casualties, and no one suggested that we eat cake. The only armed individuals were three men clad in olive green with berets who walked through the courtyard; they carried guns that looked like M16s, but could have been HK416s, or FAMAS F1s, or something else; I didn't look closely enough--I suspected that not being too curious, and not asking suspicious questions would make my visit more enjoyable than could be made up for with some period of intense interrogation...as exciting as that might be.

The picture above shows the passage upon which we walked, approaching the palace from the side entrance. During the previous mile of our walk, we walked on sidewalks along asphalt streets. The paving stone way began our transition to the splendor of the Palace of Versailles. 

Of course, the searching of my wife's bag was the first order of business. As we passed through the side gate, and beneath a tent-like structure, the woman guard asked to examine my wife's bag. I stopped so my wife could show the bag, but my wife didn't stop immediately. I had difficulty remembering that she did not understand French. Fortunately, the woman repeated the request in English rather than releasing the hounds upon us. 

The line to enter the palace itself was so long that it passed through three zip codes, and required dialing long distance to call from one end to the other. Perhaps that's a slight exaggeration, but it did extend longer than a football field (that's American football, not that boring game that takes three hours to reach a 1 to 1 tie, and requires a certification in drama to play professionally--That was a completely gratuitous jab at a sport that is loved and played the world over. I can only say, that as for such mockery, I doubt that it will be the last.) 

The line moved along quickly, but I had enough time to notice people. In front of us were two tall men who spoke to each other in English, but with an accent that seemed like it could have been Dutch, or German...I don't know; it may have been something completely different. They had close cut hair and wore heavy boots. Their pant legs were rolled up enough to see most of the boots. They had not shaved in several days. I opted not to annoy them.

Two young women were behind us in line. They were shorter than me, about the same height as my wife. The had long hair, dark complexions, and smoked cigarettes like candy--you know what I mean. They spoke in a language that seemed familiar, but wasn't. My best guess was that they were speaking Portuguese. 

Our Paris Museum Passes got us in...and we went through the metal detector to enter the palace that someone has described as all cotton candy and marzipan. It's not like that. It was beautiful. It was elegant. It was stupendous. It was full of tourists; that was the only drawback.

The people doing guided tours were the biggest obstacle. They moved slowly and would congregate around the guide, blocking the way. At those locations where more than one tour group had things jammed up, it was like being on the subway, a fabulously ornate subway, at rush hour, but without the movement. 

My wife enjoyed the palace. I enjoyed being there with her. She took lots of pictures. As enjoyable as the palace was, We enjoyed the gardens even more. 

Next time: The Gardens.

The incompatibility of flats and certain cuts

Having already walked a couple miles at the Parly 2, we changed our clothes to a jacket with a tie, and a dress (the former for me while my wife chose the latter) before going to the temple open house. It was about 3/4 of a mile from our hotel. I had used Google Earth Street View several times prior to our arrival in France to learn the route. Of course, the route looked nothing like the route that I had learned on the computer. Actually, it was quite similar; the difference was in my memory. I used my phone to plot a route, and we followed it...except for when I thought I could see a shortcut that coincided with the route of my memory. Long story short: cuts are like bobs--like Rachel from the airport's hair (is that even correct? Does airport get the possessive when it's Rachel's hair we're talking about? Maybe it should be: like Rachel's hair from the airport; but that makes it sound like she got her hair from the airport, which although improbable, could be true; maybe it's part of the uniform and she has to check it back in everyday). My point being that there are short bobs, medium bobs, and long bobs; it's the same with cuts. This one was not of the short variety. We quickly realized that and returned to the original route. Just another stealthy Maxwell Smart maneuver on my part; we weren't being followed. I didn't mind the slight detour...but I wasn't wearing paper-thin flats (shoes, that is, not British apartments). Did I mention that my wife was wearing flats? She reminded me that her shoes had almost no padding, and no arch support at all. I'm not sure why I should be held responsible for the poor design of women's shoes. It is just possible that my accountability related not to the shoe design, but to the luggage, or lack thereof, upon which I had insisted. Had we brought luggage, my wife could have packed more, or at least different shoes for the trip. But as my Uncle Kenneth once said, "My shoulders are broad. I can carry the blame." I find it's often easier to bear the blame than the pain and inconvenience from which the need to blame springs.

At the temple, security had to check the contents of my wife's small purse--I had instructed her to leave her C4, detonator, throwing knives, and morning star at the hotel (Of course I jest; those were taken from her when we had boarded the first plane--and now we're probably under investigation just because those words have turned up in proximity on the internet). We were given clear plastic bags into which we put our metal objects. I had already acquired a copious amount of change; my clear plastic bag made the rest of the trip with me as my change purse...and provided additional amusement for the natives when I pulled it from my pocket in search of one euro pieces and centimes.

The temple was fabulous. (Here are pictures).I spoke with a French gentleman who reminded me that we all had had our part in bringing a temple to France. We went with a French speaking group for the tour. The entire edifice is beautiful. I was most struck by the stained glass windows in which the sky blue was prominent, but also adorned with the white, green, and yellow of the fleur-de-lis. With the assistance of a lovely sister missionary from Soissons, we had our picture taken together by a large image of the temple at the end of the tour; the photograph was immediately emailed to us.

We had hoped to meet some friends at the temple. We waited for a short time but never saw them...we would see them after further adventures.

We had had a delicious breakfast, braved the grocery store and escaped without having to put out anyone's eye, and we had thoroughly enjoyed the temple open house. It had already been an awesome day, and all before noon. We walked directly back to the hotel (omitting all cuts, long, short, and otherwise) where we had a snack, changed clothes (and shoes) in preparation for our walk to the palace.

View from our hotel in the general direction of the temple:

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.

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.