Soloventure Tour 2022

Through a series of events, I found myself headed to Europe…alone. I was terrified. I wasn’t sure why the terror hit me as hard as it did, but it settled in and would not let up and amped up beyond measure on the day before the trip.

The entire long day before my flight, which I was already packed for, I was on pins and needles. Moments before my parents arrived to drive me to the airport, I was practically hyperventilating.

It was happening. I was doing this.

Why was I doing it by myself? It started with the rekindled wanderlust after the Grecian 40^th birthday. I wanted to continue to see what the world held that I hadn’t seen...yet. Foremost on this list was South Africa, but in Europe it was far safer to travel in post COVID times. The most glaring gap in my European passport stamps was Paris.

While pondering the trip to Paris, I also started to grow more curious about Amsterdam. That curiosity was only further piqued after a conversation with some acquaintances. Everyone who went there seemed to love it. It was so close to Paris; really, how could I only do one and not the other? The itinerary started to come together – fly into Amsterdam and take the train down to Paris.

I tried to convince my intrepid travel friend, Sara, to come. She couldn’t. She was going to take her son to France the following summer based on a deal they made when he entered high school and chose to study French.

I tried to get my parents to go, but they were going to Italy with friends that fall and weren’t interested. My sister wasn’t able to take enough time off from work after having been on maternity leave earlier in the year. My brother came up for the baptism of said baby, and as I was talking about the trip – miracle of miracles—he wanted to go! I was ecstatic! I even teared up…this was happening!

I continued to plan the itinerary and share the information with my brother. Airfare was ridiculously low to Europe at that point, and I wanted to pull the trigger. After his visit, it was radio silence. I emailed. I called.

Finally, he picked up the phone.

After a resonant sigh characteristic of my brother, he said, “Bridge—I’m so sorry.  I thought I had enough time off, but it just isn’t going to work.”

 My heart plummeted to my stomach.

In a gut punch reaction, I raced through my mind. I asked everyone I knew if they wanted to go. I finally realized that one of my coworkers loved to travel. I asked. She was interested. She was ready to go. I panicked.

Would I be able to handle this person in close quarters for this long? Nope. I decided I couldn’t do it. I am really good at talking myself out of things that are uncomfortable. Then my brother said he might be able to meet me for part of the trip, and my window opened. I let her know it wouldn’t work because my brother and I were going to be together for part of the trip. I felt awful, terrible, sick. But it wasn’t a lie. It COULD happen and he made it sound very promising that our friend might come too.

Then the next day a whole new twist was added to the planning.

My dad had an audit that he had to perform in Singapore that same week I was planning to go. He said I should come along with him to Singapore. At first, I was a little frustrated. I wanted to see Paris. I hadn’t seen these iconic places and they may disappear before I ever had the chance. The fire at Notre Dame had only driven the intense need to see the iconic landmarks in France. I had never thought that Paris was the destination I was meant to go to – but now I wanted it desperately.

But I did consider Singapore; when would an opportunity like Singapore ever appear again?

I looked up airfare. It was more than my entire budget for Europe. I didn’t even want to think about it…and yet I did. I looked at some of the things that were available to do in Singapore. The beautiful gardens, the food, the culture…everything I read made it seem like an amazing visit. And yet…it wasn’t Europe.

I am a far more European person than Asian by habit. I love long lazy mornings, good coffee, and late dinners. Asia was a lot more food that I was skeptical about, and a really rich European coffee was calling my name in my subconcious.

But I didn’t want to travel alone. At that point I wasn’t scared, I just wanted a travel companion. I had so much fun the summer before in Greece with my parents and friend. I wanted more of that.

It was my Sophie’s choice and I proceeded to put off the decision and continue to pout to my family that they wouldn’t go to Europe with me. Then my brother-in-law started showing real interest. My sister had told me that he wanted to go, and I just assumed that he wouldn’t because they had three kids under five and he was consulting, but the results of that were unknown to me of what type of time commitment that required.

Airfare was down to $927 to fly into Amsterdam and out of Paris. It was a steal and I told him to book it and tell my sister. He could cancel within 24 hours if he had to.

I am gonna guess that the conversation was not good. I never heard back from him about the trip, and my sister proceeded to tell me he wasn’t going.

I bought my flight anyway. I paid a little more to be able to cancel and get credit, but at that price to fly to Europe it seemed stupid not to. So, I booked hotels, to be paid after I arrived. Same with tours. The only thing I paid money for was a train ticket from Amsterdam to Paris to ensure that I would make it to a return flight.

Now I faced a new decision, would I go alone?

It was the balancing of the scales and the old-fashioned T-chart my mom taught me to help make decisions growing up. Travel to Singapore with Dad and spend more? I would be with someone else, which would be more fun. The other option was to travel to Europe where I really wanted to go at a reasonable price but go alone.

I was at about a week before I would leave, and I still hadn’t made a move. However, Dad still didn’t have his paperwork from the government to perform his audit. It was looking like Singapore wasn’t even going to be an option. Then South Korea opened to travelers, and my dad considered adding another audit. That was way more than I had bargained for, and it was all hypothetical!

Would I abort all travel plans because I was alone or brave it and go alone?

Then, a friend of my brother’s texted me out of the blue. We started going back and forth about arranging some volunteers and other jokes. He was a pilot, so I threw out that he should come to Amsterdam. He responded hard core. Apparently, he knew Amsterdam really well and LOVED it. He, of course, hadn’t been back since the pandemic as he had switched to domestic flights to be closer to his family.

He immediately sent me a list of things to do and places to eat at and said he might be able to join me.

It was a little odd, but at that point I was okay with it. Plus, I trusted him, and I knew I would have back up to enjoy the night life in Amsterdam should I choose to.

Dad finally got everything arranged for his Singapore trip, and it would be almost 54 hours in the air for 72 hours on the ground. I was not going at that price for that amount of time actually on the ground versus in route. Europe it would be. I let the pilot know…and he said his wife wasn’t convinced it was a good idea.

That was fair.

So, I was going alone. The weekend before I left, I spent a lot of time with my parents…more so than usual. We went to dinner Saturday night. Sunday, I made them dinner and sat out on their deck overlooking the lake, attempting to distract myself. The next day I was scheduled to fly out and I had only a little packing and some shopping to do before my evening flight. It wasn’t enough to distract me. I texted all my friends. I felt as though I were dying, trying to connect one last time.  About fifteen minutes before my parents were scheduled to pick me up to take me to the airport, I had a panic attack. It was mild, but there was hyperventilating.

But I got over it and when my parents picked me up, I was bound and determined to make it a good trip. We got about fifteen minutes from my house, and we ran into stopped traffic. We were headed into an urban area during the commute home, there really shouldn’t have been traffic. We failed to consider that it was over 100 degrees outside, and that the road had blown up on the freeway. I should have felt more panic and yet, maybe this was a sign I wasn’t supposed to go! However, the traffic moved quickly around the damaged road, and we were back on my way to my flight.

Arriving at the airport, I wished my dad a safe trip to Singapore and headed bravely into the airport to drop my bag off.  I got in line. The agent left, saying wait here. I waited. Another agent opened a gate, and other people moved around us and checked their bags as we waited. Finally, I went to the other line, checked my bag, got through security, and went to my gate. Waiting in line again, I was hyperventilating and worrying about being so far away from all the people I loved. I sucked it up and began to talk to others around me before boarding the plane and taking my upgraded seat in comfort.

I proceeded to select the newest Spiderman movie and watch that as I ate the mediocre meal and drank a glass of wine, hoping I would fall asleep and make the trip across the ocean more bearable.  I tried to sleep once the movie was over with little success. I eventually gave up and watched other terrible movies, or started, and couldn’t distract myself.

Eventually we made it to Amsterdam and after a short trip through customs, I was on my own in a different country and needed a taxi to the hotel. I went to the front of the airport and was able to catch one. After an exorbitant cab ride to the center of town, I was dropped off by my cabbie on a main road and pointed in a general direction to my hotel as he couldn’t drive any closer.

I wandered around a series of shopping streets that were indeterminable by name and eventually, after a half hour, found the Best Western at Dam Square. I almost broke into tears I was so tired and happy. I knew that I wouldn’t be able to check into my hotel quite yet, but I was able to drop off most of my bags and find something to eat for breakfast. There had been a medical emergency on our flight, and so there was never a breakfast meal served.  On my return flight, there was a second meal served but not the first. After the paltry dinner the night before, I was famished and decided I had to try a pannekoek. I was picturing the typical fare from the restaurant chain in America.

I had a friend who worked at a Pannekoeken restaurant in college, and we used to go into the restaurant to torment her and order the pannekoeken so she would have to come out and yell “pannekoeken” as she rushed the pastry to the table as it was puffed up. Instead of that type of cake, it was a relatively flat pancake with apple slices. It didn’t matter it was deliciously carby and the right amount of sweet and delicious. Besides, at that point I was so tired I just needed coffee and a seat.

Fortified, I decided to explore the city while I waited for my room to become available, as there really was no other option for me. I had a tour scheduled for that afternoon at the Heineken brewery, but until then I was free. I finally began to take in the small area where I was staying, around Westerkjerk. There were several pedestrian streets that had the same stores repeated, so I had to figure out which one was closest to my hotel.  I eventually figured out the hotel was literally right behind Westerkjerk.

