Travelloggs: The Red and White Mitten

So ends the uninteresting story of the left partner to my pair of Whistler Olympic mittens. Its beginning is far less interesting than its end; and its end is the beginning of my trip to Europe.

First of all, let me say that this notion of time, i.e. hours, minutes, years, etc., causes more errors than calculably possible. Okay, yes, time is man’s creation, ergo any fault therein will be faulted to man, but still, it messes with my brain.

Day 1, December 8

I awoke at 6:00 am and went to the temple. It was wonderful, empowering, peace-infusing, so the best. I hadn’t been in over six months, so it was a blessed occurrence. I wanted to go before I left for Europe. Check.

I’d done most of the packing the day before so when it was 10:00am I was completely ready to go to the airport. My flight didn’t leave until 5:00pm. Time was dragging itself along like a zombie with its legs and one arm misplaced (that’s the creative way I’m choosing to say “slowly”...).

My friend/guy that I like/source of slight relationship drama at the moment is babysitting my car while I’m gone, so I had to drive to his house. The day before we had planned that I come by at 11:30 to have lunch and possibly make out before he took me to the airport. ☺ Yes, really. Kinda seriously.

While I was pondering how I might kill about an hour before go time, there was a knock at my door. It was my Droid Incredible. That’s a phone. A new one, all shiny and screen touchy and GPSy and everything. I ogled it for a while, read some of the booklet all about how awesome it is, and after a respectable killing of Time, it was time to go.

We did go to lunch (Café Rio) but we didn’t make out. We snuggled as we watched Big Bang Theory episodes, which was preferable in the end. Cuz why start the engine if you can’t finish the race, right? Not interested. But snuggling is very interesting. Snuggling is like fitting a perfectly soft mitten over your hand, which is enjoyable, especially when cold out.

Then it was airport go time. If Time wasn’t going any faster, at least it had caught up and was walking its remaining fingers menacingly as high as it could reach, inspiring moments of tremulous anxiety (much like you might feel if you now thought of that one arm of a zombie torso tickling your ankles there where you be). Travel jitters.

No kissing, yes cuddling. No pat down, yes x-ray naked detecting machine. You could safely assume most everyone is naked under their clothes, right? But better make sure, just in case. Anyway, zero problems on part one of day one.

Part two you could say started when Time somehow caught hold of my eyelids between safety demonstrations and take off and would not let go, a poisonous touch overriding all my brain powers to stay alert. Minutes later as the pilot took an air speed bump at several hundred miles per hour, Time’s grip slipped and all my precious fatigue vanished, wasted. Now I would remain awake for the remainder of the flight, except of course for forty minutes before the final descent instructions came over the loud speakers, first in English, then in French. Naturally I listened to both to see if they were truly saying the same things in French as in English. Uninterestingly yes they were.

I couldn’t get my pair of airline headphones to work so I occasionally glanced up to see Julia Roberts eating, or crying, praying, or crying, loving, or crying. I realized it was a terribly dull film to watch without sound, so I started reading a book about great places to eat in Paris. It was very interesting for the most part, but it was also published the same year I was born. Possibly no longer very reliable, but still, it has tongue-flooding recipes that some day I will try.

Time was taking its revenge for my having to kill it earlier, and my body was beginning to feel delirious with fatigue, and then there’s always plane food and nine hours and twenty-two minutes of recirculated air to do a fair number on the body.

I stepped off the plane without any real plan and after peeing, collecting my checked bag and following many signs, a sucker-hungry taxi driver came and tried to haul me away to pay 80 Euros for a trip into Paris. Wow, not interesting, buddy. I told him maybe but that I needed to check with the hotel I had been looking at earlier. Online it said they had a shuttle service. I wanted to make sure before I booked and had no idea how to get there.

I sat down and the driver hovered a bit. Out of nowhere an Arab taxi driver man came up and asked if I needed a ride. The terse and venomous conversation that ensued between two rigid-bodied competitors as they tried to slit each other’s throats with their eyes: I didn’t understand. Therefore I’m quite certain very vulgar language was employed. Eventually the first driver mostly gave up on me, looking for another clueless fare. Yuck, what a way to get around in Europe. Their established public transportation is very grounded, developed and reliable (except for days to weeks of random striking). Being swindled hurts the pocket, self-pride, and faith in humanity. All very uninteresting stuff.

