You Too Can Do It On Four Pairs Of Knickers, Chapter 13

Posted on July 13, 2016 by viennajames

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: UP, UP, AND AWAY

The next few days melted into the ‘ideal’ vacation for Suzanna and pure pleasure for me as I kept the car locked atop the little metal thingy and ignored its very existence. Strapping on our sandals and pocketing a few euros, we hoofed our way through the winding streets of our sea side village. We did ‘touristy things’ on foot, such as visiting Le Château Royal, marketing amongst provincial vendors, hop-scotching from one warm sandy beach to another and souvenir shopping at the many bijou boutiques, half hidden by flower laden vines in primordial alleyways. I cooked meals in my kitchen and we dined al fresco, but one night, decided on fresh sea mussels by candlelight in my loft. We gingerly tripped down the cobbles to La Maison de la Mer, a seaside restaurant just around the bend, that oozed savory aromas and quaint provinciality. Our order was taken by the owner himself who not only greeted us with kisses, but after handing over a gigantic platter of steaming mussels, simply requested (and trusted) that we return the empty dish sometime before we left the country. Red wine or Sangria (by the glass as well as the bottle) accompanied lunch and dinner, whether it was with anchovy laced paninis in the market square or bowls of fishy bouillabaisse under twinkle lights by the sea. We marveled at our good fortune as we soaked up the sights, fragrances and tastes of this spectacular village while unable to shake the feeling that we had been time warped into a fantasy world from a bygone era.

After day three of wearing thin the rubber on our shoes, we decided it was time for a road trip. I set aside my driving angst as Suzanna perused her trusty paper map, determining our destination to be Villefranche, a tiny village located in the Pyrenees mountains, a two hour car ride west of Collioure.

The purpose of this trip was not only to reestablish my confidence as a licensed driver, but to take a train ride on ‘Le Petit Train Jaune.’ The ‘Yellow Canary’ as it is sometimes called, is a legendary engineering masterpiece that was originally built in 1903. It transports passengers, commuters and tourists, through the magnificence of the Pyrenees mountains and through the principality of Andorra. The railway connects people from tiny isolated mountain hamlets that are virtually inaccessible by car. The brochures we had obtained prior to our departure, captured images of vaulting landscapes, where intricate trestlework poked out between trees and rocks and bridges which were several stories in height and looming vulture-like over verdant forests. There was also a photo of one of the 19 tunnels that plowed directly through the steep, craggy mountain cliffs, creating a cavernous aperture that swallowed the train, leaving the observer to wonder if it ever remerged out the other side. These ancient wooden train tracks and electrically powered locomotives, have traversed this rustic area and exposed it to millions of voyageurs for over a century.

“Oh yeah…” we concluded in unison, “We gotta see This!”.

I had faith that the Peugeot and GPS system could navigate us through all of the roundabouts and guide us to the destination that would then take driving out of my hands and allow ‘me’ to be a passenger. So after breakfast of a jam smeared croissant and a cup of creamy French-press coffee, we set out. Emily was cheerily on board as the draftsman, but Suzanna, (with paper map in hand) was essential in translating some of her eccentricities. (French streets and highways pronounced with a British accent are very taxing to an American ear.) It was a glorious, sunny morning and we proceeded like veterans to highway N116. The drive was sublime (even to someone who hates to drive), the scenery was picture-perfect (you can’t make this stuff up,) and the friendship endearing! (remember, she’s my go-to-girl)

Life in France was coursing through my veins like oxygen rich blood. Every sense in my body gushed with vitality and a new awareness. Following road signs, arrows and the chirpy instructions from our guidance system, we easily located the parking lot that was neatly hidden in a valley ringed by towering mountain walls. “Goodbye Peugeot.” I humphed as doors were locked and a new adventure begun.

The town of Villefranche de Conflent had a protected entryway with a three story drawbridge that was, in the eleventh century, the key to entering the city. The hand chiseled stone walls welcomed courteous travelers but would have completely repelled marauding barbarians. Modern day Renaissance Festivals have replicated the style of this original for years. The lofty, sun drenched mountains cupped the tiny town in their protective embrace. The brilliant white clouds billowed in a periwinkle sky. We gawked skyward as we ambled through the gigantic portal that soared over our heads. Whimsical shop fronts displaying chapeaus, footwear and ladies garments lined the cobbled thoroughfare in colorful array.

Hunger pangs rumbled just as we happened on a tavern that was bedecked with family crested flags and a sidewalk chalkboard announcing the specials of the day. Once seated, the menu was presented in lacy black calligraphy on an oversized piece of yellowed parchment paper. After surveying our choices, (making an heroic effort to translate the script as well as the language) we settled on squid ink paella, fresh garden greens and a tumbler of red wine. We chewed slowly, savoring every bite.. drank leisurely and swam in our surreal surroundings, while observing the comings and goings of ‘garden-variety’ tourists. We sighed with contentment, tipped our glasses to one another and felt as if we ‘possessed’ the place. After paying up, we casually strolled the streets in a visionary stupor and by pure accident, stumbled on “ La Gare” (the train station). Like a time piece tuned to perfection, and as if with total predestination, the yellow train awaited us. There was no queue and no clock indicating future departure times… just a train, standing like a footman anticipating our nod of approval.

We bought our tickets and boarded, alive with the fact that there was no air conditioning, no glass on the windows and no segregation of seating. All passengers were treated equally and the cool mountain air able to kiss each and every one of us through open windows. Initially as the train blew its whistle and pulled from the station, Suzanna and I chose inner cabin seating, but shortly there in, upgraded to the sun exposed upper deck. The brochure had enlightened us to the fact that the expedition extended for 63 kilometers (40 miles) and was to be rapturous! It didn’t lie. Miniature houses with thatched roofs flecked the hillsides. Lazy spotted cattle and dirty sluggish sheep dawdled in the fields, ignorant of the noisy train laden with sightseers. We were exposed to no smog filled cities… no bumper-to-bumper traffic… no pedestrian packed crosswalks. There were no fences or walls to demarcate ownership.

There was however, pastoral elegance floating as far as the eye could see.

Upward we climbed, almost vertically, chugging over ancient tracks that swayed and creaked and moaned under our weight. The effect was that of an antiquated roller coaster car, laboring to ascend before it dramatically descended, leaving ones heart lodged in her throat. But there was no immediate descent, just the clickety-clack resonance, invoking memories of the “Little Engine Who Could.”

The undulating pastures gave way begrudgingly to rock infested hillsides, then to sheer icy-gray cliffs and towering forest green pine trees. Time held it’s breath as we entered long dark tunnels and emerged to entirely new vistas. “Everyday” life here, as we gaped at the landscape, was something we simply could not register. Our great-grandmothers might not have been in awe… but we were.

Once again, we grinned at each other in wonderment. Suze rummaged through her purse and discovered two paper wrapped cherry lollipops nestled at the bottom amongst the lint. Offering up one to me, she unwrapped her own and we sucked dreamily as the wind blew our hair backwards and the sun shone down balmily on our shoulders. The wheels clanked so noisily and the wind gusted so loudly, that conversation was nearly impossible. So we didn’t talk. We just breathed and enjoyed the indescribable view.

So this is what it’s like to be a passenger? I smirked to myself as I gazed at my friend and my circumstance. We were two, more than willing participants in what felt like an ongoing novel… one that we eagerly lusted to be penned into.

The beauty and tranquility were so exhilarating that we found ourselves holding our breath as we stared. The circulatory trip lasted over well two hours. There were momentary stops along the way where an occasional rider joined or exited the train. Each depot was nothing more than a minuscule rock dwelling, manned by one attendee who dispatched tickets or information in French only of course. On-coming passengers seemed to materialize from nowhere, just as the relinquished ones disappeared. There were no highways circumventing the tracks, just a few dirt roads with an occasional crossing sign warning of the train’s proximity. There were no megacities, just random cottages swimming in green pastures. Isolated church steeples and hamlets intermittently dotted this rocky, mountainous terrain, but actual people were few and far between. I think that the majority of the riders on this journey were tourists such as Suzanna (not me of course, because I am French.) The local population appeared too small to support the transportation system on its own.. Our minds were boggled and we both felt that the exhilarating excursion ended too quickly. We considered a “do over” but understood that the day was waning and we still had a long road trip back to Collioure.

At the culmination of our railway venture, we dallied in the courtyard of a Villefranche hostelry for a glass of Sangria and a few photos. Due to the late afternoon kissing the evening hello,  many wrought-iron tables stood empty. Those few remaining visitors however, chatted jauntily, wagging amongst each other in various foreign tongues. Happiness and pleasure have no language barrier and we treasured being eye-witnesses to this mis en scène. lt seemed impossible to us that there was no “inner city” traffic to spoil this snapshot. No cars, motorcycles or busses are allowed in this (or any for that matter) small French commune. It felt respectful… like leaving your shoes on the welcome mat before entering someones home.

To say that the outing had exceeded our expectations, would have been an understatement. Trusting AAA had proved to be an excellent decision!

The drive back eastward to Collioure was pleasant. Leaving the Pyrenees behind and proceeding toward the coast, Emily performed with perfection and although the highway felt congested after the absence of vehicles, we encountered no problems. With a little wine in our tummies and a memory in our pocket, we cruised home with ease.
When we arrived back in our private parking space and the little black Peugeot was safely nested, we glowed despite our flagging energy. Could life possibly be more ideal or align with the stars in a more harmonious manner? Our first long-distant sightseeing initiative had been a complete delight. I had navigated the roundabouts, mountains and wrong way street without annihilating a living soul. Disaster zero, Jaime and Suzanna one!

Saying bon nuit to the car, we wearily weaved our way on foot through curly-cue streets, back towards our little home. Suzanna was leading the way as I blindly followed. I had a motion picture running in my head of today’s ‘fresh off the grill’ memories when I suddenly realized that I was clueless as to where we were. I immediately arrested, stymied by our location and asked in a whiney voice, “Damn Suze, where are we and how exactly did we get here?” Before she could answer, I shook my head in befuddledment and asked, “Do you think I’ll ever be able to do this on my own? All of these little side streets look identical! Once you leave, do you think I will ever be able to find my way home alone?”

She wrapped her arm around my shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Of course you will! You will tramp confidently up hills and down without ever blinking an eye. You’ll cruise by the sea and pick grapes off the vine. Don’t worry, this is your home now. It will come naturally.”

And as these encouraging, maternal words enfolded me, four discouraging and probably far more accurate words surfaced in my head…. “Like HELL it will!”