I headed towards the Heineken brewery on my exploration, deciding that it would be helpful to know where I was going later that day. My path led me down a very swanky shopping strip with stores that were out of my price range, and even with the sales at my favorite shops, I wouldn’t be able to get things home in my luggage.

I eventually wandered down to the canals and the Bloemenmarket.  Exploring the bulbs, I realized I would want to get some home. But wasn’t that illegal? That was a problem for another time. I found the brewery and found a shorter route back to my hotel where I took my luggage to my room, collapsed onto the bed and broke into tears. I wasn’t sure if it was exhaustion, the fact I could sit down, or the realization I was all alone…but they came. Then I instantly connected to WiFi, which I had been struggling without in my exploration of the city.

The WiFi was fantastic, something I would learn to be eternally grateful for when I was struggling on the train later that week…and later that summer at a resort in northern Minnesota. I took care of a few tasks that had popped up in the past twenty-four hours (or so it seemed) then realized I needed to head out to the Heineken tour.

Walking into the cooled lobby of the Heineken Experience, it was the first building in Europe I had ever been in that was supercooled to American standards. I was instantly cold; however, it was a contrast to the strong sun rays I had walked about in all day. I was prepared for Amsterdam to be coolish, maybe low 70s, but it was HOT. Not as hot as Minnesota had been the day I left for my trip, but HOT in comparison to what I had planned and packed for.

The tour continued to be surprising as well as chilly. I was expecting a small group to be led through the production area and given the background on what makes Heineken different than other beers. Part of that was true, we did go through part of the brewery floor, and there was a lot of history about how Heineken was created and what made it the name brand in beer it is today. These fun facts included being the first imported beer to reach the USA once Prohibition was repealed.

It was also part interactive show. At one point you were in a small room with screens surrounding you going through the “bottling process.” It was incredibly cheesy, and the young college students in the room with me and I were joking that the music accompanying the images made us think we should have brought our glow sticks for the rave that was occurring.

But then, of course, they had to show us what the product was after that process. With just the Pannekoeken in my stomach the small glass hit me swiftly, and I walked through the rest of the tour which was gimmicky camping up the goof on my slight buzz. You could design your own bottle of beer, but I wasn’t sure how I would get it home, so I designed but didn’t purchase a bottle. Then I made a sticker of my face in one of the photo booths:

Eventually, I was even able to make a video of myself riding a bicycle through the streets of Amsterdam and singing in Dutch. I wasn’t sure what that that had to do with Heineken, but it got great laughs from my family back home.

The tour ended, of course, with two tokens to enjoy two more brews in the pub. I drank the first beer quickly and could feel it hit me even harder. Unfortunately, despite my attempts to talk to people…no one wanted to chat. One creepy looking fellow seemed to be watching me but never tried to approach. I drank my second beer quickly as well and left, feeling my utter aloneness in a country where many people didn’t speak my language.

I wandered the city, trying to find some of the restaurants that my friend had recommended for me to eat an “early” dinner. It was about seven, which is the earliest I would eat if I chose dinner times back home. By the time I wandered around and found only the saloon on the list, I settled for a restaurant near the hotel, The Majestic, knowing I couldn’t get lost on my way home.

The food was good, and it did seem like locals were eating there rather than tourists, which made me feel slightly better as I ate alone. The waitress seemed to give me a strange look, although it was probably just the beers and the long day that were skewing my mind. I ate my delicious grilled vegetables and bread and then found a gelato shop that was still open. I was so happy…at least I could have gelato. I took the cone back to my room, a Nutella gelato, and proceeded to climb into bed and rely on WiFi to connect with my family back home before I fell asleep, the light still shining into my room at 9:30 at night.

I woke up about three hours later and couldn’t get back to sleep. I was thirsty, I was scared, I cried again at my utter aloneness and wallowed at the fact that I had no friends or family that loved me enough to have come with me. After about two hours of trying to read I eventually came to terms with the fact that my family and friends did love me, I was just at a very different place in my life than they were. I was able to fall asleep lightly after that.

I awoke the next morning and walked around the city. I would usually run in the morning, but I was healing a stress fracture and had not been given the go ahead to run. The vast amount of walking I would do in the next two days was probably pushing what I should have been capable of or putting my body through.

I finished my workout and went down to the free breakfast buffet. I was so happy to find European coffee that was amazing…as well as yogurt, fruit, cereal…foods I wanted to eat. I sat and enjoyed my breakfast and the free wi-fi. I had nothing on my schedule until later in the evening. I had booked a boat cruise around the canals later in the day, thinking I may meet people to spend the evening with. I had planned to go to the Anne Frank Museum that morning, but by the time I had committed to the fact that I was going to Europe, all the tickets for that day were sold out. The space is so small that you must book in advance as only so many people can fit into the Annex at once.

I met a couple of other people at breakfast, a woman who was meeting a friend who had come from Germany to see her. The woman was there with her son, and they seemed nice enough, but definitely not people who were there looking for additional addons to their trip while they explored.  I settled on the plan that I would walk over toward the Anne Frank house to see it, and besides that was where the cruise would depart from later that day and I would know where to go.

I took a selfie with the small building containing the annex, found the spot on the canals and the very quaint Prinsengracht area which was legitimately three blocks from where I was staying and I hadn’t found yet. It was far more representative of normal life. Families biking along the canal to their daily tasks and small shops serving fresh food as well as family-owned restaurants that the tourists weren’t patronizing. Amidst this quiet life stood the glass windows of the Anne Frank Museum and one pancake house aimed at the tourists. Beyond that, Noordekerk stood in her majesty, and I was taken back to the moments in Anne’s diary where she marked the time of day by the toll of its tower clock. Even without the ability to visit the Annex, I was experiencing some of what this iconic girl had so many years ago.

In a rather reflective state, I wandered back around the shops and streets I had walked the day before. What I hadn’t realized was how hot it was going to be in Amsterdam. I thought the previous day had simply been an anomaly, but the heat continued. For some reason, when I left, it was forecast to be pleasant in the mid-70s Fahrenheit. It may have been that, but the sun was so strong, and we were so far north of the equator that soon I was dehydrated and thirsty and sunburned. I grabbed lunch and made my way back to the hotel to use WiFi before my boat excursion that afternoon.

Rehydrated and cooler, and dressed a little cooler too, I made my way to the boat. I had opted by chance, through Viator, for a cruise operated by Flagship Amsterdam.  As a lake girl, I assumed there would be a lovely breeze as the boat progressed through the canals.

There was not. Duh, Bridget. No wake…

There were also no trees shading the canals as the sun beat down on the open prey in the boats. It was hot.

But there were a few entertaining rich daddies’ girls with their stoner boyfriend that were fun to talk as they got wasted, who insisted on sitting under parasols the cruise offered. There was also a duo of sisters from Switzerland that were there and despite the heat we enjoyed the cruise around the city, seeing the second smallest house as well as the most expensive properties…and listening to the bartender talk about the best cafés to get weed with the Simple Life wannabees.

It was amusing, and yet by the end I knew that I was not meeting anyone with whom I would be dining that night. Disembarking, I walked back to the hotel and chose to change for dinner. It was still earlyish—6:30 by the time I left the hotel—but I didn’t know where I would go. I decided to walk toward the rail station that I would have to depart from to take the train to Paris in two days. It, as everything seemed to be, was only a few long blocks away from the hotel although I hadn’t walked my way down there. Along the way I stopped into souvenir shops trying to find a cross and cookbook iconic of the country. I had already secured amongst my meanderings in the Bloemenmarket a bag of tulip bulbs to bring home and plant.

I developed ideas as I browsed, but the majority of the stores were kitschy and selling marijuana related products – not exactly representative of my trip.

Finally, I found one of the restaurants that my friend had recommended and I still felt as though it was too early to eat. But right across the street was a place called Tony’s Chocolonely Bar, and directly beneath the dessert bar was a place that you could create and personalize a chocolate bar. I had seen Tony’s at the Target store back home, and my father is a chocolate connoisseur, so I decided he needed one of these bars. After ordering it and securing that I would pick it up later I went to dinner at The Grasshopper across the street and sat on the canal pier and ordered my food and beer. I was slightly more confident on my second night of dining alone, and ever grateful for the WiFi the Dutch so willingly shared. I enjoyed my meal and decided to grab my chocolate and find Gelato before the ice cream places closed. Note to ice cream store owners: Don’t close so early! I want it as dessert after dinner. A little walk from place to place and then a cone to take back with me and enjoy in bed.

This has been a public service announcement to you.

Thank you.

The next day I sat at breakfast and tried to take care of some financial things going down back home, wanting to insert myself into the conversation of the group across the room. I refrained, as I could tell they were trying to figure some things out for the day and one of the members of the party wasn’t apparently feeling well.