When I tried calling the hotel the phone I chose didn’t respond to my money and dialing as it was created to. So I wandered a bit, narrowly running into Taxi Driver 1 again, phew, and found myself in a tourist info room. The very, very kind girl behind the counter saw that I was a complete fool for traveling and helped me call the hotel and showed me how to get there. There was a train stop five minutes from my hotel on the train line that left the airport directly, every 15 minutes. What did I tell you about the way they move their public? Awesome.

As I am somewhat familiar with the workings of trains and metros I proceeded with confidence toward the airport’s train station. It was about 1:00pm when I started walking (remember I have a big bag and a heavy backpack) and then probably twenty minutes later I got there. Big airport. I bought round trip tickets to my specific train stop (14 Euro) asked a nice gentleman what I was supposed to do from there and was directed to the correct train going in the right direction, scheduled to stop at my stop.

And that went exactly as one expects it should. I got out, went down the stairs, turned left, then left again and three blocks later I was at the hotel. A young man anxious to serve leapt from the building and took my suitcase and me around a corner to the check-in entrance. It was simple, no hassle, professional, and nice. They handed me a key back with my credit card 48 Euros lighter and I hefted my mass up the stairs to my single room.

I had been stressing about where to stay and dreading I might have to stay at the airport but when I saw Hotel Le Pasteur online I was encouraged. But when I saw it in person I was sincerely gleeful. I wanted to bounce on the bed (the comforter was mighty fluffy) and bounce near the aged window and bounce at the bathroom door and as I hung my jacket in the little closet. It was perfect. Clean, simple, exactly enough and the cheapest nice place I could find. I was so pleased.

I figured I should go walk around, leave my stuff locked in the room, soak in some sun, buy some bread and cheese maybe, act French a little. But here’s what I did instead.

Part three

I watched a little TV to see what French I could grasp. I did pretty well. I started feeling tired, so I said to myself, I probably shouldn’t, but I’m just going to sleep a little while and I’m sure I won’t have any problems falling asleep again later after I eat some dinner. It was about 4:00pm when I fell asleep.

My mind emerged randomly from a deep sleep, directing my eyes to check my watch. It was 6:30! I was supposed to leave at 6:00 at the very latest and now I was definitely going to miss my plane to Toulouse. Cahrap. I had to shower, too, so I took two minutes to do that, five more to dress and get everything packed together, what felt like a stupid eternity to unlock my door, and a minute to get down the stairs, turn in my key and head out the doors.

There sure was a lot of traffic, car and human, for being almost 7 in the morning. Funny that that fruit stand under the overpass would open so early. Lucky how I caught the train exactly as it arrived before heading to the airport. Strange how those two young men hitting on me are smoking and drinking so early in the day.

This is where I looked down and saw my right mitten on the floor of the train. I picked it up and my left hand instinctively went to the pocket from where it had escaped. A moment of stunned silence was observed as my mind retraced the race of steps I had just won with the ground. But the ground won my mitten. And then some stealer-head then took it from him under law of finders keepers. Clearly the ground could present no defense and lost. So we both lost a left red and white mitten in the same night…

I digress. Not that ever really progressed, but whatever. You’re still reading. The train took so long toward the airport that I gave up any hope of still schmoozing my way onto the plane. When I retraced that mile march from the train to Terminal 2B (curious how many people were eating out at airport bars for breakfast…), I knew I would lose another battle, this time with tears. I hate that about myself. My frustrations translate into tears so quickly I have a hard time communicating. Does anyone know a cure for this?

I waited for my turn in line for a flight check-in person and readily dismissed his greeting of “good evening” as a mistake. He must be tired, having to work so early. It was dark, but it was most definitely morning on Friday the 10th of December. Because what else could it be if I left America on the 8th at 5:00pm, flew overnight, arrived the 9th with a gain of 8 hours, at 11:25am, and then slept another night. Logic teaches that it would be, therefore, the 10th.

In his great confusion (though it seemed simple enough to me: I’d only just missed my flight), the check-in guy counseled me to buy a ticket for that night and, though that was discouraging, it was also the best and really the only option. I went over to the purchasing counter, forcing my brain in vain to control my emotions.

It’s far, far too late for “long story short” here, but basically the purchase lady pointed out to me how the 10th had not yet arrived from China (she didn't say that. I did just now. But, everything is made in China, even tomorrow. . .) and that to buy an ‘early’ ticket would cost over 200 Euros. I was relieved to learn I hadn’t missed my flight and would not need to buy another at such a price, but extremely troubled that I had lost all ties to Time; our relationship was clearly at an end.