Posted in adventures, continuing sagas, France, romance, stories, travel, Uncategorized | 2 Comments

You Too Can Do It On Four Pairs Of Knickers, Chapter 12

Posted on June 23, 2016 by viennajames

CHAPTER TWELVE: FAIRY TALES DO COME TRUE

With the departure of our docents, we were now…. finally… irrevocably… definitively… at long last…… ON OUR OWN!!

We ogled one another assiduously, not sure where to begin. And then as though struck by a bolt of lightning hurled from heaven above, we simultaneously raced for the complimentary bottle of wine. “You find the opener,” Suzanna instructed, ‘I’ll get the glasses. As I rifled recklessly through the kitchen drawer, I could feel my dream unfolding like honey soaked layers of phyllo pastry. The hairs on my arms prickled and I shuttered with delight. This volcano was rumbling, and what better way for it to erupt than with this first glass of French wine. We sipped in a stupor, our minds oscillating ‘three passes ahead’ and filled with incertitude. What should we do first? Where do we begin? How do we decide? We were like two high-strung thoroughbreds prancing nervously as we entered the starting gate.

‘First things first’ Suzanna decided, and toting a half filled wine glass in one hand, and a heavy suitcase in the other, she began lugging her gear up the doll house stairs, bumping the walls and sloshing a bit with every upward step. As she gingerly arranged her belongings in the loo-level room, I began in earnest to nest in the loft. But I knew instantly that this was not going to work. My clothes were going nowhere and didn’t need settled-in at this moment. I was riding the adrenaline high of a junkie and feeling as giddy as a goat. I threw my arms up in the air and yelled down to the stairway….STOPPPPPPP… WE GOTTA GET OUT OF HERE!”

And she understood perfectly what I meant. We had fleetingly glimpsed the town square and inner city on our search for Madeline and the house. We had also (under protest) journeyed not once, but twice, to the soccer field to deposit and rescue the car… but what we had not yet done, was to see EXACTLY where our little house lay in reference to the sea. The sea that had been inveigling me since the notion of this trip began over 4 months ago. Gathering the house key and nothing else, we burst out the door into the nearly extinguished afternoon sunlight.

Our neighborhood rested tranquilly as we scrambled our way down the cobbles, back towards our only known landmark… the pharmacy. We could now breathe in that along its margin, and lined up in a tidy little row, were the ice cream parlor, several restaurants, a bakery and a few independent grocers. All doors sat enticingly open and garden fresh fruits and vegetables edged the cobbled curbs. Across the street (one that actually allowed cars) were children being pushed in swings, dogs and owners walking along the waterfront and families gathering their things on a semi-attired beach. There also sat a grove of green umbrellaed tables, where black bow-tied waiters, with trays held high, sidestepped traffic in order to serve these patrons who were dining al fresco across the street from the restaurant proper. These guests patiently sipped their wine and nibbled their bowls of olives as they awaited the delivery of their entrées.

But the most stunning sight of all was the statuesque Château Royal, a castle who’s chiseled stone bulwarks tower over the entire village. This massive medieval structure had it’s origins in 7th century BC, when it initially served as a fortress and was later integrated into the Royal Castle at the hands of the Knights Templar. This historical edifice now finds itself surrounded by a rock and mortar protective wall that wraps itself beguilingly like a pashmina on the shoulders of a beautiful woman. The rocky, cream-colored seawall, which is only chest high, shields the château and village waterfront from the fury of an angry sea and hectoring winds. Whether safeguarding from 21st century storms or 14th century pirate pillage, it is a true testament to endurance. On either side of this giant stronghold are pebbly beaches and craggy mountain shorelines that are just beginning to twinkle to life as their evening luminaires light up.

We-were-buzzed! Not just from the wine and jet lag, but because we had been parachuted into an era that was only supposed to exist in history books. The sea drew us like newly hatched sea turtles, as we soaked in the local color and watched the crowds begrudgingly yield the right of way, to empty beaches and emerging stars. Our faces were painted with Mona Lisa smiles.

“Jaime!” Suze remarked as she inhaled her surroundings, “Have you ever seen a place so gorgeous as this? I feel like a Medieval Princess, encircled by her dynasty.” I observed her enraptured face and allowed her to continue. “Do you realize that you will be here, swimming in all this beauty for two full months?… And do you understand that you will be all by yourself?”

It only took me the length of a bat’s eyelash to respond. “Yes..I do understand Suze… because that was the purpose of this journey from the very beginning. Je vais vivre ici sa au paradis pendant deux mois! I smiled at the end of this declaration and then continued in English. I will NOT, be on vacation, trying to see all of the sights in a small amount of time. I will NOT, be checking off a list of must do’s and must do now. I will NOT, be a tourist, checking in and out of different hotels every few days. Instead, ‘I will LIVE here in paradise for two months’… and nothing could please me more.”

We laughed, joined arms and skipped like Laverne and Shirley, around the castle and sea wall edge. The water was lazily lapping along the wall perimeter, occasionally sending a splash of foam into the air, when we noticed a man strumming his guitar. He was not a street beggar with a tip jar at his feet playing melancholically for money; he was a young Rastafarian, caressing his guitar, singing for the love of it. His jeans were black, his t-shirt well worn, but what struck my fancy was the way his long, lacy fingers slid up and down the strings of his old friend. His music was melodious, the Mediterranean backdrop extraordinary and I watched as his dreadlocks bounced merrily around his face. When he noticed me back, his strumming grew livelier, his fingers played faster and the beat heightened.

I found myself under his musical spell and like a marionette being controlled by strings, I danced. I didn’t just sway my hips gently side to side and rock my head back and forth, I danced… like nobody was watching. I swirled and twirled and pirouetted, only for the audience in my head, as the magic of the moment rippled tempestuously through my soul. The musician flashed a toothy smile at my obvious pleasure and played on with more gusto and zeal. When the song came to an end, I breathlessly approached him while clapping my hands like a monkey with cymbals. I was drunk with appreciation!

“Je vais vivre ici pendant deux mois!” I declared, beaming madly at him for providing me so much enjoyment.

He grinned brassily back and quipped “Bonjour Madame,” and then rattled confusing French with seductive laughter in his voice. I caught about every fifth word he spoke, but grinned the entire time, then said while gesturing  via the tried and true two-finger-pinch, “Je suis tellement désolé je ne parle qu’un mais très peu de français.”

“Ooooh” he pronounced, with a wide-eyed, knowing grin, “Êtes-vous Americain?”

“Oui” I replied with humility.

His grin became lion like, and he quickly let me in on the reason: “I speak English.”

His name was Jean and although he originated in Jamaica, he had been residing in France for the last 5 years and frequently played here on the castle wall. I bubbled that my name was Jaime, and retold him in exuberant English, how excited I was to now be living here, in this country, for the next two months. I would NOT, I proclaimed, be a tourist. I too would be a resident! His bird-nest dreadlocks gyrated and swayed saucily as we conversed and the magic continued when he said he could see by the way I danced so freely to his music, that I had a beautiful soul. As I smiled, he flirtatiously added, “For you, Madame, Just for you,” and he lifted his guitar and commenced to serenade me. His eyes locked on mine, his nimble fingers plucked the strings and his voice filled the evening air, making me unaware that Suzanna or anyone else on this planet, was breathing.

                                               In every life we have some trouble,                   

                                            When you worry you make it double,

                                                  So don’t worry:  Be HAPPY!

I closed my eyes and swayed to the rhythm of his voice and his instrument, for what woman on earth would not be caught up in this enchantment? This wasn’t a dream of a hauntingly handsome man serenading me by the sea…..this was real…and this extraordinary image danced behind my eyes as I danced in front of his.

When the song ended, (as songs always do)… I provided additional gratuitous applause as we exchanged hugs and customary French kisses goodbye. Jean continued his strumming as Suzanna and I continued our stroll, but I believe that we were, all three, bewitched by the sorcery of music and the hint of foreign romance.

Posted in adventures, continuing sagas, France, romance, stories, travel, Uncategorized, writing | 2 Comments

You Too Can Do It On Four Pairs Of Knickers, Chapter 11

Posted on June 16, 2016 by viennajames

CHAPTER ELEVEN: AND THEN THERE WAS MADELINE… AND FRIENDS

Approaching the town square, it felt as though I had stepped into a fairy tale book just past the opening line of… Once Upon a Time. Collioure was charming beyond imagination, and I think the most charming thing about it, was that there was no obvious attempt to create the charm. Everything was bathed in a natural aura that transcended time. There were flower shops exploding with color and wine shops offering free samples. There were sidewalk cafés oozing smiling tourists and aproned servers carrying trays of cheeses and olives. The trees were gnarled, twisted and permanent, the fuchsias vibrant, rich and plentiful, the green grass succulent, abundant and teasing you to come rest awhile. All this was surrounded by ancient stone townhouses hugging the cobbled streets while clean laundry fluttered from third story open windows. There were so many things to drink in that we became entangled in the sights and mesmerized by the sounds. Even a sightless person could recognize that this 500 year old village was selling a lifestyle, not a commodity.

“Rue de La Liberté!” I reminded Suze. “Remember that we are on a mission at the moment. We need to find our house.” We stopped to refocus and get the lay of the land. “Emily dead-ended us somewhere around here. Can you see the street name anywhere?”

She swiveled.. panning the rock buildings around her for a clue. “Not Yet, do you?”

“No,” I confirmed, “but wait.”Before us stood a lovely little shoppe which seemed the perfect place to ask directions. The awning that shaded the entrance was apple green with white letters scrolled on its face. It was like a mini Baskin Robbins, housing assorted bins of colorful creamy confections. The twenty-something ice cream clerk sported a clean white apron and a dimpled smile as he engaged a young girl in a conversation on the virtue of one flavor over another. Once she was satisfied and licking her prize, he turned his smile towards me. “Come on!” I said to Suze as we entered the doorway, “That guy behind the counter is about to become our knight in shining armor.” I approached him sheepishly. “Bonjour Monsieur!  Où est le Rue de La Liberté, si’l vous plâit?”

He smiled and obliged me with an answer. This answer however was delivered in rapid-fire French that sounded like someone speaking with a mouth full of marshmellows. I stood there and stared… then offered an apology  while pinching my thumb and forefinger together.“Pardon Monsieur, mais je parle un peu le français.”