Finally, the time came for me to grab my stuff and set out for the Van Gogh Museum. I had booked a time online, and I was very glad I had as people were being turned away at the door. I grabbed an English audio guide and began the tour. I am not a huge museum person. I am not great at immersing into the idiosyncrasies of an individual artist, but the Van Gogh exposition was so well done, suddenly I found myself looking at the brush strokes and identifying how he was changing and adapting his styles to his contemporaries and surroundings. I was drawn in and perused all the works and listened to all the audio commentary. Ironically, I glimpsed across the galleries both the sisters from Switzerland and Simple Life wannabees, with boyfriend in tow looking a little worse for wear after a night of partying.

Perhaps it was the heat outside or maybe it was the beauty and the narratives of the works, but I stayed at the museum longer than I thought I would. I then wished I would have bought a ticket to the Rikjsmuseum. But alas, I had not. Instead of staying in the air conditioning in the continually steamy Amsterdam, I went to Albert Cuyp Market, another recommendation from my friend. It was a market, filled with swap meet items as well as food and fresh Stroopwafels. I found a little place that sold just pieces, so I tried fresh Stroopwafel.  I was slightly underwhelmed, as they smelled simply amazing. I was expecting something more like a waffle cone, but it wasn’t as delicious.

I finally sat and ate something better and cooler, yogurt and had a coffee at Starbucks. I had an hour or so until my final scheduled outing in Amsterdam, a cheese tasting at Henri Willig’s. I was still trying to secure a cookbook, but I had developed an idea for a cross. I was going to buy a porcelain cross at Heinen Delfts Blauw. It was supposedly a very classic Dutch pattern and I felt it would at least represent some of their culture, if not their faith…or lack of. I knew where the store was that I needed to go, so I was able to find the cross I wanted. I hadn’t realized the store was two buildings and I was almost disappointed after scouring one half and not finding what I was looking for.  Upon crossing to the second building, I found exactly what I was looking for. I walked quickly back to the hotel and stowed the cross and made my way to the correct Henri Willig cheese store, as there seemed to be one on every corner.

There were maybe fifteen people that were on the cheese tasting adventure, and we were led up a rickety staircase above the cheese store to a small tasting room. There were four long tables spread out with five stools at each. As I was alone, I walked to the farthest table to make room for others as they came in. There was a gentleman in his fifties already sitting there and a gal that seemed to be about five to ten years younger than me. I asked if I could join them, and they invited me to take a seat. I assumed they were together, perhaps a father and daughter duo on a trip. However, it turned out they were not. The man was a professor of economics at George Washington University and the woman was a PR specialist. She was on a trip with her boyfriend who happened to be allergic to milk. Coming to a cheese tasting literally could have killed him, she joked.

We were joined from a final man from Morocco and the four of us were delivered drinks, wines or beers that were made at the cheese farm, to taste with the cheese flight. After a brief video outlining the rise of Henri Willig as a cheese producer, we were delivered our first “taste” of the cheese. Legitimately, the portions each of us was provided for “tasting” made up an individual cheese platter. We tasted the first goat cheese gouda with apples as the accompaniment to bring out the flavors.

The second cheese was a pesto gouda that didn’t actually have pine nuts in it but was my favorite. He recommended eating it with fig jam, but I wasn’t sold. It was delicious on its own. There were two other cheeses that really didn’t stand out to me, the last being served with a glass of port as a dessert cheese. I tasted each but couldn’t figure out how I could fit any of the cheese rounds in my luggage to get them home. I could have it shipped; however, the cost wasn’t going to be worth it. Instead of cheese as I left my tasting, I purchased a small cheese slicer and server. I decided it was worth it.

I decided, as it was only four, to wander back to the hotel and change and access the WiFi before heading out to attempt to find last minute souvenirs. The Lego store down the road had amazing VanGogh kits or I could even design little Lego guys for my nephews that attempted to look like them. Again, I wasn’t sure how I would carry it all to Paris the next day and then home.

Finally, I set out to find a friend of a former classmate who apparently worked retail in town. I got to the store that the guy apparently worked at, and the gal working had no idea who I was talking about. So, I left and headed to Cannibale Royale the restaurant that I had searched for the first night and couldn’t find. I had finally figured out where the recommendation was and wanted to try it before I left. The place was full, which I had expected it would be as I knew it was small. There was no waiting for a seat at the bar. I decided I would sidle up to the bar, which had four or five stools.

 I slid into a spot next to a solo young woman and when I spoke English we chatted briefly. I tried to start a conversation, hoping to make a friend. She was an administrator at a school in Colorado and was also traveling alone. She had just arrived in Amsterdam from Paris, and I said that I was leaving tomorrow. We chatted a little about books, school, and our solo travel and then when her food came, she finished it and asked the bartender for a place for a drink and left. She didn’t seem as though she wanted to have any company nor any further connection with me at all, so I was once again left on my own.

 My food came and a second glass of wine. I savored my meal and then decided to wander around the shops and Dam Square near my hotel one last time before grabbing my gelato and heading back to the room.

For my third night in Amsterdam and Europe I had trouble sleeping and woke up in the middle of the night. I also awoke and was terribly lonely yet again. I calmed myself enough to sleep, convincing myself that Paris would be better.

The next morning, I took a final walk along the canals in Amsterdam and returned once again to the hotel to remain and use WiFi as long as I could before I had to head to the train station for my train to Paris. As I was sitting at my table checking some last-minute items, a group of people my parents’ age came in and sat near me.

There was one woman who seemed to have some mobility issues who was looking for a banana. I asked the woman working if there were more and she arranged to find some. They were obviously American, and I couldn’t help but overhear as the group, who reminded me of my parents’ friends who they knew from years in the IEEE EMC Society and going to multiple Symposia over the years. They were coming together from their various locales across the states and reuniting after a break from each other.

I overheard one woman mention, Minnesota and I started.

“Minnesota,” I blurted, “Where in Minnesota? I am from Minnesota!”

She replied that she wasn’t, but another woman whipped towards me. “I am! I am from Orr, Minnesota! Do you know where that is?”

“I sure do,” I said, “My dad is from Grand Rapids, Minnesota originally, but we live in Lindstrom, now.”

She came over and sat herself across from me at my table, and I closed my laptop. She couldn’t remember exactly where Lindstrom was, and I explained that it was about ten miles from the Wisconsin border. She asked if it was near Chisago, and I said that as a matter-of-fact Chisago was a mile away and I was actually a teacher at Chisago Lakes High School which caters to both towns.

They had just been in Chisago about a week before they left on their trip visiting a friend in assisted care during rehab from a fall.

“Parmly?” I asked.

She turned to her husband, and he nodded.

“Ha,” I chortled, “Mom takes communion over there every week.”

They had been visiting a man with a very prominent Chisago last name, Freeman, and I wondered if that was the ex-husband of a woman I served on a committee with back home as the woman and I visited until their group had to move on to their agenda for the day. They were going on a cruise around Norway but had flown into Amsterdam the day before and were going to see the Anne Frank House that day while they were there. I almost asked if they had a spare ticket since one of their party members didn’t seem to be with them at breakfast, but I had a train to catch that was prepaid and I wanted to make sure that I could get to Paris that day.

I was sad that I had met this group on my last day as they were the kindest travelers I had met thus far on my journey.

The breakfast was closing, and I had to check out and leave my bags at the hotel until my train left. I mapped my route to the train station as I would be lugging my suitcase on the walk later, discovered where I would have to go to catch my train and perused the overly incensed souvenir shops filled with marijuana leaves.  I eventually found an adorable bookstore directly diagonally from me on the Dam Square that I hadn’t even seen in my few days here. It was still amazing to me how many little turns and twists and adorable places there were in Amsterdam that were so tricky to find.

Finding nothing, or at least nothing in English, I took my suitcase and made the walk to the train station to wait. I went through the gate assuming that I would be able to get from gate to gate. I found a little gift shop and I found a cookbook I liked a lot…in Danish.

I asked if they had it in English, even though I knew the answer. After further investigation, it seemed to be a small publisher and they hadn’t translated the book yet. Deciding I would find my lunch for the train, I hopped from little convenience shop to convenience shop and found yogurt and a crappy cappuccino. I took the escalator up to the train, which was not boarding yet. After standing around I discovered I could get to the other entrance area for trains down the opposite staircase. I knew there was a Starbucks over there, so I ditched the crappy convenience store coffee and got myself a cold brew instead. I was cutting it close to my boarding time, but I wasn’t worried. Until I realized the up escalator was broken and I had to lug the suitcase and my overflowing day bag and the cup of coffee to the platform.

I felt like a rock star at the top. That’s right I did it without spilling on a stress fracture in my pelvis. Boom. By the time I sat in my seat I was feeling pretty darn proud of myself, especially when no one sat next to me. The traveler next to me and I were both traveling alone, and he said, we will see how filled it gets in Bruges.

I had forgotten we had a stop there.

Train travel impressed me with its WiFi and lack of seat belts and ease in storing my items. My overflowing day bag was tricky to shove under the seat in front of me when the seat next to me eventually was filled but I enjoyed my coffee and did my little Internet games and eventually enjoyed my lunch as I wound my way through the beautiful countryside towards Paris.

The train slowed as we approached, and I couldn’t even begin to describe the giddiness I was feeling. I had never felt the need to go to Paris as SO many tourists did. But I hadn’t seen it; this was new! When I entered the train station from the train, I was a bit overwhelmed. Gar du Nord is the major hub for international rail in the city. When I was first pondering what I would do when I arrived, I thought I might walk over to Montmarte and the Moulin Rouge but I was so overwhelmed upon arrival I decided to simply get a cab and get to my hotel.

