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Debra's Life Abroad, 4220 159th Avenue Southeast, Bellevue, WA (2026)

09/19/2022

People really romanticize springtime in Paris. It's cold in Paris in springtime. If you're planning a trip, before late April or early May, take a heavy jacket, gloves, and a hat. Mom and I were there as winter was turning to spring. On a couple of adventures, we purchased an extra sweater at our destination.

One of those adventures was our trip to Chartres. One of the best parts of being in Paris is never having to touch a car. The transportation systems connect, and even the small towns have bus systems. So, in keeping with, hands off of cars in Paris, we took the train.

There is something about watching the countryside go by. It gave me the chance to verify schedules and for mom to just relax. And that she did, until the ticket taker came by.

For some reason her ticket was stamped, but not validated. I had failed to adequately explain the process. I told her to make sure she inserted her ticket into the machines to get stamped. She inserted her ticket in into the first machine. She looked at it, and she saw a stamp. She didn't insert it into the second machine for validation.

Now, we had to remain in our seats. The police got on board at the next stop. They had two with automatic rifles. We had to show passports, old boarding passes and ticket stubs from our flights from the US to France, and the contract and proof of insurance. All this because I went through the gates first, and failed to be specific.

People would always laugh because I had a travel folder. That folder was a life saver on that outing. It kept us on the train, and insured mom got to see one of the most magnificent cathedrals in the world.

More on this outing later.

09/19/2022

Sorry friends. The last two weeks have been a bit hectic. I think I have things under control, for the moment. So, we can get back to my adventures in Paris.

People would always ask me what my favorite time was in the City of Light. It wasn't a specific event. QIt was a time of year. Amazingly, it is also the time of year I would tell you not to visit Paris.

Most Europeans go on holiday in August. Everything shuts down. It's still; it's quiet; it's peaceful. It's such a contrast from the normal sense of hustle and din you are so used to any other time.

The great thing is, if you are there at the end of August, you get to see the City come back to life. There is this preparation for one of the most exciting surges you will witness. No, everything is not going through a transformation to become new. Paris will still be old. But to some, it will be new. It will be experience of their lives.

This is the time of year when the "study abroad" students arrive, with anxious parents in tow. The contrast between the student's excitement and the parent's apprehension was almost palpable. To me, it was always baffling. Their children were safer here than almost any where they would be at home, no matter where home happened to be.

The best places to watch these interchanges were at cafes near Les Ecoles, and Ecole Militaire. That's where the students will living if they have not secured housing on campus. It's where you get to sit and watch some of the most comical exchanges.

I had an appointment near Invalides. Of course the person I was meeting was late. It's really annoying to most Americans, but I don't mind the imprecise relationship the French have with time. It's refreshing to, sometimes, hang out with people who have priorities other than a clock, and winning the employee of the month certificate. (Yes, I split the infinitive. Sorry, E M Smith)

We finished up around 5PM. It was too early for dinner. I decided to go to a little cafe near the Attac, a grocery store near the Metro. I had a classic plain rolled omelet, and a glass of wine. This was perfect. I needed some food items. I could do my marketing, and I could do dinner at home and curl up with a book, and a glass of Bordeaux.

Most apartments will have a washer, but no dryer. With fall and winter coming, I decided to pick up another drying rack. That initiated one of the most comical exchanges. Ah, the innocence of youth.

While in the "household" aisle I overheard three American girls trying to figure out how they would dry their clothes. They were seriously distressed. They were trying to figure out everything.

As I was checking out the drying racks, one of them walked up and asked if I spoke English. She looked at me and asked about these clips for hanging pictures. They couldn't figure out the conversion of kilos to pounds. Yanking their chains a bit, I explained they needed someone who was good at math, not English.

Once they realized I was American, the questions came in rapid succession. When we got to laundry, they were still distressed. I told them to get a couple of these, and held up the drying rack. Lingerie was an overnight proposition. T-shirts and lighter clothes, one day. Jeans and sweaters, 2 days.

This post is not humorous, there is no danger, and no drama. Until, one of them asked me how to plug it in. When I asked what they wanted to plug in they all pointed to the drying rack.

Our kids are spoiled. I opened the rack, set it on the floor, and said, "voila". I love Paris in early September.