“Ahhh,” he uttered while nodding his head in an understanding fashion…then he redelivered his earnest message more haltingly. I continued to stare. When he saw that my face still registered confusion, he took me by the hand and led me into the street. Then as if explaining to a three year old with a learning disability, he began again and paused between each word.“ À -la -Pharmacie,” he said while pointing to the building, “turnez -à -gauche. Rue -de -la -Liberté -est- sur -la -droite.”

“Merci!” I exclaimed, as if I had just translated the Magna Carta. “Merci Beaucoup!” I pumped his hand in appreciation, kissed him on both cheeks (because I’m French you know) and finally understood that our home was left of the drug store and up the hill on the right. “We’re so close,” I said with a grin smearing my face. “This way Suze!”

We followed his directions as we made our ascension up the uneven cobblestone roadway that was bordered by shop fronts and lodgings. A kaleidoscope of pastel shuttered windows stood open, housing flower pots or wandering vines. While en route, we passed an aging artist sitting at a weather worn easel, staring at the sea view before him. His palette  was splashed with colors and we watched as he occasionally stroked the canvas with distracted concentration.

Turning right onto Rue de la Liberté, we beheld a cozy alleyway with a pizzeria man in a tall white chef’s hat greeting his lighthearted patrons as they entered or departed his restaurant. “Bonjour!” I jovially offered as if this were our daily exchange.

“Bonjour Madame,” he politely returned as he dipped his head nearly losing his hat.
I simpered at Suzanna, aglow with everything I saw and heard as we marched on in pursuit of our home. Raising our eyes from the rocky walkway, we noticed a genteel woman up ahead casually watering her own collection of vibrant flowers. She was accomplishing this task with a watering can, not a sprinkler system. As she lifted the pitcher to nurture her thirsty plants, she was showcased by a brilliant blue portal. My mind leaped ahead. And although I had never before laid eyes on her, I knew.

“Madeline!” I yelled, with immediate recognition, “Madeline, that has to be you!     Bonjour Madeline!”

The woman paused in her task and beheld us in her gaze. She was an average-sized, middle-aged lady with snow white hair and glasses. Her dress was not fancy, but her air was aristocratic. The lines of concentration on her face, melted with her recognition of me and were superseded by a wide, warm, wonderful smile. “Jaime!” she announced as a statement, not a question, “It’s about time you made an appearance. You were due hours ago.”

And a synchronized rhythm between us began. It felt as though we had known each other for decades, not mere weeks through emails. As a trinity, we all embraced, grateful that the wait was over and that we were safely where we belonged. “So good to at last make your acquaintance!” she welcomed, “And this must be Suzanna!”

“Yes, it is!” I confirmed. “ She has been by my rock from the beginning. I’m not sure I would have made it this far without her!”

“Well, so delighted my dears that you have arrived. But wherever are your bags?” She asked. “I expected that you would be loaded down like donkeys.”

“We left them with the car in some god forsaken place,” I answered. “My GPS  failed to mention that the streets were pedestrian only, so we ended up driving for miles in search of a place to park. Consequently, I  have no idea where our bags are.”

“Oh I can thoroughly believe that parking was impossible,” she replied. “You’ve begun your journey in high season and on a weekend to boot. But not to worry dear, things will thin out as the season progresses. By late autumn, you’ll have the seaside to yourself”
Setting down the over sized watering can, Madeline turned to unhitch a latch on the front door. “Well, come along now,” she invited, “It’s getting a bit late. Let me show you your way.”

Just as the photos had promised, the blue shutters scaled all three stories of the home’s rocky veneer. Stepping aside to allow us entrance, she directed us lovingly into the home she was about to relinquish. We crossed the threshold and were greeted by the semi darkness of a less than attractive foyer. It was poorly lit and really nothing more than a storage room loaded down with hanging garments, boxes, a bicycle, kayak and even more boxes. Truthfully, it was very disappointing and I could sense that Suzanna felt the same. Madeline however, was effervescent and delighted in escorting us on a guided tour.

“This is the cave,” she announced with pleasure. “In the 1500’s, it would have housed sheep and cattle. Their body heat would have helped to warm the upper levels of the house although I’m sure the smell would not have been all that pleasant. There is a half bath here on the left and second refrigerator as well as a laundry center in the the back. The other bits and bobs belong to my son Ross who often visits from England.” Proceeding to the right, she continued, “Here we go. Up the stairs.”

Like two little girls in the care of their governess, Suzanna and I obediently followed. “This,” she announced once we arrived at the top, “is the living area.”

What lay before us was much more charismatic—although I was already more charmed by ‘the cave’ now that I could imagine sheep sheltering inside, warming the family within, when a cold breeze blew in off the ocean. The traditional colors of France are royal blue and cadmium yellow. The immaculate kitchen was tiled in these colors with matching dinnerware decorating the oak hutch. I spied the french-press coffee maker and smiled. The living room housed not only blue, cozy cushioned couches, but a stereo, library and desk. The dining area was highlighted by an oak table wearing a floral table cloth. Resting in the center was a vase of freshly-picked posies and a welcoming bottle of wine. This pristine still-life was suffused with the glow of the lingering sun casting shadows through the open-shuttered four foot window. I was speechless.

“Come along” she beckoned, “but be mindful of the stairs. They are very narrow and curvy.” Up we tramped, single file… first Madeline, then me, then Suze, to see what else there was to see.

“This is the main loo” she explained, pointing to the beautifully tiled master bath with huge soaking tub. “And this bedroom to the left is where I sleep when I live here. The armoire has hangers and there are more linens in the back cupboard. The window can remain open or closed, and is where, if you do it French style, you hang your freshly laundered apparel.” Oh yes, I orgasmically resolved… I shall indeed do it French style!

“Come then!” she signaled, “Let’s carry on, but once again, be mindful of the stairs!”
And up another flight we climbed, slowly and even more carefully, for like the roads I had just traveled, this last stairway tapered even further. What awaited me here was the bit of heaven on earth that I had been secretly seeking. The ‘loft’ was the entire top floor of this narrow French cottage. There was a sitting room adorned with twin windows that beheld breathtaking views of the Bell Tower and sea. The king sized bed was elbowed by two matching nightstands and centered beneath an airy skylight. The traditional French colors accented every corner of the room, creating an image fit for ‘House Beautiful’ magazine. I stood transfixed as I found myself standing in the mirror of my mind.

“It’s a bit inconvenient to be on this level,” Madeline confided, “as the bathroom is one floor down, or two if you use the one at the entryway, so you might want to think over sleeping in this room.”

“I’ll stay up here for now,” I said, “and give Suzanna the more convenient bedroom. Then if I decide that it’s troublesome, I’ll move down when she leaves.” But I knew as the words slipped from my mouth that it was a lie and that I wouldn’t be pried from this room with a crowbar. That feeling of ‘home’ was already washing over me even though my ass had yet to touch the sofa or bed.

We descended the stairway with Madeline chirping pleasantries all the way. As we arrived back on the living room level, we remembered that we were still in absentia of our car and luggage.“No, never mind,” Madeline cooed. “I’ll just give Lex and Aubrey a ring. It’s their home that I’ll be staying at while you’re here. They’ll be here in a quick shake and Lex will transport you back to your car and then show you to your spot in the car park.”

Within minutes, the door bell chimed and in walked a distinguished looking gentleman that could have passed for George Hamilton’s twin. At his side was a pixie of a woman who wore granny style glasses and had wisps of silver sprinkled in her short wiry hair. Susanna and I were introduced to Alexander and Aubrey Campbell who resided in Valmy, which was just a stone’s throw from Collioure. They were an open, friendly and very animated couple. Like Madeline, they exuded a warmth and vigor that was unquestionably genuine. Their demeanor was felicitous. Their heritage was Scottish. Their addition to this situation would prove priceless.

We exchanged mirthful conversation for several minutes before Aubrey piped up. “Well go on then ladies! Follow Alexander and he will take you to your car.” So Suzanna and I trailed after Lex through the backstreets of Collioure until we located his canary yellow Fiat. I scrambled to secure what there was of a back seat, forcing Suzanne to resume the role of navigator.

“Now just where might that car of yours be?” our chauffeur queried.

Well, now that was a good question was it not? I scrunched down a little deeper to avoid answering when Suzanna said without a moments hesitation, “By the soccer field.”

Once again, my mouth dropped open. How could she possibly know that? I had been so frazzled by driving and eager to ditch that damn thing, that I had paid no attention whatsoever as to where it was sitting. I’ve performed this same stunt on many shopping trips as well. I’ll be in such a hurry to make some purchase, that I’ll park the car and upon my return, spend thirty minutes or more, wandering up and down the aisles searching it out. So, for Suzanna without even blinking her eye, to recall the exact location of our rent-a-car convinced me, that had this situation been left in my hands, the car and all our belongings would have turned to rust and dust long before they were ever ferreted out.

“Very well then,” Lex asserted dignitarily, “Let’s be off, shall we?”

The first thing Lex did after backing out of the parking space was enter a one way street going the wrong way. My eyes doubled in size. “Oh, Lex?” I said, challenging his action.

“Not to worry” he responded with aplomb, “You are in France now. Going the wrong way is sometimes the only way. Don’t concern yourself… just be careful that you don’t run anyone down!”  My head wobbled and eyes rolled, as I  wondered if he knew how hard I had been trying to avoid that very thing!

Even with the crowd thinned, we still had to zigzag around a circus of pedestrians, cars, and bicycles. Before long we located the Peugeot sitting askew in the empty field. “Interesting way to park Jaime,” Lex said with a twinkle in his eye. “You best learn to do a wee bit better.” I ignored this statement as we exited his car and jumped into ours. We followed closely as we wound our way back, being careful to never lose sight of his taillights. When we arrived at the one way/wrong way street, I closed my eyes, followed prudently and prayed.   “Dear God…We’ve come this far!… Please lead us from the path of a head-on collision.” We sailed safely through and I continued to shadow him to my parking space. I waited as he placed his car in neutral and sallied up to my driver’s-side window. Leaning in with elbows resting on the edge, he said with his Scottish lilt, “Now Jaime, Do be careful here. It’s a wee bit tricky. My best advice would be for you to back up and then pull forward. Do try to get parallel to that metal object in the center of the space. You wouldn’t want to run over it!”

Big deal, I thought. What’s the catastrophe if I hit a little metal thingy?”

As if reading my mind, he gazed charmingly into my eyes and said… “You’ll blow out your tires!” and then to make sure I understood the importance of what he was saying, he added… “If you park here as you previously did, you will blow out all your tires.”