The wait for cabs was interesting and I stood in the line for several minutes watching the cabs fill with those in front of me. Then a cab that didn’t look like the others pulled up and the driver began to dispute loudly with the man directing people to cabs. The distributor gestured for me to ride in the cab, skipping over the family of five with the father complaining loudly in English about not having a cab and me being given this random arrival.

My driver was not a great English speaker, but we determined where we were going to go when I showed him the address.

He proceeded to point out to me all the different places to shop that I had no budget to shop in. Eventually he was able to locate my hotel, which was hidden in a business district known as Grenelle. It was not as close to the tower as the name, Mercure Paris Eiffel Grenelle had indicated. However, I was pleased to enter a clean hotel with an excellent English-speaking host and check in.

I unpacked in my home away from home for the next few days and then went to find the iconic Eiffel Tower. It is amazing to me how I was within blocks of the Eiffel Tower, and yet as soon as I stepped down to the street, I couldn’t find it! I hadn’t really made a route when I had access to the Internet as I figured “Oh, it’s the Eiffel Tower, I will be able to see it.”

Wrong.

I wandered down the cute streets of the neighborhood, but once again I would learn that in Europe these little streets were everywhere, and I happened to pick a residential area. Finally, I started following the masses of tourists and located the Eiffel Tower. It was a mad house of tourists and hockers trying to sell chintzy “I Love Paris” everything as well as light up Eiffel Towers.

I took the obligatory selfie and then walked across the Seine where there were even more crappy souvenir stands trying to dump cheap crap on the poor parents who thought it was a good idea to bring their kids here. Climbing the stairs to the Trocadero where I traded with some teenage girls to take pictures of each other in front of the tower. Of course, we were all squinting because we were facing the setting sun that was still two hours away at 8:00 o’clock at night. I meandered my way back towards my hotel slowly, taking in the madhouse and looking at the cafes I passed. I could tell many of them were aimed at tourists because of the proximity to the Tower. They promised crepes at each. I walked by these in my snobbery, assuming the food would be subpar.

I ended up near my hotel, and there were several cafes surrounding the location, so I decided to go and check them out. The menus were all in French, of course, so narrowing my selection was limited to my minimal French and the ambience of the establishment. Plus, I really, really wanted a Nicoise Salad.

I chose a small little bar, Les Prolongations, with a beautiful outdoor seating area wrapped in ivy strung lattice. I sat down and the man came over who was serving. I asked if there was an English menu and from that moment on it all went downhill. Of course, there was not, and then I asked if there was WiFi. There was not. The French were not as generous with their access to information as the Dutch. I ordered a red wine and drank it thirstily, as I had been walking around Paris most of the night. I realized within seconds that sitting outside in Paris also meant second hand smoke, as everyone around me lit up and the air was fouled with tobacco smoke.

Without Internet or anyone to talk to, and nothing to watch but people smoking, I drank my wine quickly and waited for the waiter to come back. He went to both of the other tables. He was ignoring me. I was tired, I was hungry, and I had just drunk a glass of wine.  When I attempted to signal him and he ignored me, I couldn’t help but begin to cry. The tears just came. I wasn’t sobbing; I wasn’t heaving. The tears simply streamed silently; I couldn’t control them.

It was then that he came back, and I could tell by the look on his face that now he suddenly felt like an asshole. I almost felt better—he was that French stereotype of rude to Americans. I am naturally a friendly and outgoing person, and I simply don’t understand the need to treat others poorly. I gave him Euros and said “Merci” and left. I walked up and down the blocks I had been over before attempting to calm down and still in need of food. Finally, I simply went back to the place right next to my hotel, Bistro Dupleix.

I sat down as twilight was folding into night and the waiter came over full of life. He said “Bon nuit” and I asked if they had an English menu. He said “Yes,” in English and grabbed one for me. I apologized and he went on to say that he loved getting to practice his English and asked where I was from. He brought me a basket of bread and another glass of wine and sipped. I ordered an omelet and salad and enjoyed my very late and French meal as the waiter popped in and spoke to me in English. There was also WiFi and I was able to look into a few ideas for the future as well.

The waiter was amazing and made up for the jerk at the last place by giving me ice cream to go back to the room.  He scooped chocolate ice cream into a coffee cup, and I took it back to the room and climbed into bed to enjoy.  He had saved my overall impression of Paris with his kindness.

The next morning, I woke and enjoyed the breakfast in the breakfast room.  It wasn’t as good as the spread in Amsterdam, but the coffee was incredible.

Nespresso, I give in.  You are amazing.

 Then I plotted my route towards St. Michele and Notre Dame.  I had an afternoon tour scheduled but wanted to wander around St. Michele first.

I had booked a Seine River Hop-On Hop-Off Sightseeing Cruise ticket for the day and decided to catch the boat, which boarded down by the river at the Eiffel Tower. I knew my way from my walk the previous night and exercise along the Seine that morning. I made my way and waited with the families that were already there to catch the boat and begin the tour of Paris from the river view.

Taking that tour was a little misleading to me based on the proximity of items within Paris. Although the boat made frequent stops, it was the most direct route to most of the sites around Paris. It made sense, the city was built around the river.

I exited the boat at the Notre Dame stop amidst a slight drizzle. I had an umbrella but wasn’t terribly anxious to pull it out. I climbed the stairs to street level, and the site before me restored my faith in the beauty everyone claimed was in Paris. The small cafes and shops dotting the streets were filled on a Saturday morning with both locals and tourists. I started wandering and taking in the surroundings, stumbling across a small pop-up market under the fountain of St. Michele where I was to meet my tour later. I perused the fresh cheeses and the macarons and handmade items – although I wasn’t sure that I wanted any of the items they were selling. They were the same types of goods I found at small markets in the United States, besides the cheese and macarons of course. But those wouldn’t travel well.I finally wandered over to Shakespeare and Company, an Internet sensation that I wanted to visit. Obviously, many others had also read what I did on the interwebs.  There was a line just to get into the small shop. I had only read that it was a place not to miss. When I read the history of the shop, I was so glad I had made the stop. The bookshop had often held discussions with some of the great writers of The Lost Generation, including Ernest Hemingway whose prose I adored. In fact, the owner would give shifts to the struggling writers and places to sleep when they were especially down on their luck. Outside the store, there was a chalkboard that now held creative sayings but at one point had worked as a message board for the writing community of St. Michele.

Inside the store I found a quaint collection of books, and of course there were a few kitschy items as well. I was taken with the attempt to find a French cookbook to take home and add to my collection. Of course, I found one that was hardcover, and I couldn’t possibly fit in my luggage to bring home. I bargained that I could order it off Amazon and settled on purchasing instead a journal with an Oscar Wilde quote that I loved from “The Importance of Being Earnest” (“I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read on the train”). Having come off my train travel the day before it seemed appropriate. I also purchased a booklet of Shakespeare’s sonnets for my classroom and a history book of the store to add to my travel tomes. My final purchase was a book of poems for Notre Dame as that was the goal of my venture to the area.

It started to rain harder as I meandered my way along the other shops on the roux, and I found my failsafe, Starbucks to be able to sit and grab a yogurt and coffee. My family often jokes that the Starbucks logo is like my bat signal, I can spot it from anywhere and I will go. It felt extremely un-French, but I needed something light before my tour, and I needed WiFi and a bathroom…and of course more coffee. Always more coffee. So, I went to my home away from home and ordered the usual and headed to the second floor of the café to use the bathroom, eat and figure out where I was supposed to meet my tour.

When I went downstairs, the line had grown and looking out the window I knew it was because the rain had increased. I popped my umbrella and headed back to the St. Michele fountain I had located right in the center of the market. There were a few tours meeting there, and I finally figured out which group was mine. The guide pointed out a couple of men in their fifties and said they would be on the tour with me. I stood by them and eventually started chatting with them. They were brothers, one from Florida and the other from Montana. One of the brothers had been to England earlier in the week for business and had convinced his brother to come on the trip and travel after.

They were a riot to chat with and they told me about the train strike in London from their own experience. Apparently, finding a cab had been a nightmare. They also told me they went to Abbey Road to mimic the Beatles iconic album cover. I also discovered that the brother who had business to do hadn’t brought his wife, and I am not sure that decision went over too well by the razzing his brother was subjecting him to about the decision. I told him he was going to have to head over to the fancy Paris shops and get her something really good.

Eventually, our guide huddled the rest of the group together with our umbrellas amid the busy market and began our tour. She was trying to give us some of the history of the students who had resided amid the neighborhoods of Ste. Michele.

Stopping alongside a cheese purveyor, he began calling louder about his cheeses, competing with the group blocking his stand. The guide and hawker had words and then she wrapped up talking about the history of the Latin Quarter and we made our way across the street and Seine to the outskirts of the Île de la Cité and the reconstruction of Notre Dame. When I had booked the tour, I was hoping we would be able to at least get closer to the cathedral than those who hadn’t. Sadly, that was not the case. After fire had broken out in the monument in 2019 most of the wooden interior had burned and about 1/3 of the roof. The process to restore her was slow and recently the elevated levels of lead in 6000 children at schools downstream from the work had delayed the restoration.