09/10/2022

I never took my mom to Great Britain on our journey. I wish I had. All of the history would have fascinated her. I did mention our "tour" of cathedrals. With the passing of Queen Elizabeth II, I have been focused on a particular cathedral near Paris.

Most of the people I know have no love for the monarchy. I get it. However, I also understand the feeling of stability those living under the influence of the realm experience. There is a sense of permanence and order. There is a feeling of belonging to something that is "other worldly". My mom took me into that world on one of our cathedral outings.

We got up and had pastries and tea (mom doesn't drink coffee). When I told her we were going to visit another cathedral, she went to pack an overnight bag. When I explained she wouldn't need it she asked why. I told her we were just going to St. Denis.

As we headed to the Metro station she asked me the name of the cathedral. It was the first time I realized I had never explained that "Norte Dame" simply meant "Our Lady". She told me we had already spent hours in Norte Dame. My response was yes, we have. But, we had spent time in Notre Dame du Paris. Now, we are going to spend time in Notre Dame du Saint Denis.

St. Denis is not the most glamorous place. Most of the people I know and grew up with, would ask why I even knew it existed. I know it's there because of history.

Mom was shocked to find out we were getting off of the B train to get onto a standard Metro line. Only, it's not standard. There is a split in the line. You have to make sure you are going to Saint Denis.

When we arrived she signed the guest book, and as usual, she spent a couple of hours exploring each chapel and niche. When she got hungry she asked me if we could go back after we ate. I told her it was her day, and her cathedral tour.

After lunch we went back to Norte Dame. She asked the docent if she could photograph the altar. Hearing yes, we were inside the cathedral another 90 minutes.

As we were leaving, she asked the question I'd been waiting for all day. "What's down there"? I gave the attendant 20 euros, and surrendered the next four hours of my life. Mom found herself in the burial spot of all of the French royalty.

I would take people who came to visit so they could see that "history" is real. You don't just make it up in books. When you come face to face with "what was" it gives you a much better sense of "what is".

After about three hours in the catacombs, I heard my mom call my name. It was strange, because she is normally silent in these settings. Her question to me was "is this real"? I responded "yes".

She was standing in front of the sarcophagus of Marie Antoinette, the final Queen of France. What ever remained of her was in that burial vessel. This is the epitome of the present observing and coming face to face with the past.

Maybe I am thinking of this now due to the passing of Queen Elizabeth II. Maybe it's because while she was the longest serving British monarch. But, Louis XIV, of France served 72 years.

May they both rest in power, and dignity. And may we be less interested in what they had, as opposed understanding of the service that was required of them.

Heavy lies the head ...

08/18/2022

I am waiting for some chicken to get the chill of the refrigerator off, so it doesn't shrivel up when the heat of cooking hits it. I admit I have broken down a few times today. James Michael and I were supposed to be in Paris. His birthday was August 4th.

Instead of spending our birthdays in my favorite city I will be sitting on the deck imagining we are tromping through the streets of Paris doing nothing in particular. I can imagine how happy we would have been just being together. But God had different plans for both of us. The next time I am there I will take him with me in my heart and show him everything I love about the City of Light.

In the meantime, I'll tell you about mom's two mishaps. The first was minor, but still cause for concern. As I noted earlier, I went to Paris Soiree. Mom went to Les Halles to check out some shops and vendors. I had taken her before on market day. It is one of the best and there was a vendor who had excellent cheese and local honey.

My fear was that she would miss her stop and go all the way to Chatelet. That, ladies and gentlemen, is the correspondence from hell. The only advantage it has over Charles DeGualle Etoile is the moving sidewalks. If she got off at Chatelet she would have to wind her way through the streets to get back to Les Halles. She had a map, but so does every born on French soil Parisien.

I got home just before midnight. Mom was sitting in the outer courtyard to the flat. I asked her if something was wrong. She told me she was locked out. She had forgotten to take her keys. She said she didn't call me because she was fine.

When she realized she had forgotten her keys she got back on the train and went to St. Michel. She told me she sat outside at Le Depart and had a salad, and an omelet. Then she had some tea. Then she just went back to the flat to wait for me to get home and let her in. No panic, no drama. She was calm. I was surprised she was familiar enough with the routes we had taken to get around that way.

The second mishap was not so minor. It was terrifying for me but at the end of it all she showed no panic, and no fear of venturing out again.