“Aaahh” I sighed, and steeled myself for the last automotive challenge of the day. I backed up and then using extreme care, maneuvered forward, centering the ‘metal thingy’ directly under the car’s carriage. I expelled a sigh of relief when I saw no smoke and heard no explosion.

Lex locked the little car in place and then handed me the key. “There you go my dear,” he said very kindly, “now do remember that the only way in or out of the car park, is to use the one way street… and always be very careful, as the right of way is NEVER yours.”

We trudged our way back, dragging Suzanna’s monstrous bags and schlepping our satchels like pack mules. Soon, we were back to our original point of departure where the blue door drew us in with loving arms.

“There you are!” Madeline cheerfully decreed as we lugged the cases to the top of the stairs, “We were about to give up on you!″ With no further dalliance, she continued.“Here’s the house key Jaime, we’re off now to let you settle in. I’ve left lots of little notes around the chalet to advise you of local services, restaurants, and market days. Do ring us with any questions or problems as we’re just around the bend.. It’s a lovely quiet neighborhood; I’m sure you’ll be quite content!”

She handed over an ordinary metal key that dangled from a worn, round, wooden globe. I’m sure she had preformed this ritual hundreds of times as she transacted this business arrangement with other tenants. But this time, it was magical…well at least to me.

And then they were gone. Poof! Like genies in a bottle, they were there and then they weren’t. Meeting them had been delightful, but I was glad to see them go. I dismissed them quite casually, having no idea just how treasured they would become.

Posted in adventures, continuing sagas, France, stories, travel, Uncategorized, writing | 4 Comments

You Too Can Do It On Four Pairs Of Knickers, Chapter 10

Posted on June 10, 2016 by viennajames

CHAPTER TEN: DESTINATION STRAIGHT AHEAD

Within the hour we had successfully exited our last Spanish toll road and crossed the border into France. Straightaway, I pulled the car to the side of the road, killed the engine and gave a thumbs-up sign to Suzanna indicating that her services would no longer be needed. I bounced out of the car, slammed the door behind me and headed for the trunk. Lifting the latch, I scrounged around suitcases, shoes, handbags until I finally unearthed my duffel. Digging inside, my hands hit their mark and as if cradling the Baby Jesus, I benevolently lifted her out. Closing the trunk, I reentered the car and presented the prize to Suzanna. “What do you think?”

She looked from the treasure to my face and with a smirk on her own, casually responded, “Hook er up!”

I grinned as I removed the cigarette lighter. Emily’s plug snuggled into place. I polished a spot on the windshield and watched as her little suction cup gripped the window like a baby latching onto a breast. Suze and I exchanged glances and held our breath as I turned the ignition key over. Bbrrrmmm went the engine, lighting up the face of my GPS. The choices changed with each touch of my finger… Country? Street? Address? This was all well and good, but not what I was looking for. Three months ago I had programmed one and only one command. I kept searching, rereading my options until at last I saw the four letter word that no matter how lost I ever became, would always lead me back to my safety zone. I smiled as my pointer finger circled like a hawk zooming in for the kill and then pressed… “HOME!”

Emily’s voice sparked to life as she resonated with confidence (and a British accent), “Proceed to Highlighted Route.” She uttered this command as though she had provided me these instructions hundreds of times over. “Aaah” was the shared response with Suzanna as we relaxed our shoulders and wallowed in a pool of admiration and gratitude. With Emily, there would be no more picturesque detours or premature exits. With Emily, our fish was hooked and needed only to be reeled in. “Proceed to highlighted route,” she repeated as if we hadn’t been listening. “Better do as the woman says,” Suzanna interjected with a coy smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. “Sounds like she seriously wants to take charge.”

I pulled back onto the highway and for the first time since edging behind the wheel, appreciated the amazing weather we were traveling in. I’m sure it had been showering it’s affection on us since landing in Barcelona, but I had just been too absorbed to notice. The sky was the azure blue of a Monet painting and the sun’s radiance sprinkled gold everywhere. It was breathtaking. “Exit route D618 on the right,” Emily stated. “Then continue course for 7 miles to route D114.” I smirked at Suzanna and followed instructions.

Emily knew things about France that we no longer needed a paper map to discover.
Within moments, exit D114 appeared on our right. We were now so close to Collioure I could taste it. This new two lane roadway was narrow and more rural. “Proceed to round-about and stay right.” Round-about? Oh boy, if there is one thing that jangles my nerves, it’s round-abouts. With Emily’s guidance however, (and minimal traffic) I conquered not one, but four and found myself on an even more narrow road. “Ahhhh, do you think this is right?” I asked Suzanna whose face radiated sunshine more than the countryside.

“Relax,” was her comeback, “You’re in the hands of a professional. Just do what she says.”

The road continued to taper (remember, European cars are only six inches wide) as well as  ascend. We climbed and snaked upwards. The flat roadway gave way to hills where we soon found ourselves sandwiched between craggy mountain ledges on one side and the open Mediterranean Sea on the other. The sky became more luminescent as we climbed, but paled under the sun’s rays reflecting off the water’s surface. I suffered silently trying to sneak peeks, while awkwardly maneuvering the 5-speed around the extensive bends and twists of the road. Up shift, down shift. Back up, back down… over and over as upwards we climbed.

And then the dip began: around and down, around and down. The clutch and I performed a boogie-woogie tap dance until the mountain side melted away, exposing a beautiful lush valley and a transport back in time. Red tile roofs periodically dotted the green landscape on my right as the Mediterranean remained gatekeeper on the left. As we continued our descent, the dots became house tops surrounded by olive orchards, vineyards, pastureland and fields. I grappled with being the responsible driver as opposed to the gawking tourist. I was being tortured by a panoramic view that I was unable to enjoy for fear I would run us into a ditch or worse. I hate driving. And it’s not something I recently discovered. In fact I believe that the roots were planted in Texas.

At sixteen while living in Canada, I secured my first drivers license. Like most teenagers, I took it for granted and I drove about fearlessly. (Teenagers are invincible you know; just ask one.) Two years later, my family moved to Texas. Texas did not recognize my Canadian license, so I was required to obtain a new one. No big deal I thought. I had cut my teeth on eight lane, fast paced, Toronto interstates and was in no way intimidated by the flatlands around Fort Worth. I was so confident in fact, that I never even opened the handbook.

The written test went well. This was followed by the road test which I also felt was easy peasy. I was singing a little ditty in my head as I waited for the officer to quit scribbling on my form. When he did, he turned to face me with his head strapped into the ten gallon police hat and said.  “Sorry ta tale ya thius Ma’am… but ya failed!”

“What!?” I cried as the music in my head came to a screeching halt. “I what?”

“Ya failed.” he repeated with his Texas drawl as he handed me my subpar scoresheet.
I stared down at the paper with all the x’s and whimpered, “But how am I supposed to get home?”

“Ma’am, y’ar only parmidded to drav this vehicle to yur place of res-i-dance. Once thar, you may only git behand the wheel of an audimobile with a lisansed draver at yur sad. Your lisanse has bin reevoked!”

My mouth gaped open. I had been driving care-freely for two years with not even so much as a parking ticket. Now I had just been told that I didn’t know how. I hobbled home with my tail between my legs, convinced I would never drive again.

Yet here I was, totally in charge of operating a vehicle in a foreign country with breathtaking scenery while zigzagging all around and trying desperately not to hate it!

D114 spilled us from a twisty-turny hillside, into the heart of a cramped congested village. “It’s Collioure!,” Susanna railed while bouncing up and down in her seat. “We’re here! We’re here!!!” I had no time to appreciate this fact or respond to her giddiness for I now had a new problem… people!  Men, women, boys, girls, scurrying in every direction. There were no stop lights, stop signs or traffic cops, just a village full of pedestrians as far as the eye could see. My hands struggled to co-ordinate their hoedown between steering wheel and gear shift while my eyes combed the crowds. “Don’t run anyone over, Jaime!” became the new mantra in my head. “Whatever the hell you do… don’t run anyone over.”

And it took an inordinate effort to not do so, because it wasn’t just a matter of avoiding people, there were motor vehicles to dodge as well. Tiny little cars, motorcycles, trucks and scooters lined every curb in this minuscule town. They were moving and they were parked. Some were parallel parked correctly and others were kittywompus with their tails or noses sticking out into the street. Add to this chaos that individuals were darting dangerously between cars, behind cars, and in front of cars. I held my breath as I threaded the needle around so many obstacles, trying desperately to follow my mantra when Emily cheerily chauffeured me the wrong way on a one way street while  proudly announcing… “Arriving at Destination on the left.”

I sat there paralyzed, unsure as how to proceed. “Hellllpppppp!” I whined. “This is too much. I have no idea where I am, where I’m going, or how to get back down this street. Emily seems to have crapped out, because we are obviously NOT at our destination. I can’t do this!”

“Okay, okay, okay,″ Suzanna soothed, “turn here.”

She shut Emily down and reclaimed her station as chief navigator. I followed her guidance to the letter not caring one iota that she knew nothing about where we were headed. She led me up and down ribbons of cobblestone streets in search of a parking space. This tact however was leading us further and further from our home. The terrain changed from congested seaside madness to tranquil hilly parkland, but the inability to park, remained the same.

“HERE,” she suddenly yelled while grabbing my arm and shaking my shoulder. “In this parking lot!  Here. PULL IN HERE!”

‘Here’ was not a parking lot at all. It was an abandoned, pot hole laden field that had been deemed a parking lot by the god of ‘Traffic Overflow.’ Dusty vehicles were parked willy-nilly, some in ankle deep ruts and others perched precariously on rocks. It resembled a junkyard in a crater on the moon.

“I LOVE IT,” I proclaimed as I frantically yanked at the steering wheel and whipped the little car into an imaginary space. With two tires resting wonkily on the rocky surface, and the front bumper perpendicular to the car beside me, the engine, (asserting its own frustration)… died.

“You did it, Jaime,” Suzanna exclaimed while clapping her hands, “You did it! Well done!” I heaved a huge sigh of relief, equally mixed with disbelief, because the only thing I had really done, (not to diminish it’s value)… was NOT run anyone over!

We bolted from the car as if our butts were on fire. I was opening the trunk to retrieve our bags when it dawned on both of us that we had no frigging idea where we were. We had taken so many detours in an effort to secure parking that we were actually lost. “Just leave em,” my companion quipped with authority. “Let’s locate Madeline and the house. Then we’ll come back for the bags.”