It was still the 9th at the airport... My feet moved me to a chair into which my rear end sat, and my brain raced around the world, counting all the hours that could possibly exist, but still no conclusion arrived. I asked the man next to me if it was the 9th for him too (though I didn’t say that exactly…) and he confirmed that it was. I sat in an obvious stupor with a stain of frustration on my face, deposited by lame, wimpy tears.

I went back to the check-in guy and sheepishly explained my uselessness, and then stupid tears of embarrassment came unexpectedly…at this point I think the border between emotion and my eyes had been worn very thin by my prolonged fatigue…which you wouldn’t think, since I just slept fourteen hours, right?

Finally, after sitting down to think seriously and letting the uninterested world of facebook know how tired or something I was, I decided to change the clock on my computer from Utah time to France time. When the little letters ‘pm’ appeared next to the 8:38 the tension spring that had long time been pulling my eyebrows together snapped, and I stared without an ounce of emotion.

I recall two other occasions when Time played such tricks on me. Envision the miracle medicine fraud man from Pete’s Dragon, Dr. Terminus: black top hat, twisty mustache; that’s the same look I’m attributing to Time right now. Sneaky, sly son of a gun.

Once in high school. Fell asleep early, woke up a short time later thinking it was such an hour the next day as to make me super late for school. A sibling or parent was able to catch me before I got more than dressed. Went back to sleep.

Time two, in Alaska, 2005. I was going to have to work a very early morning shift so I went to sleep in the afternoon. The sky is always light there during the summer, kinda screws with the folds of grey matter in the skull. Same thing: woke up, thought I was late, rushed and huffed and puffed and called a coworker to ask what I should do. He told me what part of the sunlit day it actually was and I crawled back onto my air mattress.

This time I was in a foreign country, on foreign time, during winter when the morning is as dark as night, flying too much by the seat of my pants and all I did was consult the analog face of my watch and flee. I was too rushed to pay attention to all the many clues. Wow. Really, wow. I verified with a new person at my side that it was indeed the evening hour and I internally slouched from the weight of personal humiliation. Such a waste of time and stress. And losing a mitten!

I looked for it everywhere as I returned defeated (so defeated was I that I even spent money at McDo, on what they call food, for dinner) to Hotel Le Pasteur. They were kind enough to overlook my error and let me back into the room I reserved. But someone was sure I wouldn’t miss my mitten. He or she is very much mistaken. I just hope it’s being put to good use, the way I would be taking care of it, if it were still –sniff- mine to hold.

How happy again I was to see that bed. I set the alarm. I slept.

The CTR Ring

The CTR Ring

I stopped sleeping about a quarter after 3:00 am, feeling rested despite it being only four hours before that I started. Knowing myself well enough, I just got up instead of wasting two hours laying there, trying to convince Time that I deserved, that I had the right to continue sleeping. I decided I should take some pictures of the lovely room afforded by my 48 Euros, so I did.

Then I decided to do my hair and makeup, get dressed and pack up. Did so. Meanwhile my alarm set for 5:00am went off and I gave it a taunting teeter of stretched-forth chin, a sort of ‘neener neener I’m already awake and so ready to go without you’. Don’t you think by now I would have learned not to neener Time?

A more casual trip to the train stop this time, I still kept an eye out for poor left mitten, all the way until the platform. I pulled up to the display screen which informs standers by which train will be coming next and where it will be stopping along its way. To my right was an African gentleman and I started up a friendly conversation. The first train to stop was one that was headed in the direction of the airport but had a different destination, therefore would not stop at the airport. The trains that said “CDG aeroport” on them did not stop. We saw it comin and, bye bye. So two trains that did stop weren’t going where I needed, and it looked like none would be coming before the time I absolutely needed to be at the airport. Wasn’t that a practice run the night before, to be better prepared? Bof.

Luckily all Africans are somehow related and/or know each other, and my new friend had a friend come up and start explaining how to get to the airport, using this stopped train to get to a stop three stops from our current location where the airport train DID stop. It was so simple I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before. Of course Time had a vice around my brain, the tool, so thinking was very elementary. And not in the Holmes way.

Off we trained to the airport. Off I ran, up the stairs, through the exit booth barely wider than a suitcase, up the escalators, under the staircase, through terminal 2D, around those slow people, past McDonald’s and voila, EasyJet Check in, three minutes before reruns would have started.

Oh praise heaven. I made my flight (took a bus on airport grounds to get to the plane), sat in the front row between a sleeper and a smoker, read a magazine (yes, actually read it, it was sincerely interesting like most airline net-pocket magazines aren’t), and stared at my hands. Ah crap.