The tour, which I again booked through Viator because the company always has affordable, unique options, was operated by Memories France and the guide knew an incredible amount of history.  We made our way from the barriers around Notre Dame. And headed towards the Conciergerie.  The the Île de la Cité had been the center of politics during the Marie Antoinette Era. The Conciergerie was where business was often conducted and, eventually, where Marie Antoinette’s imprisonment was held. It was fascinating to find out that the site had originally been a chicken market and that The Conciergerie had originally housed the police, which why in France the police are called poulet. 

Of course, the building was built on an island and so it was often flooded, and we could see where the kitchen and other areas were marked by the flood waters. The rooms of Marie Antoinette’s imprisonment weren’t terribly impressive, but the stories our guide would tell about her knitting within the room while the women outside would sit and knit and try and watch her painted a different idea of the infamous prisoner. She was doing the very same thing the ordinary women were doing, and yet of course, she was judged for her extravagance.

Walking away from the The Conciergerie, we emerged into a beautiful flower market hidden among the older buildings. The brothers on the tour considered buying this for the one’s wife and I reiterated that I didn’t think that was going to cut it.

We were rushed through by our guide as we had a scheduled time to view, what I feel is a hidden gem of Paris, Sainte Chapelle. We were asked to go through security, as we had been at The Conciergerie. We had more security at The Conciergerie since the final trial of the Paris Metro bombers was being held there; it was not that day, as it was a Saturday, however, they were still taking cautions.

Sainte Chapelle was originally built in 800 and drew inspiration for its design from the palace of Charlemagne. The two levels of the chapel were severely different. The upper level, where the sacred relics were kept was reserved exclusively for the royal family and you could see the difference. Constructed in only four years, the domed ceiling of the upper chapel was completely encased in stained glass windows telling different biblical stories.

It was beautiful and mind boggling to realize how quickly it had been constructed!

After the ornate beauty of Sainte Chapelle, we were supposed to tour a bridge from the island. However, many of the families that had been on the tour had already departed, as it had been a long afternoon. I chose, rather than see the bridge, to head back to the  Hop-On Hop-Off Boat to start the journey back towards my hotel. It was time to take a load off and figure out what I would do the rest of the day. Had I been younger, and had the boat run longer into the night, I might have hopped off at some of the other destinations around the city. Many of them were already on my agenda, so I chose instead to go back to the hotel and figure out where I would go to Mass the following morning, as my great plan to attend Notre Dame for the Saturday evening Mass was not going to happen. Looking around my small Grenelle neighborhood churches, it didn’t seem as if there was one open that would have a Saturday evening Mass either.

I had planned, for the following day, to visit Montmarte and the Moulin Rouge. The Basilica  of Sacre Coeur which was perched on top of the highest hill in Montmarte was perhaps the second most iconic Catholic Church after Notre Dame in Paris. I found that there would be a Mass celebrated the following day, the Feast Day of The Sacred Heart of Jesus, at 11:00AM. That seemed as if it would work. I would be able to grab breakfast, and still be able to take the Metro all the way out to the closest stop. I plotted my route to the church and then decided it was time for a glass of wine.

I decided to wander farther from neighborhood I had tried last night and went two blocks in the direction of the Eiffel Tower.  There were a few restaurants on smaller streets that seemed to straddle the gap between local and touristy, and I chose one called Comptoir Principal. I got a glass of wine, salad, and fish and bread and it was lovely. The service was fast, almost too fast, and then I wandered back towards my hotel. I thought about asking my dear server from the night before for ice cream, but a search of the area showed there was a pizza place three short blocks from the hotel that had ice cream.  I walked to Amalfi and asked for ice cream to go; they even had peppermint chocolate chip, my favorite! The girl was quick, friendly, spoke English and became my daily go to for a sweet end to the day.

I called it a slightly earlier night as I was on a schedule tomorrow morning.

I awoke and secured my Metro ticket and route while I ate my breakfast before departing for Mass at  Sacre Coeur. The ride went fairly smooth, even with three transfers, and I emerged up a TON of stairs to the closest station to the Basilica.  I knew it was the exit based on the signs placed along the route, but I had no idea where I was going as I walked the adorable streets. I did know that it was at the top of the hill, so I just kept going uphill.

I started to follow larger groups of people, and eventually the beautiful giant emerged before me. I was rushing, trying to get to Mass on time and when I got there, I saw…the line. I was already within minutes of Mass starting and the line was wrapped around the entire front of the church. In addition, you had to go through a security screening.

My heart sank. I wasn’t going to make Mass. I stood at the end of the line despite this knowledge, and within moments the line began to move rapidly. Screening was quite quick, and then I was into the church where the ushers were asking if visitors were there for Mass or not. I was there for Mass and was ushered into the seating area where I slid into a pew just as the Archbishop was reciting the Penitential Rite.  I was breathing heavily but began to pray. I was in the back, and it was hard not to be torn the from Mass in French to the tourists that were allowed to stream around the outside of the Basilica as we celebrated.

When I had gone to Mass at the Pantheon, they had paused all visitors during the Mass. This was a far different experience. The Mass was almost an hour and a half long, which was not typical of my parish back home. After the recessional, another girl who had been sitting near me and I both streamed into the line of tourists, not sure if we were supposed to exit first or not. The church was beautiful, and the entire sanctuary centered around the most beautiful portrayal of the Sacred Heart of Jesus.

The small chapels and prayer areas around the church were also beautiful, and I was particularly taken with one dedicated to Pope John Paul II. Along the circumference of the sept there was also a gift shop. It was two tiny rooms that were crammed full of shoppers searching for holy mementos to bring home. I joined the throng. If I couldn’t get a French cross from Notre Dame, then I was definitely going to purchase one from Sacre Coeur, where I went to Mass.

As I slid along the outer walls of the first room, seriously probably a repurposed coat closet, there was a small old woman who was either Italian or Romanian? I really couldn’t tell, but her accent wasn’t French. She was pushing people out of her way in search of the trinkets she was dedicated to find for her little friends or family back home.

I finally decided on the cross that I would have represent France on my wall of global crosses at home and had made my way to the end of the line to check out. It was almost indiscernible from the line that was snaking through the store just trying to view the wares. I was near the checkout, when the little old Romanian/Italian woman simply stepped ahead of the woman in front of me to checkout. The woman looked at me, and I just kind of shrugged. The shopkeeper said something in French to the old woman but she didn’t seem to understand and we all just kind of shrugged and let her get her Saint Bracelets and depart.

Exiting the church, I was dying of thirst and ready for a break, but my sister had told me I had to see Paris from the top of Sacre Coeur. She claimed it was better than the top of the Eiffel Tower, where I was headed that evening.

I followed the sign pointing toward the dome top line which was down some stairs. This seemed counterintuitive to going to the top of the building, however, I figured perhaps there was an elevator for those who needed it and perhaps that was why it was downstairs.

Nope.

Still scratching my head at that one, because upon buying my ticket to climb to the top I saw the sign that said there were some 292 steps to the top of the tower. I was pretty sure that this little endeavor was not going to be a part of the story that I shared with my sports doctor or physical therapist treating my stress fracture.

I was behind a woman who was about my age, and she was following her husband and kids, who had taken off up the spiraling stairs. She was a little slower and asked if I wanted to pass her.

“That’s okay,” I said, “It makes me go at a good pace!”

Dizzy from the spiral staircase, we finally emerged atop the very peak of the church, crossing outdoor gardens and parapets to reach the pinnacle.  It was crowded and cramped as everyone admired all of Paris at their feet.  Everyone was trying to take selfies, apparently afraid to speak to someone else. A couple in their early sixties asked if I would take their picture, and I did. Many times. It was hard to get a good angle with the eaves shadowing their faces. Eventually, we got a shot they were satisfied with, and I was happy to have them reciprocate.

The result was great:

They were very fun to talk to, and probably the friendliest people I met on my whole trip, save the Minnesotans at breakfast in Amsterdam. I would have hung out with them had we been in different circumstances.

Instead, we passed each other a few times around the cupola and I never saw them again. The trip down the stairs went much faster than the trip up and I emerged from the staircase, and then climbed the stairs back up to street level.

It was that time in the traveler’s day where a bathroom and a drink were no longer something that were a niggling desire in the back of my head, I was dying of thirst and needed a bathroom.

I exited the grounds of the basilica and followed the hill down through the neighborhood to Montmarte. It was adorable and I was again ashamed of where I had chosen to stay, falling into the tourist trap that is the Eiffel Tower. I had no idea where I wanted to go, except the last place on my daytime adventure list for the day: The Moulin Rouge.  Iconic in my mind from my favorite movie and my curiosity piqued even more by my recent attendance at the Broadway Musical Moulin Rouge! which had originally starred one of my secret boyfriends, Aaron Tveit, it was a ride or die destination in Paris for me. I found a main-ish looking street and threw a prayer out that I was going in the right direction. I mean, I had just spent several hours at church so...it was a petty ask but I was hoping it would be heard.

Eventually, on my dogged quest to find it I spotted the eternal red windmill in my path. And, of course, right across the street my Bat Sign: Starbucks.