She got no argument from me! We locked the car (I was sure we would never see it again)  and headed in a westerly direction. “This way!” she pointed, and like a baby duck, I followed. The path she maneuvered downhill, led us directly to a large ‘walking street map.’ I stared at it completely befuddled trying to get my bearings when she confidently announced, “Keep going,” and picked up the pace.

“How do you know?” I asked as I tagged along.

“It doesn’t really matter,” she slyly answered.. “We’re somewhere in Collioure! How lost can we be?”

So like the beam from a lighthouse, she guided us down from the mountain, back into the city proper. By this time, it was late afternoon. The air was brisk and sun still shining. We strolled with a purpose, but now that the chaos had been relegated to the back seat, I was, for the first time, able to survey my surroundings with clarity. People were speaking French. Street signs were in French. Sidewalk musicians were singing in French. In point of fact, we were in France! But not just France: we were at long last in Collioure… and it was exactly as Google had predicted.

Posted in adventures, continuing sagas, France, stories, travel, Uncategorized | 2 Comments

You Too Can Do It On Four Pairs Of Knickers, Chapter 9

Posted on June 1, 2016 by viennajames

CHAPTER NINE: LET THE GAMES BEGIN

Before I could even repair my damaged mascara, Suzanna arrived. After driving four monotonous hours from Roanoke, she entered my house with a huge smile on her face and a swagger in her walk. “Hey girlfriend! Are we ready?” As a greeting, we bear hugged while bouncing up and down, doing that happy-dance thing that you’re totally embarrassed by when you see someone else doing it! Our enthusiasm was at the boiling point.“I hope your suitcases aren’t too numerous or too large,” she stated, “ Cuz I brought the Toyota and my three monsters are monopolizing the trunk.

I went into my room, and wheeled out my one small case. The other, I had slung over my shoulder.“That’s it?” she said, shock plastered on her face. “Where’s the rest? You’re spending two whole months in France and you packed for a one-night-stand?”

I smiled back. “This will be just fine. I’m sure I have everything I need. Besides…” I added while batting my eyelashes like butterfly wings,”if I don’t have it, I’ll simply buy it!”

A drink, we decided. An adult beverage, that like the shot from starter’s gun, would signal the true beginning of this race. With stars in our eyes and mystifying visions in our heads, we clinked glasses and cried “Cheers!” And then, before sharing even one sip, spontaneously chorused… “Let The Games Begin!”

With the last drops drained, we loaded my gear (which fit quite nicely in the back seat) and headed to Jean’s. Jean was a friend who had been included in the ‘few’ whom I had invited on this journey, but she, like many others, had opted out. She did however want to be involved, if only on a small scale, and did so by offering us a bon voyage lunch and a lift to the airport. If she couldn’t provide companionship she surmised, she could most assuredly provide nourishment and taxi service. As we sat on her beautiful deck at the end of our meal, I felt a little sad that Jean would not be joining us and as if reading my mind, she raised her glass and said, “I can’t believe you are really going! I can’t believe that I’m not! And I really can’t believe that tomorrow at this time you two will be in France… I’m soooo jealous!”

Like the Three Musketeers raising their swords, we toasted and although I could see that on some level she was envious, it was obvious that she was quite content with her decision. When we hugged goodbye at the airport, it was with bubbles in our bellies. (and not just from the wine) The fact was, I had Suzanna, Suzanna had me, and Jean had the knowledge that because of her, we were safely on the runway of our amazing odyssey.

Once on board the aircraft, we collapsed in our seats and pinched each other to make sure this wasn’t a dream. We chatted like magpies before, during and after dinner and only with the aid of more wine, did we finally succumb to sleep. A few hours later, we awoke  in London England. As if guided by an angel, we eased through the airport rat-race like a hot knife through butter. Every stairway  was located with ease. Every elevator was identified and sat half empty. The gate agent waved us forward like the usher in a church.The second leg of our sojourn was right on course as we took our seats, ordered breakfast and beamed as though all of this was an everyday occurrence.

“We’re here!” I proclaimed two hours after take off. “Look Suz, it’s Barcelona!”

Suzanna hunkered over my shoulder and peered out the window as the plane wheels rumbled their descent and then began skating down the landing strip. The first words she uttered were, “Hhmmmm,.. looks like Texas” (which it did). It was brown, dry and flat with a few scrub bushes thrown in for contrast. There was no resemblance whatsoever to the bounty of exotica we had conjured in our heads.

“Oh, who the hell cares?” we declared, “we’re in Spain, and less than three hours from Collioure!”

The guardian angel that had hitch-hiked a ride in England, rejoined us and stood sentinel on my shoulder as she once again guided our progress through the airport…well,  except for the ten minutes that she didn’t. She must have decided on a short siesta when I was separated from the exiting crowd to have my carry-on bag searched. For some unknown reason, this always happens to me! I have no remarkable traits whatsoever, but I am consistently the one who is pulled from the crowd, marked as a possible terrorist and instructed to empty my pockets, pull off my shoes and remove all existing tattoos! (ok, I made that up) So, annoyed but not surprised by this detour, I stood passively as my manicure scissors got confiscated and my undies rummaged. I took this all in stride until  I saw my hand-held, battery-operated, personal pleasure-seeker being raised high in the air like an olympic torch.

“Oh My God” I gasped to the agent, “Who put that there? There must be some mistake!”   She scrutinized me up and down with dull, sullen eyes, crammed my buddy back in my bag and blandly said, “Don’t worry about it Señora, I’ve seen far worse.” Then completely dismissing my humiliation, hollered, “Next!”

Relieved to regain my  veil of anonymity (with Suzanna laughing her ass off) we recovered our checked baggage and followed the well appointed signage that was in both English and Spanish, directly to the car rental kiosk.“Are you having a good time yet?” whispered the angel who had regained her roost on my shoulder.

“Yes” I softly responded, “except for that burp at customs. But I’ll forgive you if you’ll sprinkle some magic dust on the car acquisition.”

We found the rental people both pleasant and systematic. All the documents were in order and as we were being directed to the car’s location, one agent turned to another and spewed forth a hurricane of communication that had my head spinning. This untranslatable broadcast smacked me in the way Oz must have smacked Dorothy. I eye-balled Suzanna… “I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore Toto!” And for the first time, I understood that I was also no longer in America, and English was now the second language, not the first.

As we schlepped all our gear to the garage, I began to anxiously ponder this car that was about to become my trusty sidekick for the next two months. What would it look like? What color would it be? We checked and rechecked the paper work against the numbered parking spaces. Bingo! There it was: a shiny little black, four-door Peugeot. It was wedged tightly between a concrete beam and another car, but was unmistakably a Peugeot. I stared with mouth agape as my mind drew on a memory.

Back when I was a young mother of two, I was, even then, intensely quality conscious. When my family found itself in need of a new car, we searched out many makes, models and price ranges. During this search, my heart had been stolen by a little French car… a Peugeot. The apple of my eye was a gold sedan with black leather seats. It was racy, sporty, youthful and drove like creamery butter. I was smitten. “Mommy wants a Peugeot!” the kids taunted, delighting in my discomfort. “Mommy wants a Peugeot, Mommy wants a Peugeot!”But the budget was tight and the responsible, conscientious adult, (me) stepped in.

“No,” I said, to the dealer who thought this was a sure sale. “I have two children. This is not a child-friendly car. The timing isn’t right.”So we bought a Chevrolet Malibu instead. It was silver with cranberry cloth upholstery. It was a family car. I hated it the moment I drove it off the lot.

But now I guess the timing was right. Because although I never thought to request a Peugeot, here it was, presented to me as a gift on a silver platter. My angel gently tapped my shoulder. “Like it?” she asked. I was too shocked to do more than bob my head up and down. Whoah….. I never saw this coming!

I held the score card in my hand as Suzanna and I scrutinized the car for every possible blemish. The rental folks had acknowledged three dings, we, however, declared twelve. Okay, perhaps we were nit-picking, but no Spanish rent-a-ride was going to charge me additional, unwarranted fees at the end of my trip. So we added our dozen or so x’s to the appropriate places on the sketch, leaving the diagram to resemble a car with measles.

With luggage loaded, I inched open the driver’s door and squeezed myself behind the steering wheel. Suze followed suit and sat shot-gun. We were nearly bursting at the seams as I surveyed my cockpit. Lights, mirrors, turning signals. Brakes, clutch, gas pedal.……all present and in working order.  “Suze,” I neurotically asked, “you have the directions right?”

“Yep” was her only response as she waved the internet print-out in her hand. We fastened our seat belts, winked at each other and prepared for lift-off. ”Start your engines!” I heard from nowhere and as I turned the key, the engine purred. With foot on the clutch, hands on the wheel and mirrors adjusted, I strained a backward glance over my shoulder to commence my egress.…”Ahhhh,” I mumbled, as I  resurveyed my situation … ” Ahh..it appears as though we may have a little situation.”

“What?” she cried, “You SAID you could drive a stick shift!”

“I can,” I explained just a wee bit perturbed, “that’s not the problem. I don’t think I can maneuver the car out of this space!” She reassessed our location and acquiesced.  We had barely been able to open the doors and slither inside, thus making jockeying around parked vehicles and concrete beams a challenge for Mario Andretti, let alone a woman who had not driven a standard transmission in over two decades.

“Well don’t look at me!” she wailed. “I can’t drive a stick!”

And that’s when the angel and the adolescent parking attendant materialized out of nowhere. “Theeze way Señora,” he directed with the dancing hands of a white gloved traffic cop …. “now thaata way… ah ah ah…” he waggled his fingers to the left… “ a leeetle more theeze way. Stop!” he waggled his fingers to the right…. “Come a leetle more, just a leetle.” He waggled all of his fingers while shimmying  side to side, looking exactly like a child doing the hokey-pokey. “Mover un poco hasia adelante (he was really into this now). I assumed by the hand gyrations that he wanted me to go forward, so I slowly eased on the gas. “Ok, Ok, Ok!” He grinned, exposing a Bucky Beaver smile, … YOU’VE GOT IT!”

Within minutes we were out of the garage and entering congested suburban traffic. Through the internet we had learned that El Prat Airport is located 14 kilometers outside of Barcelona city center and approximately two hours from the French border. Our goal at the moment was not Collioure, it was simply to get the hell out of Spain by heading in the right direction.