Where was my CTR ring? For the remainder of the short flight to Toulouse I sat, staring blankly at the half-square pattern on the wall in front of me, trying in vain to think of the last time I saw my ring. I remembered bare-naked hands on the train ride in, so I didn’t lose it in the airport. And I remembered seeing it in the pictures I took of my squishy bed covers.

What I’ve decided is I must have removed it to put on lotion or something and entirely spaced where I’d placed the dear band. Those who followed closely the thrilling story of my life would feel the weight of the loss, but even then, not completely. That ring had been reminding me how to choose the right for nearly ten years, being misplaced for months at a time, perhaps, but never lost – closely lost – but never so far entirely as to not be findable again…

Sad day. Stupid pattern of losing things while traveling. I don’t want to have a whole string of stories themed with things ranging from petty to important being lost. What a very lame idea!

But, bravely counting my blessings (like a CTR ring would have wanted me to), we landed in Toulouse. As I got to the baggage claim level, a smallish, lovely woman came running to me, with a slick-airport-tile-floor shuffle, and gave me one of the special French hugs that pass between friends (if you’ve been to France, you know what I mean. Cuz the French aren’t huggers, they’re kissers. So hugs are…well, they could use a few lessons).

Carole Fayol it was, the “mom” I gained in Nimes. She’d moved to a town not far from Toulouse (Montauban) and was nice enough to come and get me. It was just so lovely to finally see someone I knew! Ça Faisait un peu bizarre aussi, quand meme!

I spent a wonderful day and evening and morning with a wonderful, LDS, French family and was inspired by their goodness. Sure, life still had its difficulties and its imperfections, but they handled it warmly, with confidence that all their efforts counted for creating love and harmony, for making happiness available. Where I noticed that it really branched from was how loving the couple are, how affectionate the wife is to husband and mother is to her children. Even if there are hair-frazzling moments, the consistent reality is that she openly and deeply loves her family. That’s why she earned the title of my mother of Nimes. She’s just plain delightfully inspiring.

Her kids warmed up to me, too. I am so happy when kids do that, when I can earn their trust, enough that they’ll even pout and throw tantrums when I leave (my apologies to the parents in such cases). Timothe and Claire, ages six and five, are sweet, energetic children who know they are loved. They are also very well disciplined and above averagely obedient. And they love kid things and laughing and they treat each other generally well, with little kid patience and occasional argument.

Timothe (Tee-moh-tay) is taking Judo lessons, loves his gameboy and giving his mom kisses. He is extremely handsome (French mother and Malagasy Father) with tan skin and golden hair, and likes to laugh, draw, and be loud on purpose. He seems mature but, like most kids these days, knows too many slang and grown up words, but his innocence is clear; he’s a well-behaved kid.

Claire is shy or she’s a goof. I’m glad she only spent about three minutes of shy on me before being her true self. I made her a ring out of a twisty tie (enterprising, yes?) and she accepted me into her five-year-old world very quickly. Claire is timid, her emotions on edge much like my own, ready to release the tears at any upset, or change of plans, or who knows what else (sometimes girls just cry, okay?), but is such a sweet, darling button. She loves to laugh, and I love to hear it.

I hope to visit again sometime soon, because I just didn’t get to spend enough time with this beautiful family. Plus, in Toulouse, nobody stepped forward to say they wanted to see me, so I may have to go back some day, on a Sunday and make them see me.

I did, however, make a special effort to see Agnes Sieja. She’s an awesome lady, very matter-of-fact and optimistic, talented and helpful. There certainly are inspiring women all over the world in the church. Well, she recently fell in a hole and broke just about everything that helps one to move, so she was unable to come to the church where I was, but, miracle of sweet tender miracles, her home teacher was at the church where I was at the time I made the phone call, overheard that there were damsels in distress and came to the rescue!

I spent about twenty or so minutes with this dear sister before a friend came to pick her up, and when I told her that I would be studying to possibly become an editor she lit up and signed a copy of her first novel over to my possession, which I will read and, if it interests me, make an effort to start a translation project? Could I do something like that? Whew, Heaven knows. It would be something to try. Especially since it’s 565 pages.

The return to the church held another quick visitor, Anne Terreaux, a sister from Toulouse. She helped me to contact Agnes (which is just the prettiest name in French, ‘Ann-yes’, which you really wouldn’t think for how it’s pronounced in English…) and then set out to come see me herself. So, I got two people after all.

(pictures to come when internet use doesn't cost $0.65 a minute...dang cruise ships suckin us dry)