I took my selfie, I was not attending a show alone, and relished the fact that I had made it after 21 years. However, there was no Christian looking for a divorced Catholic English teacher from America hanging out at Starbucks, where I grabbed a cold brew and used the bathroom and WiFi after the photo shoot.

I wasn’t exactly sure, after that, what to do in Montmarte. I wandered from tourist shop to tourist shop and then stumbled upon a cemetery that was built into the hill. The graves of Degas, Toulouse Lautrec, and Dumas were all hidden among the old tombs. I didn’t investigate that far as to find them, although when you follow the crowds you could easily see big name burial places. It was simply another reminder of the artistic community that called Montmarte home.

Eventually, I decided to take the Metro back to the hotel to upload photos, use the WiFi and get dressed to go to the top of the Eiffel Tower.

My tour that evening was meeting at the tourist agency, and I had a heck of the time actually locating the History Group. I was glad that I set out early because by the time I actually found the place it was rather small and I probably would have walked right by had I been in a rush.

There was a large group made of mostly families that were standing around waiting to make the journey on our Skip the Line Tour with Priority Access and Guide. There were also two sisters that were on the tour that were fun to talk to. They were American and one of the sisters had been studying abroad for the semester and her sister had joined her at the end for a little bit of traveling around Europe. They had just gotten in that morning but were hitting up the Eiffel Tower right away.

We eventually were given stickers to mark which tour group we were on and our pseudo tour guide, who was taking us to the actual tour guide made us introduce ourselves to each other before setting off at a fast trot to the foot of the tower.

We were introduced to our new guide who would ascend with us in the tower. He was trilingual and spoke quickly in English as we walked just as quickly toward the tower. He reminded me of the comedic lampoon of a tour guide I had seen in a high school Speech competition as he buzzed through stories of the Eiffel Tower having been sold by a criminal in the past as we trailed quickly behind him. We were crammed into elevators after a short wait, thanks to our skip the line status.

On the second floor, we were evacuated from the elevator, as all visitors were. The guide told a few facts about the stairs and height and history of the tour, including a tale about an Elephant making its way up and having to be removed. Then, abruptly, he said something to the effect of, “The elevator to the top viewing floor is over there. Stay with me and I will get you on the elevator and thank you for using our tour service.”

We walked over got on the elevator and that was the end of the tour. It was primarily just a fast pass to skip the crowds. It was fine, although I would have liked more time to meet the people on the tour. Instead, I roamed around and took in the view below, trying to pick out the places I had seen in the past two days.

Finally, I decided, “Yep, I am high up. Yep, that’s Paris. Yep, I saw this earlier today too and it seemed prettier.”

But “when in Paris” I decided I would get a glass of Champagne at the Champagne bar. I cheersed with myself and took a few sips, dumped the rest, and made my way out.

It was an entirely forgettable tour.

Setting out alone again, I passed the hawkers with a French air of dismissal and decided to meander back toward my hotel by a route I didn’t know. I stumbled upon a grouping of restaurants and once again searched for a Niçoise Salad, to no avail. I chose a cute little place where the hostess turned out to be American, Trente Huit. The food was decent, but nothing to scream about and I enjoyed my fish and salad and bread with a glass of wine. There was no WiFi, and my skepticism about the places that had said they didn’t have it was allayed slightly. The hostess even told me she had asked the café next door to use theirs during her break.

I made my way back to the hotel, with a detour to Amalfi where my new best friend hooked me up with the same—my usual four scoops of Peppermint Bon Bon to go. It was an earlier night in, but I was exhausted from travel and my uphill climb that morning. In addition, my tour of the Louvre scheduled for the following day had been rescheduled to 9:30AM the following morning rather than the 11:00 AM I had booked with Paris - Walks via Viator, and I wasn’t sure where I was going. My directions to join the Louvre Highlights Tour: Mona Lisa, Venus de Milo, and Crown Jewels were quite in depth to the point of confusing for a someone who had never been to the Louvre. 

In my naivete, I had no idea what the Arc de Triomphe de Louvre Carousel mentioned in the directions referred to. I was looking for a huge arch that was an iconic tourist attraction when I arrived off the Metro the next next day. When I arrived at the iconic pyramid, to a newbie to the  Louvre something I deemed iconic, I didn’t see anyone. I was ten minutes earlier than the meeting time of 9:15AM. I assumed I was in the wrong place. I figured I was in the wrong place and I walked to the very far end of Tuileries Gardens and realized no one was there either. Realizing my time was drawing near to meet the guide, and afraid they would leave without me, I almost ran back to the other end. I was exhausted and hot already, and when I returned there were group signs all over the small arch in front of Louvre, which I finally determined was the Arc de Triomphe de Louvre Carousel.  I could not find my name on any of the lists. I couldn’t help it—I was afraid I had missed my tour. Tears began to fill my eyes. A kind tour guide helped me to read my directions and pointed me to an area away from the Arc de Triomphe and said my tour was there.

I was trying to remain calm, but the stupid tears of relief and exhaustion and stress just kept brimming. My sweet tour guide, Lidiia, was reassuring that we were still waiting for people and that I wasn’t late. It wasn’t 9:30AM yet. She asked where I was from and I said Minnesota. She said, “Ah, we have another family here from Minnesota.”

I couldn’t believe the odds, really, and began chatting with four of them. They lived in Eagan and their son was about the same age as my friend’s son. I threw out his name, and he said it sounded familiar...a true feat for such a large school! The mom and I chatted, and it was the longest conversation I had had in a week. It was casual and felt at ease, and we were hard to cut off as Lidiia began our entrance to the Louvre.

She ushered us past the iconic glass pyramid in the distance to the escalator down to the mall area and entrance to the museum. I had been completely unaware until I arrived that morning via the Metro that there was a mall attached to the Louvre. Who knew. Lidiia scanned us through the ticket line and then showed us the “secret” skip the line bathrooms we could use for having a skip the line tour.

I am pretty sure they aren’t secret, but they were the largest that I encountered during my visit to the museum, and they were empty except for our group. After the pit stop, we made our way through security and began to clip our way through the tour. We began at the base of an old castle on which the museum site was built. The actual bricks were made in medieval times, and it was such a mind blowing experience to be there with them. The Medieval Louvre, or Castle Louvre, bricks sported mason’s marks indicating where they were created. It reminded me of reading Ken Follet’s The Pillars of the Earth about the construction of a cathedral. Of course, the first instinct of all of us on the tour was to want to touch the stones, but Lidiia warned that it was not allowed. After the warnng, she explained that the oils from human touch would wear away the stones more quickly, it made sense. It was still hard to resist...

She quickly moved us beyond the Medieval Louvre to The Winged Victory of Samothrace which I had never heard of...as I am assuming none of the other members of our group had either.

It was stunning and created the Stairway to Victory where we stayed for a few moments attempting to listen to the history, which I am afraid I missed much of, although I could soak in the intensity of the victory via the statue itself.

I made my way toward where she was standing, while allowing us to roam.  I inquired about her family and she, thankfully, said that they were all safe and lived far away from the border where the fighting was heaviest.  She thanked me for asking and stated that people on tours had been so supportive. I tried to express to her that we truly were behind her country and rejected Vladimir Putin’s claim to the land fully.

Moving on to the gallery just outside the specific room for Mona Lisa we saw paintings of the contemporaries of DaVinci. The painting that struck me and was my favorite was The Fortune Teller by Caravaggio. The painting depicts a woman reading a man’s palm. At first you assume she is flirting or scamming the man, but Lidiia’s explanation of the painting indicated that she was doing more than scamming him. If you look closely, she is actually stealing the ring off the man’s finger. Had I not had a guide, I would have totally missed this fine detail.

We had lost several people from the tour upon our proximity to the Mona Lisa. They used the guide to get there quickly and then ditched.

I followed Lidiia closely into the crowded room that resembled a mosh pit. Instead of steering us toward the mosh, she had us focus on the wall opposite the famous lady.

The painting, which was the entire span of the wall, was titled “The Wedding at Cana” by Veronese. It was another painting I had never heard of, but the story of how it had come to France was nuts. It was stolen under the orders of Napoleon from an island in Venice.

I could not imagine smuggling the canvas, even rolled, out of a building without being noticed – it was the size of a wall! But it had been done and was yet another bit of knowledge I would never have known without the tour guide.

Finally, we were set to queue for the main attraction: the Mona Lisa

People were budging in line, disrupting what remained of our tour group as we slowly made our way toward the absolute chaos along the rope to view the painting.  People were crammed next to each other with not a fear of COVID-19 anywhere. At last, I made it to the back of the scrum and, as I was small and alone, was able to maneuver my way almost to the front. Unfortunately, I was right behind a group of teenagers that had to Snap the picture with the Mona Lisa individually to everyone they knew while they were there. Security eventually moved them out, and I slid as close as I could to see the painting.  There was no appreciation as there had been for the other works, it was just mass hysteria. Although, I was able to pull off one close picture to be able to view later.

Security finally came around asking if people were done, and I was able to duck under the line and escape the mosh pit. I met Lidiia on the other side of the wall where the great lady was displayed, and she basically said that was the end of the tour and that most people had already left. I chatted with her about her knowledge and thanked her for an excellent tour, tipping her the remaining Euros that I had in my pocket. I was departing the next day and hoped she could use them more than I.