There were multiple route signs pointing in multiple directions and as one might expect, they were all in Spanish. I clenched the steering wheel and pinned my eyes on the road, edgy about which street we were on or which direction to turn. Suzanna and her paper co-conductor orchestrated this symphony as I wormed my way from urban streets and stop lights to a local highway headed towards Girona. My confidence increased with every mile. We soon found ourselves on a Spanish toll road leading directly to France. Toll road? Nobody told us there would be toll roads, (or how many there would be.) Clueless to the charges: we simply paid. The gatekeeper greedily collected our colorful paper currency and returned a handful of silver and gold coins. For all we knew, we had handed over a hundred dollar bill and received two quarters in change.

So even though there had been a few miscues, I was sure it would be smooth sailing from this point on, with no further distractions to impede our progress. Cars and trucks whisked by on my left but that bothered me not. I was a woman on a mission. “You may want to move into the left lane,” Suzanna suggested after we had been traveling for over an hour.

“Nuh huh,” I threw back. “I’m comfortable here. Let the others fly by, I don’t care.”

“No,” she said as she lifted her head from the google instructions.“I really think you might want to move over.”

With that, I immediately comprehended that it wasn’t a choice. I had us hemmed into an exit lane. With no interest in exiting, I tried to backup and approach a new lane. Horns tooted their annoyance and the clutch reminded me that it was not yet classified as a friend, forcing our compliance with the highway that unceremoniously spit us out.

“I feel like a taco don’t you?” I said to Suzanna, avoiding ownership of my wrongdoing.

“Sure,” she agreed gingerly. “As long as we’re touring the scenic Spanish countryside, we might as well partake of the local cuisine.”

We zen-guided ourselves for perhaps ten minutes on rolling, back-country roads in search of food. Other than a few four way stop signs and an occasional grouping of cows, we spied nothing! No restaurant, no gas station, no cars, no people. “So how hungry are you?” I asked, downright perplexed as to where we were and not wanting to be here at all.

“Screw this!” was her reply.

With no further conversation, I made an immediate u-turn, sped through several empty intersections and weaved my way around until dumb luck landed me in the path of a big green road sign that read… AP-7 FRANCE 40. We high-fived to our travel savvy and magnanimous decision to skip lunch. Although we had no idea if the ’40’ was inches, yards or miles; we knew that the nose of the car was once again pointed in the right direction and that we were hell bent for France..

Posted in adventures, continuing sagas, France, stories, travel, Uncategorized, writing | 2 Comments

You Too Can Do It On Four Pairs Of Knickers, Chapter 8

Posted on May 20, 2016 by viennajames

 

CHAPTER EIGHT: THE CATS IN THE BAG

The wait was over. Like an expectant mother anticipating the delivery of her baby, my due date was today. There was no more time for preparation. If the I’s had not been dotted or the T’s crossed by now, they never would be. Suzanna had hit the road early and was at this moment somewhere near Charlottesville. The plan was that she would arrive at my house around one. We would then load up and drive to our friend Jean’s, where her car would recess during her visit to France. Jean was providing us lunch followed by transportation to Dulles Airport for our late night flight.

My one small suitcase and duffel bag were packed and sitting at the foot of the bed. Pierre, my notebook computer and only source of communication with the States for two months, was charged and residing snugly in my purple messenger bag. Next to Pierre was my wallet containing one credit card, a driver’s license and several freshly minted Euros. Dr.G. would arrive momentarily. The only remaining assignment was to place the girls in their carry cases and wave goodbye.

The butterflies that had been fluttering in my stomach all morning, now felt engaged in a rousing game of racquetball. The blanket lined cat carriers sat stoically in the hallway, patiently awaiting their cargo. I jumped when the doorbell rang even though I knew who the visitor would be. I could sense Dr.G.’s perturbation, but being a highly trained medical professional, he hid it well. We exchanged banalities and then focused on the task at hand.

Cleopatra hates her crate because it usually signals an immediate trip to the vet. She had been spying this case (and me) for the last hour while carefully skirting its perimeter. Because one of the basic rules of soccer is to always plan three passes ahead, I was completely prepared and knew that collecting her first was the wisest decision. I talked to her softly in an effort to distract her from ‘the box’, while hiding a cat treat in my hand. Per my instruction, Dr. G positioned himself on one side, while I resided on the other. Patra coyly circled my legs, but never took her eyes off me. I eased down leisurely and  opened my hand so she could sneak a peek at the treat. Eagerly, she went for the snack, allowing me the second I needed to swoop her with purpose. In one continuous motion, with her little feet waving in the air, I placed her inside the receptacle and secured the latch with a click. Done. She was in. She looked more resigned than pleased as she chewed on the bait, but like it or or not, (and that went for both of us) she was where she needed to be.

Wow, that was easy. One minute she was on the floor, the next, safely enclosed in her case. I looked over at Dr. G and found him smiling and giving his approval with a ‘two thumbs up.’ Well, I concluded while blowing the bangs out of my eyes, if that was the ‘hard’ cat, the next one will be a synch!

With a swell of new found confidence, we moved on to cat number two. Skylar remember, is my bed-puddle. She is docile and dreamy, seldom moving a muscle unless changing positions while she sleeps. Optimistic that I needed no help with this fur ball, I left Dr. G waiting in the hall near her crate. Straight away I located her curled up like a caterpillar, snoozing (where else?) in my bed. Gently and calmly I spoke to Skylar June. She lifted her sleepy head and blinked at me. I picked her up slowly, cradled her like a baby in my arms, and cooed sweet-nothings in her ear. I showered the smile of a prize winning athlete on Dr. G as I rocked her gently from side to side, while inching my way forward. Her tail swished laconically under my arm as we drew closer to our final destination. I could see now that all of my trepidation and dread had been for naught. Hell, at one point, I had actually feared I might miss my flight over my ineptitude to perform this feat. In the wink of an eye, I ruminated, the three of them will be gone. I will be alone. My heart was constricting as I nuzzled her silky ear. I was already missing her and feeling guiltier by the second. The lid of the crate was open and waiting. She rested smartly in my arms as I lowered her down….. And then… she didn’t.

POOF! There was cat hair everywhere, but no cat anywhere!

She had literally bolted from my arms and vamoosed. Aghast and empty handed, I gaped at Dr G. “What the hell just happened?” I squawked; “where did she go?”

He, too, appeared dumbstruck. “I don’t know! It was so fast! She seemed so relaxed in your arms. I thought it was a done deal”

Ok, I scolded myself while pursing my lips and scrunching my nose… this is your fault. You really weren’t holding her properly or tightly enough. You were lulled into a false sense of security by her big blue eyes and the ease with which you had wrangled Patra. Your head was already in France. Try this again… only this time, remember who’s in charge and think three passes ahead!

So with a rebirth of confidence, I set off to track her down. Big surprise: she was back in my bed. “June Bug” I warbled in a sickeningly, syrupy way, “Let’s go, baby doll. It’s just a short little car ride and you’re going to be just fine!”

Once again, appearing to be unperturbed at being uprooted, she allowed me to hoist her up and re-cradle her in my arms. As I carried her back down the hall, I held her more securely and sprinkled kisses on her nose to keep her calm. Dr. G nodded encouragingly and waved me forward like a flagman directing the nose of a jet to its gate. With steadier pressure and a much firmer grip, I began easing her down into her sanctuary. As her paws touched the rim, all hell broke loose. She locked all four legs and screamed like a banshee! The cartoon cat that we have all read about in that “How To Give a Cat a Bath” pictorial, materialized before my very eyes. She was wild and unruly. She kicked and screeched like a child throwing a temper tantrum and once again, skedaddled.

Holy shit, I thought. Who IS this cat from hell?

I was now shedding tears of frustration. Sending her away was a difficult enough task, but now I was fighting with her and losing desperately. (Cleo meanwhile, purred like a motor boat in her carrier and was totally oblivious to the surrounding chaos.) I looked up at Dr.G with my mouth puckered and my eyes wet. “What am I going to do?” I wailed. “I can’t do this. She doesn’t want to go and I can’t make her!”

“You can” he gently urged. “You can do it. Take a deep breath. We’ll hunt her down and try again.”

We entered my room like Holmes and Watson in pursuit of a clue, only to find the bed empty. She was not there. As a matter of fact, she was no where to be found. I sniveled as the vision of the plane rising in the sky without me, resurfaced in my brain. “How can I put her in that box,” I moaned, “when I can’t even FIND her?”

Although sans magnifying glass, we searched everywhere: in the window seat, under the couch and chairs, in the kitchen, bathroom, computer room, every room. The only place left was the lower level. Gingerly, we prowled down the stairs in single file, tiptoed along the hallway, and carefully peeked around the corner. There she was; sunning herself on the window sill of Brek’s old bedroom. She eyed me with contempt and distrust from across the room. She muttered annoyance under her breath. She stared me down as I approached, step by patient step… and then she dashed off the ledge and scurried around us, heading straight for the stairs. Dr. G tried to head her off, but she picked up speed and out-flanked him. I lunged like a base-runner trying to steal home plate, only to skim the surface of her tail as she whisked through my fingers. Instead of sleuths, we more resembled Keystone Kops who were comically foiled at every turn. With arms flapping, we scrambled up the staircase and I made one last grab as she clawed for the top step… SNATCH…. I bagged her. She caterwauled, I caterwauled and while holding her in a viselike grip, I not-so-gently shoved her ass in the cage and locked the door.

Now, flooded with a great sense of relief, I noticed that we were all four boohooing: two bitchy little cats (Cleo had now joined us in empathy) and two grown adults. The experience had been emotionally exhausting and left me panting… until… as if on cue, there was a telepathic exchange between Dr. G and I. Instantly, we ceased sobbing and began snickering. This high speed chase, which had never been included in any script we had read, now had us cracking up. As the scenes of our ridiculous escapade replayed in our heads, we laughed harder. And the finale, was that we found ourselves roaring over the fact that these two, pea brained knuckle-heads had nearly outwitted us.

I told you… You just gotta love Skylar June!

I blew kisses and waved farewells as my three soulmates drove out the driveway and down the street. As the car turned the corner and left my sight, I felt a twinge of melancholy but also an explosion of exhilaration. It was time to go to France… and I never looked back.

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You Too Can Do It On Four Pairs Of Knickers, Chapter 7

Posted on May 15, 2016 by viennajames

CHAPTER SEVEN: ARE YOU GOING SOMEWHERE?

Entering into a contractual agreement with oneself is a unique experience. You are the lessor as well as the lessee. All decisions need to be conferred with yours truly only. There are no right or wrong answers to any question and everything is approved or denied by you.