We had planned to go out to dinner that Sunday evening. Unfortunately, I woke up with a horrible cold. It was the kind that sent back to bed because there were construction workers jackhammering your sinuses. That pretty much killed dinner out.

As many of you know the stores are not open on Sunday. There are a few grocery stores that will open for a few hours. I knew the Monoprix off of rue Rennes. Mom volunteered to go and pick up food so we could do dinner at home. I took her map and drew the route from the flat to the market.

She had the grocery trolley in tow so it should have taken about 20 minutes to get to the market. I allowed 30 to 40 minutes to shop since she had no idea where things were or the French word for the item she wanted. I allowed 25 to 30 minutes to get home as the trolley would be heavier with the groceries. So, at noon she was off on her grocery shopping adventure.

At 2pm she had not returned. Now it was 2:30 and still no mom in sight. Now I'm panicking because it is 3pm and still no mom. She's been gone 3 hours.

I got dressed and walked to the Monoprix. No mom sightings on the way there. I started thinking that she may have gone to the ED instead. I headed over there, and you guessed it, no mom and the ED was locked up tight as a drum. I walked back to the Monoprix. No mom. So, I headed back to the flat hoping she was there. No such luck.

Now it was almost 5PM! I was preparing myself to call my dad and tell him mom was lost somewhere on the streets of Paris. I was not ready for the dressing down I was in for. I was kicking myself for not going with her. My dad is going to fly over here and kill me before he starts searching for his wife. Of course, that would have taken a couple of days and I could go to the local prefecture to report her missing. But logic and panic do not travel on the same neuro paths.

As I sat staring at my phone, preparing to make the worst call imaginable, the buzzer to the outer gate went off. I went to see who it was. Hoping for mom, it was the police. My heart dropped and a huge lump formed in my throat. He had a photo of mom on his phone. I could feel the tears forming in my eyes. He asked me if I knew her. With tears rolling down my cheeks I nodded yes.

He turned and looked at his partner and nodded yes. His partner opened the back door and out pops mom and the grocery trolley. She looked at both officers and said, "merci beaucoup", after giving each a big hug.

At that point I was both relieved and exasperated. She got turned around. It is easy to do in Paris. If you ever see an ariel shot of the city, you will see why. It is a series of concentric circles. She asked the officers for help. That is to her credit.

The regular police officers you see on the streets do not live in Paris and they do not know the city geographically. They spent some time figuring out not just where rue d'Assass was but how to get there. When she emerged from the patrol car with no groceries, I was okay. We had some rice, six eggs, some cheese, spinach, and tomatoes. Of course, we had the baguette from earlier this morning.

By now it was 5:30. Mom was hungry. We went to the cafe across from the flat. I had some cheese and a well-earned glass of Bordeaux. Mom had a plain omelet with tea. She asked me what to do about dinner. I said I was up and out so we might as well pick a place for later. At most places dinner doesn't start before 8:30 or 9:00.

After our little nosh, we got on a bus. Mom wanted to see St. Sulpice. I have never seen it without scaffolding. It is a beautiful cathedral. After that we went to a restaurant in Odeon that she had her eye on for a while. We walked home after dinner. We both needed the air and the chance to decompress.

On our walk home she told me that my father didn't need to know about this. Everything turned out fine and she was never in danger. I told her the next time you get turned around get on the Metro. Go to Chatelet. Then get on the B. It will bring you home.

We dodged a bullet.

08/15/2022

2006 was not our best year. My brother, Forrest, was in a horrible accident. We had planned a trip to Paris. Mostly to convince my dad I would be okay there. It ended up being a mother daughter trip to the city of my dreams. Mom instantly got it. She saw the best me. She saw how happy I was and how easy it was for me to navigate a place that should have been extremely foreign.

The first two days were easy. We arrived early enough for mom to be indulged by spending two nights at the George V. It is right off of the Champs Elysee. That is generally an area I avoid unless someone special is with me or friends are meeting me there.

When people would visit, they would ask why I live so far from everything. I was in the 16 Arrondissment. But when mom was there, there were other friends coming so I got a larger flat in the 6th. It was convenient because the B Train station was less than a block away and it had an elevator, so she didn't have to do stairs ten times a day.