On my own in the Louvre, I followed the seemingly endless corridors and walked through the rest of the floor.  It was beautiful, but overwhelming without the knowledge of a guide. I decided, based on the map, to focus my attention on two collections. There was a special exhibit on Egyptian Antiquities and there was also an exhibit on Islamic Art, which I had never seen before.

Twisting and turning my way through the museum, I found the Islamic Art. It was both beautiful and fascinating. I was taken with, of course, the severe lack of deitific icons. But the simplicity was gorgeous and telling of the culture they have. It was a unique experience in the middle of France.

I kind of breezed through the Egyptian Antiquities, having seen a traveling exhibit in America at another point. But it rekindled my desire to travel to Egypt eventually. I was planning South Africa for when I turned 50 in eight years...maybe 55?

I finally decided to call it quits. My brain was just fried, and I was dying of thirst, and really needed a bathroom. 

I eventually found my way to the main vestibule and immediately bought an overpriced water and used the bathroom, before deciding to try and grab another coffee. There was a Starbucks in the Louvre Carousel so I decided to wander my way over there, happy to have a no brain decision at the moment.

I grabbed something to eat, but they didn’t have what I wanted to drink so I ate and found another and had to settle for something else, as that location didn’t have the cold brew I wanted either, so I settled for a latte which I could have gotten at any other café in Paris.

Having walked around the neighborhood near the Louvre and feeling uninspired, as it was far more metropolitan than the smaller arrondissements, I made my way back to the Metro to return to my hotel. It still seemed early, and there were people entering the Metro from different site seeing locations I hadn’t visited – like Euro Disney and Versaille – I decided I would actually go and see the Arc de Triomphe.

Without WiFi to determine my route, I studied the maps at the Metro carefully and picked the line that I would take.

Or so I thought.

In my lack of preparation and Internet, I confused the Arc de Triomphe with the Grand Arch de la Defense. I was completely confused as I emerged from the Metro station to a very modern looking business area. I realized that I was not in the right place. At least, I ventured, if I couldn’t see the Arc de Triomphe it was too far to walk to. I headed back to the Metro frustrated and defeated, I regained my gumption and figured out on the map where I was supposed to really go.

I made my way, and the people who were on the Metro with me seemed more touristy than the business folks I had been riding with out to the Grand Arch de la Defense.  I went street level upon reaching the destination, clearly labeled with Arc de Triomphe, and took a selfie. Somewhere during my trip planning someone had mentioned that the view from the top was great. I had seen enough of Paris from above between Sacre Coeur and the Eiffel Tower. I decided, woo hoo, I have seen it.  Time to head back and get ready for the long day of travel ahead of me the following day.

Packed, checked in, and ready to Charles de Gaulle Airport early in the morning with a cab scheduled through the concierge at Mercure Paris Eiffel Grenelle I decided to buy a Metro ticket to the next stop up, where I had noticed that there were more restaurants.  I exited at the La Motte—Picquet Grenelle stop and walked back and forth on Avenue de La Motte Picquet looking for a gosh darn Nicoise salad that apparently was just a French stereotype that was not true. 

I finally settled on Le Primrose Café. It had a huge patio and it was a lovely early evening, so I picked a spot outside. It was also crowded with what looked like the afterwork crowd, so I took that as a good sign.

It wasn’t an incorrect assumption, but I was eating early because of my early flight in the morning and the crowd wasn’t there for dinner. They were there for happy hour. I was that stupid American who was not there to drink wine and smoke leisurely. I wanted a leisurely dinner, but of course, the Wi-Fi stingy French didn’t have access I could use to peruse the net in preparation for my return home. I ordered a medium sized glass of wine, still concerned that I would drink a large too quickly. I also decided to splurge and order a cheese plate. Wine and cheese in France seemed like a stereotype that I had actually seen at other restaurants in the last few evenings, and even though I was alone, I should also partake in the bonding tradition.

The cheese plate came, and it was not nearly as petite as those I had seen at other restaurants. It was a year of cheese supply for me. However, the cheese was good. And as I nibbled on the varieties, along with the bread they were served with, I enjoyed the wine and cheese experience...tainted by the constant stream of tobacco smoke from every angle.

It never occurred to me when I went to France how pervasive smoking outdoors at restaurants was. A smoke and a drink seemed inseparable for many. I had observed it the first night, but it made dining outside almost unbearable at most restaurants. However, as a stupid American used to rules governing the distance that smokers had to be from the outdoor seating, I was constantly disgusted by the fouled air while trying to enjoy the summer in Paris and food and the same time.

I was just sampling the cheeses when my Nicoise salad arrived. I have to say, I was underwhelmed by the salad.  It was not as good as those I had enjoyed in the United States. But I ate it all, and some of the bread that I had to ask for to accompany it.

The few pieces of cheese I had tasted didn’t put a dent in my platter that had arrived, and the waitress as I finished the rest of my food asked if I wanted it to go. She wrapped it and sent it with me, although I was leaving the next day and wasn’t sure what I would do with it. I kept looking for the people who were in need as I walked back to the hotel, but of course they were not in this neighborhood but rather near the Seine and the Eiffel Tower where there were more tourists. I carried it back towards my hotel and stopping at Amalfi, of course, to visit my ice cream friend and tip her very well for all week. At least I hoped it was very well; she seemed pleased.

Heading up stairs, I placed the bag of cheese outside my door and hoped perhaps housekeeping could enjoy it.

Then finalizing all my details for the following early morning, I climbed into bed to eat my ice cream and sleep a little before the long day of travel ahead.

At around three that morning, sleeping restlessly as I was, I awoke to my phone screen lighting up brightly. It was an alert of from Delta that the flight had been delayed a bit. I called the front desk immediately and asked for them to change my cab time from 7 am the following morning to 7:30am. I was at least going to revel in the space that delay gave me.

About forty-five minutes later I awoke again to the bright light of the notification on my phone. The plane had been delayed again. Once again, I rolled over, grabbed the house phone and asked the front desk to change my cab to 9 am that morning. I could sleep in another hour, lessening the length of the day for my return trip.

I woke early anyway and went to go on one last walk along the Seine. I stopped at the front desk out of paranoia to double check that I had a cab coming at nine. They looked through the records and said that the cab had simply been canceled not rescheduled.

I asked them to please have a cab come at nine—thanking my urge to stop and double check.

It was the earliest I had been out walking, and I was envious of the runners who were able to do what I couldn’t. But the walk was beautiful, perhaps the most enjoyable of the trip as I walked my route and returned to the hotel to eat breakfast before meeting the cab.

I went to the lobby at 8:45, ready to go. There was another woman waiting in the lobby who was very upset, and in tears. She had been talking with the front desk in English about needing her Uber. Of course, ordering an Uber is not controlled by the hotel but she seemed very frustrated. Her voice rose and I couldn’t help but overhear her predicament.

She was supposed to be presenting in fifteen minutes at a convention and she was not going to make it on time. She was in tears and obviously quite frustrated. I wasn’t sure how long she had been in the lobby as she had been there when I arrived. However, as the time passed and there was no Uber, she was increasingly frustrated and growing irate. She asked finally that the desk order a cab.

This was just as frustrating. Not knowing the French that the people at the desk were speaking on the phone in harsh tones didn’t help her, nor me, in trying to determine if they were trying to help her.

My own departure time was growing closer and there were no cabs in sight. I double checked as I stood there that they had called a cab for me. They said they had that morning. I left it at that, but I noticed the woman behind the desk get on the phone immediately, ostensibly to ensure that there would not be two irate travelers standing in their lobby ranting.

Finally, the woman’s Uber arrived, and she rushed to the car in a panic and I wished her good luck. It was 9:25 and I was starting to panic. I wasn’t sure what Paris traffic was like on a Tuesday morning, but by the lack of cabs, I was sure it was nuts. I consulted the desk again, emphasizing the need for a cab right now.

The woman behind the desk again got on the phone and spoke in French. She took the handset in the backroom, and I could hear her sharp tone.

This did not bode well for me.

After five more minutes of waiting with no cab in sight, the host at the desk frantically making phone calls, I lost my cool.

I was going to miss my flight.

I did NOT want to be in Paris any longer, and my budget didn’t want it either.

I started going out to the street to try and wave down a cab, but the three or four that went by were all occupied. I finally went in and let the front desk know I was irate. I had them arrange a cab to avoid this very situation.

Finally, tears trying to enter my eyes, the cab arrived.

I was short with the cab driver, tense as I was, and made it very clear that I needed to be at the airport, NOW.

The Lord smiled at me a few times that hurried morning, and this guy was not afraid to drive like a boss. He maneuvered the Tesla past the rush hour traffic and circus at the Arc de Triomphe towards the freeway. I was more than a little surprised at how fast that Tesla could haul. Even at the breakneck speed, I was pushing it. Luckily, the cab was also hot spot enabled, which allowed me some access to try and check the status at the airport.

As I rushed out of the taxi, throwing him my card, he didn’t put a tip on it. I had nothing to give him, and no time to run it again.