One of the things that concerned my girl friends, (who actually believed they had a voice in this decision) was my luggage. “Good grief woman,” they’d agonize, “how in the world will you ever be able to pack for two months away from home? You’ll need one huge suitcase for shoes alone, another for makeup and hair care, and at least one more for clothes. And because the seasons will be changing while you’re there, you’ll need to double everything. Holy crap, do airports provide complimentary pack mules these days?”

Hhhmmmmm…..I suppose looking at it from their perspective, this ‘could’ potentially present a problem. A problem for which I had no immediate answer. What I did have though, was the basic knowledge that most people, (women in particular) have become totally blasé about entering their closets or chest of drawers and finding a prodigious surplus of clothes at their disposal. They rifle through hangers and drawers, deciding and undeciding for hours because there is so much to decide from. Now, I admit that I am just as guilty of this and have also done what every woman over forty is accused of doing: I have spread out… not so much in girth, but in terms of monopolizing space. I have undies and nighties, sweaters and pants, dresses and skirts, sweats and shorts, tee’s and blouses, shoes, boots and coats. I have all these things and more, not only in my own bedroom closet, but in my children’s and the hall closet as well. Also being like most other women, I buy and seldom discard. New things simply get piled on top of old. Pants double up on bars, and tank tops might room four or more per hanger. Yep, I thought, they may be right..this could indeed present a challenge.

When it came time to pack, I was determined not to be buffaloed by this issue. I went into my bedroom closet, turned on the light, stepped back and peered at the mammoth cavern through the slits in my eyes. Staring intently at the gargantuan array of apparel, I performed what my father had coined as ‘the squint test.’ He used this technique to appraise the lighting on our Christmas tree. The dark spots created by squinting, pointed out the absence of lights so that he knew where adjustments needed to be made. In this instance, the scheme worked in reverse and the answer glowed like teeth under a black light. The stand-outs when I squinted, were my ‘favorites.’ You know, the ones you gravitate to over and over. The Items that you would almost certainly run an entire otherwise-empty load of laundry for if they were not clean. What my eyes latched onto were my comfort clothes.

I heard the familiar internal voice that had been flawlessly guiding me thus far, say… “Pick the few that you love. Pick the ones that make you happy when you wear them.” As a famous postal service employee once stated when referring to the use of paper towels, “Why take two when one will do?” This catchphrase along with my own slogan of, “If you can’t carry it, you don’t need it,” began to play nicely together in my head. So, I reassessed the bevy before me and decided that like the special people I invited to France, I would invite only the loved ones from my closet and drawers.

I began in the underwear drawer. I possess over 85 pairs of lacy underpants, from silky boxers to satiny thongs in every color of the rainbow. I counted them once when I was cleaning out the compartment, determined to downsize and throw most away. Since of course, that never happened, I found myself today, still sifting through 85 pair when I concluded… Just four. Four pairs of knickers should be quite sufficient since I’d have a washer and dryer at my disposal. Four pair that would cuddle my buns and snuggle my cheeks. And because they were so itsy-bitsy, they gobbled up a mere two square inches of luggage space.

Once in France, I would have daily access to four sandy beaches, so perusing my swimwear came next. I have a fondness for swim suits and own nine with varying degrees of coverage. Most of those degrees are sparse, but I do own two conservative ‘mom’ suits from my visit to San Diego to see my son. I bought those not because he is a prude, but seriously, what man over 20, wants to see his mother half naked? The other seven suits are teeny-weenie bikinis. I wear them not because I look so incredibly smashing, but because I love the sun. I want the warmth of sunbeams to kiss every exposed patch of skin, so I pretty much expose it all. And, okay, I’ll admit to another vanity. I’m besotted by tan lines and a tawny complexion, so the tinier the suit, the better. ‘One’ I surmised, I will only take one which will consume no space at all.

The entire suitcase full of shoes (that my friends deemed requisite), was downsized to a pouch containing sneakers. I would wear a pair of sandals and pack running shoes. I crammed two pairs of socks down the throat of each shoe and nestled them snugly in the corner of the bag.

My most serious wardrobe consideration however, had to do with the fact that I saw, in my mind’s eye, an insouciant woman, sashaying up and down, to and fro, back and forth, from pillar to post, in flowing, saucy, gossameer skirts. That woman was me. I adore the freedom of a long, ribbony skirt. There are no belts, buttons or zippers to bind you up. Skirts drift and bounce and get tossed every which way, depending on the temperament of the breeze or the cadence of a lively band. Skirts have a carefree, winsomeness that encapsulated the essence of who I wanted to be in France. So I packed more than one, several as a matter of fact. Skirts roll up in a ball requiring minimal space—and could be worn, with or without knickers!

I was keenly aware of and reveling in the fact that as a stranger in paradise, there would be no one to judge or analyze me. No one to ask, “Didn’t you just wear that yesterday?” or waggle their finger like soft-serve ice cream and declare, “Those colors are screaming to be separated!” There was going to be no living soul to criticize me or give a tinkers damn whether I wore the same thing over and over or not! Throwing in a few t-shirts, camisoles, a pair of jeans and a tube of Bert’s Bees, my packing was done.

I stepped back, dusted the decision off my hands and patted my own back. I had wrestled and tamed the last lion on my list. The overrated need for a banquet of clothes and infinite dressing options had been quelled. What I had in front of me was one very manageable travel bag with a few things set aside for carry-on. There would be no need for a team of  pack mules, nor would I require the services of a valet or porter. I would manage myself and I would do it with panache. Less would be better than more and four would be quite sufficient. Cuz really, what kind of ninny spending nine weeks in nirvana could possibly require more than four pairs of knickers?

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You Too Can Do It On Four Pairs Of Knickers, Chapter 6

Posted on May 9, 2016 by viennajames

CHAPTER SIX: THE GIRLS

My prep time was ticking away. I had been wrestling with, (mostly avoiding) possibly the most important decision of all. It was so important that I tried to ignore it with the hope that it would disappear. You see, my life belongs not only to me, my children, and my career; it belongs to my two room mates as well. These endearing souls ‘own’ me in a way that only a parent can relate to. Although they are not my children, they are. And although I am not their mother, I am. We are of the same mind. We adore and loathe one another depending on the situation. We bicker, nag, moan, and groan. We snuggle, cuddle, purr and play. We are each dependent upon the other and our days would simply be incomplete without both a physical and emotional encounter. The ‘girls’ are as much a part of my day as breathing. This is why, at the end of each day, I push the garage door button, gather my things and enter the house trilling, “Here kitty kitty kitty!”

Cleopatra, who can sometimes be a handful, is normally waiting patiently on the steps. She has heard the garage door open and knows what’s in-store. Patra (as I call her), is a mottled white cat with black spots. Or is she a black cat with white spots? My girlfriend calls her a ‘Cow Kitty’ which I suppose is very fitting. She makes crazy-eights on the floor, sways back and forth and hums as she awaits my touch. As I get nearer, her lovely little kitty voice welcomes me with “Eeeehhhhh!” She sounds more like a parrot than a cat.
I meet her warm caresses with a playful yank on her tail and a ruffling of her feather-fur. While I chat her up, I feel my blood pressure slide downward and the air a bit easier to breathe.

Proceeding up the steps, with her by my side ‘eehhing’ all the way, I call out for her pseudo-sister who is a Siamese mélange with an attitude, “June Bug,” I croon, (her real name is Skylar June) “June Bug. Where are you baby girl?”

To this loving welcome, I receive nada. No soft whimper or shy meow and certainly no puppy-like euphoria. It’s the same every day. She ignores my arrival altogether. When I find her, she’s usually cozied up in my bed. Other than for a requisite trip to the litter box or to slurp from the water bowl, I doubt she ever leaves my bed. Hold on. Did I say ‘my’ bed? What a joke that is! I actually call it ‘the girl bed’, because from my point of view, it belongs to all of us girls. Skylar June however, has a view of her own and like a petulant two year old, calls it ‘mine.’

Before Sklylar or Cleopatra, I had a male cat. His name was Tibet. I tagged him with that because I was new to cat ‘ownership’ and thought he was exotic. His eyes were mysterious and his markings unique. Because he looked elegant, sleek, macho and brave, I felt he deserved a name of equal proportion. When I discovered that, in reality, he was a common, domestic tabby cat, with markings like those of a few million other tabby cats, I dropped the pomp-and-circumstance and called him Tibby. He could not have cared less. My daughter on the other hand, zeroed in on his neurotic personality and referred to him as Le Chat Poulet, which when literally translated, means the ‘chicken cat.’ He could not have cared less about that either. But more often than not, because he was the only male in our house, I called him ‘The Man,’ and that one, I think he liked.

Years later, (after the acquisition of June Bug and Patra) Tibby grew ill and left the three of us behind. Now, his ashes watch over his harem from the top of my dresser, so although it is no longer the case, there was a time, when the ‘girl bed’ willingly sanctioned a boy.

But back to Skylar June. With no response to her summons, I venture into my boudoir to search her out. It’s apparent from the moment I enter that the mushroom-colored puddle in the middle of the bed is not liquid; it’s a ball of curled up sleepiness. I speak to her tenderly and my reward once again is…nothing. Not a heave or a twitch. Since I know for a fact that she is not deaf or dead, I carry on my soliloquy, hoping for a crumb of recognition. “JUNE BUG,” I say a little more forcefully. “Wake up, you lazy old cat! Don’t you want to say hello to Mommy?”

At about this point, she will lift her sculptured head, fix me with her azure eyes and bestow on me, the most adoring, affectionate gaze. Her whiskers nearly smile, but I know all the while, that she is subliminally muttering, “Go away, bitch! Can’t you see I’m sleeping?” She will then resume her nap and dismiss me with a sigh.

Ya gotta love Skylar June.

So these are the girls, and I had no idea how we would get along without one another for two whole months. I needed a Caregiver who was worthy of the title. Of course, the flip side of this coin was… Who the hell would want them? My cats look cute, but like babies, they have their downside. They pee, poop and shed copious amounts of hair. Skylar has a digestive problem and yaks all over the house–not just your household variety hairball yak, but she can projectile vomit… performing on a cue only she can hear. And if you’re really lucky, one or both of them just might present you with a half eaten mouse. (usually the back legs and tail) So the real question here is: Who in their right mind would accept responsibility for these two misfits…and not just for a weekend, but for two months?
I heaved a sigh, grabbed a pencil and paper and began to list possible solutions.