Also, the ED was around the corner. Not the same as shopping at Champions or a Grand Monoprix, but it had the basics. It was easy to orient mom. She was a better traveler than people thought. I found out where I got my fierce sense of independence and willingness to try anything at least once.

I was going to check out this event Paris Soiree. Mom had decided to go do some shopping at Les Halles. I got the address for the event, checked out the Metro stop I needed and figured out how to ask for directions.

I got off the Metro as St. Paul. I was following my directions but could not find the street I was looking for. I could either go home or be brave, stop some kind looking soul, and ask for directions.

I decided to be brave. A woman was approaching. The situation Cheryl mentioned in her comment was about to slap me in the face. In the best French I could muster the words came out without hesitation "S'il vous plait madame. Je suis perdue. Ou est St. Louis en isle"?

That lack of hesitation was my undoing. I knew how to ask, but I didn't know how to understand the answer. It was the deer caught in headlights look on my face. She smiled, took my hand and walked back in the direction from which she came. We crossed the street and she pointed to this island in the river below. Of course, isle, island.

She told me she should have recognized my American accent. She also told me to keep practicing and eventually I would understand the other side of the conversation.

That was not the only adventure that evening. The other adventure involves mom. When you read what happened, you'll get an idea of what a trooper she was. I miss her.

08/15/2022

Age seems to somehow mellow your opinions. The first time I was "let loose" in Paris on my own, I was 18. I had just finished my freshman year at Western. My parents agreed to let me, and my older brother, spend the summer in Europe.

Arriving in Amsterdam was a chance to get over some of the "culture shock" which is real. You settle in and come to terms with the fact that you are not at home. These people have different customs, they seem to live by a different creed. And trust me, they are not in a hurry to get to work. Family is important and it is evidenced by the family time they spend together. Going to Europe was the first time I realized that here, in America we talk about family values, but do not craft or enact policies that value family.

Someone asked me why I keep my cover photo. It is a reminder. I took that photo on a Sunday, in Luxemburg Gardens. There were families on picnics, kids riding bikes and scooters, and older couples simply taking a stroll, maybe even down memory lane. That is the life I miss. I can stare at that photo, stream Chante France live, and transport myself to a different place.

I mentioned the mellowing of opinions as we age. I was less than impressed with Paris my first time there. I kept getting lost. I spoke two words of French. I could not understand what people were saying to me. I decided to go to the post office to get stamps to send postcards to my family and friends. You could actually purchase pre-stamped stationery.

I walked up to the counter, apologized for not being able to speak French, and asked to clerk for stamps and five pre-stamped stationery sheets. She just stared at me. So, I tried again. Same blank stare. So, stupid me, I decided to act it out for her. Certainly, she would understand my gestures.

I was patting the place on the postcards where the stamp would go. I held up five fingers, and in the most horrible French I am sure she has ever heard I attempted to say, "five letters, par avon". I pretended to be an airplane, so she knew I wanted airmail stamps and stationery. After all that she smiled at me and said, in perfect English, "that will be 15 francs".

That is when I decided that the Parisiens were not very nice people. I humiliated myself for some stamps and five sheets of paper. But now, you couldn't rip me away from Paris, literally or virtually if you tried. It is home. It is where I belong. My heart is at peace there. And yes, in terms of the language, I still consider myself as a toddler. I know exactly what you are saying to me. I just can't always answer, correctly. Small things like syntax and conjugation trip me up every time.

We were lost just outside of Brussels. We pulled over to see if these two women could help us. They looked at the plates on our van and started speaking to us in Dutch. Our stares of horror gave us away. They asked if we were American. We said yes. They gave us directions in English.

We pulled up to this house, outside of Brussels where two women were speaking Flemish. The language of business and commerce in Belgium is French. They saw our license plates and spoke to us in Dutch. Realizing we were Americans they spoke to us in perfect English. We heard two women, probably in their early 40's converse in three languages without missing a beat. I was embarrassed at my lack of language skills.

Our joke became what to you call someone who speaks two languages? Bilingual. What do you call someone who speaks three or four languages? A Polyglot. What do you call someone who speaks one language? An American.

My German is spotty, and my French will get me by. Since I plan to spend some time in Granada, Spain, maybe I should start on my Spanish now.

a la prochaine

Debra's Life Abroad

09/19/2022

09/19/2022

09/10/2022

08/18/2022

08/15/2022

08/15/2022

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