I felt like a giant jerk, but at the same time, I waited for his company to send a taxi for forty-five minutes--so he could eat it.

I rushed into the sorting area of the terminal, as I had checked in online I simply needed to drop off my bag. I printed my bag tag at a self-kiosk and went to drop off the bag. The man directed me to another drop off farther down. I huffed and grabbed my bag and ran.  I had the same story there, where the agent pointed me to a third drop off site. I rudely pushed through the crowd in my anxiousness, not proud of my behavior but irritated by the system in place. I reached the agent who told me to go back to the first drop off site.

I let this poor man have it.

“No. That is where I started, I have been to all three sites, someone is taking my bag.”

He looked at the printed manifest he was holding as I showed him my boarding pass.

“Non,” was his reply.

He gestured to the manifest that had printed the original departure time for my flight.

“It’s already left,” he said.

I showed him the departure time on the boarding pass on my phone, “No, it was delayed.”

He flipped the printed pages uselessly and told me to go through to the Delta One agent. Relieved to maybe get some help, the man took my bag reprinted my documents and sent me to the snaking line to get through to the gates.

I was crawling to the very end, which was wrapped behind the actual airline desks when a woman came by asking for people with US Passports. I raised my hand immediately and followed her as she grabbed Canadian and American Passport holders and led us to a newly opened lane at the front of the line. I was the second person through. Almost in tears of relief and having chatted up the family behind me in line we all rushed to grab the train to our gate. We were all in high spirits as we felt more assured we would not be stranded in Paris.

Until we disembarked from the train and road the escalator to the doors that indicated our gates.

And realized that was only passport control we had made it through. We still had snaking lines of security to make it through.

There was a Priority line, and I was a Silver Medallion status on Delta, so I parted with the family and got in line. And stood there.

And stood there.

And there was zero movement.

The screen above the scanners was blinking the message that my flight was loading. I was starting to panic. Finally, we moved slowly, and I was in the second-tier line to closest to the actual agents. I was chatting with people in front of me and telling them how worried I was, and they were kind enough to let me ahead of them in line. Someone said I should go tell the man working at the front of the line, that another group had been allowed through because they were late.

I tried.

And was denied.

I went back to the place I had left my bag in line, with a sweet older couple who had plenty of time until their flight. Someone suggested I just duck under and get in line. I hesitated.

The last thing I needed was to wind up in the TSA equivalency in France while my flight returned to the US. But as the lighted screen above my head blinked boarding next to my flight I slid. I slid right under the tape and into a screening line.

So used to having TSA precheck and not needing to unpack everything and disrobe to go through security, I was not prepared for the rude woman at the desk to tell me to take out the iPad and my purse and everything in my carryon since it was so tightly packed.

Then she stopped and had to search everything, claiming I had liquid in my bag.

I knew there was no liquid in my bag.

I snapped at the woman that I was late and there was no liquid in my bag. She reprimanded me. Then found no liquid. As I haphazardly shoved my previously carefully arranged belongings back in my carry on, she was muttering to herself about how there had been a liquid, as if I had magically removed liquid just to spite her.

I am not ashamed that I glared at her and grabbed my bag and ran through the airport towards my gate, hoping the door was not shut. The family I had been visiting with on the way through passport check were also making a mad dash toward the plane.

As we neared, I saw people still outside the door and my heart started to slow. I approached and must have looked quite bedraggled as a woman looked at me and said, “We aren’t even boarding yet.”

“Are you kidding me?” I had just risked getting arrested by French TSA by sneaking under a line and we weren’t even boarding?

I quickly changed my tune. “Well, at least I can go and get a cup of coffee and use the bathroom.” I also filled up my water bottle for the return trip, knowing it would last maybe an hour onboard the plane.

When I returned the flight crew had finally begun the preboarding process and we were all mingling by the gate, ready to get this show on the road. For the majority, this was the return trip to the United States and although I was lucky enough to have a straight flight to my home airport, most of the other travelers were traveling to Minneapolis as a hub to their next flight.

I visited with some teachers and students who had been traveling around in Spain and eventually my zone was called and I boarded the plane that would take me away from this travel nightmare morning.

I was seated right behind comfort in an aisle seat on the far side of the plane. There was one seat next to me, and a super nice young guy was seated next to me. He was super polite and friendly, but not overly so. He would make a great companion across the ocean home. We were getting ourselves situated for the long flight when a man came on and took the seat across the aisle from me. Before he took his seat he crammed his carryon suitcase, which had to be pushing the limits on size, into the overhead bin.

My poor seatmate was horrified. He and his husband had bought hats on their trip to Spain that he had stowed up there so they wouldn’t be damaged. He asked if he could get up and check and I let him up, of course.

The man who was seated across the aisle was wearing a mask, although he didn’t cover his nose. He rudely got on the phone on a video call and then began to talk loudly to what I assume was his wife. He was still talking as the safety announcements came over the intercom and as we began to taxi down the runway.

My seatmate and I were glancing at each other, as if to indicate “Can you believe this guy?” Finally, the man seated next to the gentleman seemed to imply that the man needed to get off the phone. He hung up the call. Then waited as we soared into the air, my heart soaring as we left France behind from this trip, thankful to have made the flight.

Immediately after we were off the ground, the man across the aisle picked up the phone and started calling again.

The inflight Wi-Fi was not engaged for take-off, and it wasn’t legal to use cellular data to make a call either. All of us around him stared as he talked loudly with his speaker on. We were all listening as this man placated or communicated with the woman on the other end of the call. When food was served, he stowed the call and ate and fell asleep, leaving the plane in peace.

The flight was uneventful, and the flight attendant knew I got thirsty for water and was AMAZING at bringing me full bottles, even when service wasn’t out for the entire trip. I used the in-flight WiFi to surf and watched a few movies to pass the flight home. When we were about two hours out, the man across the aisle woke up and removed a large sub sandwich from his carry on. He began to eat it messily, scattering bits of the sandwich near to even my seat.

He was a trainwreck.

Finally, it was announced that we were beginning our initial approach to MSP Airport and that all devices show be turned off and returned to their storage spaces. The moment the front tire of the plan touched tarmac, the man across the aisle leapt up and opened the overhead bin above me to wrestle his suitcase from its depths.

The flight attendant, from her jump seat, where she remained buckled as per the law, indicated for him to sit down. He sat, leaving the luggage in the middle of the aisle. She called to him to put the suitcase away as he couldn’t block the aisle. He didn’t move. She finally had to unbuckle, come back, and put the suitcase up in storage for him.

There was an announcement as we taxied that when we reached the gate, we would have to stay seated as there was a situation on board. I hadn’t heard any calls for medical personnel, as I had on the flight into Amsterdam, so I was curious. So was my seatmate. We visited more throughout the flight, sharing tales of our trips. He showed me pictures of his puppies and we discussed the loss of my dog, Jem, the previous year. He had, cringily, likened my trip to an “Eat, Pray, Love” experience – which it was not.

As we waited at the gate, we brainstormed.

There was a spy on the plane that had been detained. We craned our necks to peer around the cabin, looking for sketchy suspects. We caught the eye of his husband who he had been texting and we were all then looking around the cabin with an air of mischief.

Eventually, from the back of the plan there emerged a family that looked to be Latino being escorted off the plane. We were finally greeted with the announcement that we would be able to deboard. The man across the aisle plunged up and grabbed his bag, edging to exit immediately. The surrounding passengers just watched and let the man go, ready to be rid of this traveler who seemed unaware of either flight protocol or etiquette.

I was home in Minnesota, and I was anxious to get off the plane but not in need to rush to a connection, so I was not in a terrible hurry. My time came and I stepped off the plane, followed by my seatmate. As we walked off the gangplank, the family that had been deboarded was off to the left with TSA. The young boy of about ten seemed to be translating for the parents from the TSA, and I was worried that this family was trying to get into the country and their fake ids had been flagged and they would all, including their children, be detained.

They were blocked by further gawking by extra TSA, and the rush was on to get through customs before the rest of the plane deboarded. I had to part ways with my seatmate as he was Global Entry and had a fast pass lane. The wait was brief, and I was honest and declared that I had purchased tulip bulbs in Amsterdam.

They had to be checked, of course, as agriculture so I went to an agent when my luggage came round the carousel and took the bulbs up to him. He checked for a secret symbol, that your average tourist has no concept of, and then told me I couldn’t keep them as they were not on the approved list. As a PSA to those in the future, you are looking for this symbol:

At least the agent was kind enough to take the time to explain it to me, although I wasn’t sure if he believed I got to Amsterdam all the time or not where I would need this knowledge.

I was a bit bummed, as I had toted them from the Netherlands to France and home and they were pretty bulky – but it didn’t matter.

I was home.

My mom was waiting to drive me home when I stepped out of the airport, and I was a hot mess as I dumped my bag all over the trunk getting into the car. But seated next to my mother, I leaned over and hugged her.

Traveling alone made me realize how important it was to keep those close to me in the forefront of my life. Although the trip was an adventure, it would have been far more enjoyable with a friend. I had prioritized my ambitions over having another person with me, and I now knew what that meant. The adventure doesn’t always have to be overseas, although let’s face it they are a lot more interesting, sometimes it’s right back where you started from.