Option #1, Boarding: Take them to the vet’s where they would have 24 hour supervision. This translated into sticking them in a cage with a water bottle for two months with an occasional pat on the head from a 16 year old vet tech. This idea gave me the creepy crawlies, so I X’d it off.

Option #2, My next door neighbor Barb: Barb is wonderful and has often watched over them without complaint when I have gone on short, 4 or 5 day excursions. “Sure, I’ll be glad to,” she said initially when I approached her. “But not this weekend or this other weekend, oh and the third week in October we’ll be in—” Her heart was as always, in the right place, however, too many variables made this option feel unstable.

Option #3, A house sitter: Someone to live in my house rent-free for two months who would assume temporary custodianship of the girls in their own habitat. This idea had me a bit uncomfortable, (would you like a stranger living in your home?) but I reckoned I could suck it up for their sake. A friend of a friend said yes to this arrangement, but backed out, slamming the door on option #3.

“What about three different people,” offered up Jack as he threw in his two cents worth. “You know, someone to commit to Mondays and Tuesdays, someone else for Wednesdays and Thursdays, and a third victim for the weekends.” (Jack however, was not offering his services, just his opinion) I actually had volunteers to this half-witted notion, but the more I considered it, the plan seemed fraught with potential problems. I foresaw blown assignments, overriding obligations, unexpected emergencies…basically too many cooks in the kitchen. Seeming like the dumbest option yet, it too was deleted from the running.

I was faced with dead ends at every turn in this maze. France was my destiny, but how could I go forward without this tremendous puzzle piece in place? My action plans were bottoming out while I was slipping into a quicksand of depression.

“I’ll take them,” my savior calmly stated one day when we were at the office chatting. And by ‘chatting’… I mean I that was whining for the umpteenth time about my inability to solve this cat dilemema.

“They can come and live with me,” Dr. G. continued. “I have a finished basement that is entirely empty. They can stay there.”

“Wh-what?” I stammered. “Are you out of your mind? You already have two cats of your own, to which, I might remind you….YOU’RE ALLERGIC!
My mouth hung open and my eyes locked on his face.

Poor Dr. G. doesn’t just possess two cats that he is highly allergic to, he does so because of me and my son Brek. His offer just now, was not the first time he had stepped up to participate in cat-rescue. What happened was this..

One night, I was wakened from a sound sleep by my son who stood at the foot of my bed holding a cardboard box.
“Mom!” he whispered “Mom, are you asleep? We have a little situation here.”

As I groggily opened my eyes and sat up, he came around to the side of the bed and exposed the contents of the box. Three muddy, flea ridden, weeks old kittens were mewing sorrowfully inside. Brek and his buddy had been out driving around, as teenage boys do, when they spied a car offloading kittens on the side of the road. The driver then hit the gas and drove off. The boys scampered into the woods after the orphans and managed to rescue three of the six they had seen abandoned. Now these bawling, sniveling kittens were being presented to me, as my soft-hearted son was baffled as to what to do next.

Together, we ran warm water and bathed them over and over, each lather producing a rebirth of fleas. We then nursed them from eye droppers with warm honeyed-milk and wrapped them in fresh laundered towels. Because I already ‘owned’ Tibby and Skylar, I knew I needed to quickly find homes for these three discards.

Carting the pristine little fluff balls to work the next day produced no takers. No one was impressed by how adorable they were. It didn’t matter that they were cute and furry—and clean—no one at the office wanted them… until, at the very end of the day, Dr.G., whose heart is even softer than Brek’s, entered my office.
“Tough day?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yea,” I said forlornly while tickling the top of one kitten’s head.

“I’ll take two if you’ll take one,” he said, knowing I was plumb out of options.The end result of this drama was that Cleopatra came back home with me, increasing my menagerie to three, and the kind, albeit allergic Dr. G became the guardian of a brother-sister duo that were at that time, known as Batman and Marley.

Rewinding to the present: “It will be just fine,” he said, brushing my guilt aside like a piece of lint. “It’s the perfect solution. You can go away worry free, they will have plenty of space to roam and I will send you daily updates on their conduct. Decision over; they will live with me!”

Relief flooded my body and I gratefully embraced him, as there was no one in the whole world I could have trusted more.

So this was how my crucial and nearly unsolvable problem, got solved and how Skylar June and Cleopatra became the wards (with a de-luxe apartment underground) of my employer: my boss, my friend, Dr. G.

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You Too Can Do It On Four Pairs Of Knickers, Chapter 5

Posted on May 4, 2016 by viennajames

CHAPTER FIVE: AND SO IT BEGINS

Everyone has worked a jigsaw puzzle. You meticulously spread out all the pieces and then reassemble them to match the picture on the box-top. Should you seek a greater challenge, hide the top and work only from the memory of that picture. That is exactly what I felt I was doing with regards to this trip. I was moving pieces around to recreate the impression in my head, with no box-top to guide me. The pieces I was finagling at the moment were People.

I notified girlfriends first of my pending journey, weaving a libretto that left them gobstruck.

“Why?” they asked, “why are you doing this?” But their question was conjoined with love, respect, and a tad of envy.

I then told the identical tale to a few of my male friends. While I was asked the same why, their question was coupled with eye-rolling and the declaration that I was nuts.

One evening I was chatting on the phone with my friend Suzanna giving her the same shpiel. She and I had become acquainted years ago through our work contacts, and although she has since moved to Roanoke (four hours south of me), the distance has never been a barrier to our relationship.

“You are doing what and going where?” she cried.

“France!” I reiterated gleefully. “I’m going to France and I’m going alone! It’s not that I don’t want company, it’s just that it simply isn’t necessary! I have leased a two bedroom house on the off chance someone should decide they need a holiday. The only rule I’ll enforce is that no one can stay for more than a week or piggy-back on someone else’s visit. I am teeming with plans, like discovering tucked away villages and jetting on a high speed train to Paris or even Italy. I want to traipse through vineyards and olive groves, to drink red wine in cafés and eat mussels by the sea. My cup of ideas runneth over, but I must admit, listening to myself just now, it sounds like it would be more fun if I had someone to share it with…you know, like a Go-To-Girl.”

As I was chewing on this revelation, Suzanna who had been listening intently, (and probably drooling all over herself) pounced. “Me Jaime, me! I will be that go-to-girl! I’ve never been to France and already have a passport. When?” she briskly added, as if only just now grasping the pragmatics of her emotional pronouncement. ″When are you leaving?”

“September 15th,” I stated, “in about eight weeks.”

“I’m there!” she announced. “I’m so there! I’M your go-to girl!”

“Now hold your horses little Missy,” I said with authority. “Don’t you think you might be over reacting? (This felt like déjà vu with Emma.) It’s not that I’m trying to discourage you, but you have no idea if you can even get the time off work. And you have given no consideration to the expense. Hell, the flight alone will cost over $1000.” I gave her a minute to think through the logic and then said, “Sleep on it Suz. There’s plenty of time. I’ll call you tomorrow to see if you’re still interested.”

“Oh don’t you worry,” she assured me. “I won’t feel any different! What time will you call?”

“Eight,” I confirmed. “And it’s okay if you come to your senses. Even though this is a novel idea, my trip is not dependent on your or anyone else’s participation.” We clicked off the line.

I thought on and off next day about Suzanna’s proposal and I must admit that although I had not previously conceived such a notion, this idea was intriguing. As evening closed in, I found myself on a see-saw. The up side was that there was no doubt that commencing this trip with Suzanna would be more than amusing. She and I had once shared a holiday in Mexico where we rode horses in the sand, sunned on the beach, and got drunk off our asses from the endless stream of gratuitous margaritas provided by the resort. So I already knew that we traveled well together. But the downside was that my solo journey would no longer be solo. Ignorance can be bliss. Prior to this emerging option, I had been perfectly content.

I kept eyeing the clock as the time neared eight. Surely her boss had said no or a family member had pre-scheduled her time. Surely she had analyzed the costs and understood that they could spiral quickly. Surely she had weighed the pros and cons and found the scales tipping in favor of rejection.

Pirouetting with this negativity, I was prepared for her to rescind her offer when I placed the call. Because my phone had caller ID, she knew it was me before I could even say hello.

“Do you want to fly Air France or British Airways?” was her line of introduction. “I’m so there Jaime! We are SO going to France! I already cleared it at work and put my passport in my suitcase, but..” she said with a fractional pause, “there IS one thing I need to ask.

At that point, I put the brakes on my enthusiasm and felt my smile slide into a frown. I could sense that something was about to go wrong. “Can I stay for TEN days?” Her words gushed out, giving me no time to respond. “I know you said people were only welcome for seven, but do you think that it would be okay if I stayed ten?”

I was so relieved by this trivial hiccup, that the only words I could utter were, “Holy shit! Of course you can!” But just to make sure that I heard her right, I asked. “Are you really going to be my go-to girl?”

“Yes I am,” she declared, “if you’ll have me!”

I appreciated her query as it signaled her understanding that this was ‘my’ vision and that she did not wish to be an interloper.

“Oh, I’ll have you alright!” I declared. “Start brushing up on your French. You DO know some French right?”

“Not a single word!” she proclaimed with pride, “But that won’t slow me down for one second.”

Suzanna was a bonus I had never seen coming and with her in place it was time to take a serious look at transportation .

Would I need a car? Probably, but for how long? And should that car be a two door, four door, automatic or standard transmission?

What about airline tickets? Should I go with the cheapest fare, which would more than likely include multiple layovers, or should I splurge a little and shop only non-stops?

Would it be better or less expensive to purchase a Euro-rail pass now? If so, should it be secured for a day, a week, a month, or put off altogether until my feet were planted on French soil?

All of these things needed to be moved to the head of the line, but my pump had been primed with regard to visitors. The inclusion of Suzanna, gave me a glimmer of what it might be like to have guests. Were there other girl friends who might add salt or men who might add spice to this recipe? Since I had never tasted this potion before, how was I supposed to decide?

My history is to over-think matters. I’m always afraid that I’ll formulate a decision based on inaccurate or absent information. This analytic sensibility has been a blessing and a curse in my professional career and had me stymied and uncertain now.

Examining the ins-and-outs and getting more perplexed every second, the smoke suddenly cleared and the answer became obvious.

Invite the people you love, …. It was just that simple, until my doubting side countered. Hold on… what if I invite ten different people and they all say yes? Ten visitors in nine weeks equals chaos with not one minute to myself.

Invite the people you love, my inner voice repeated, and they will weed themselves out. They will search for reasons as to why it is impossible, moronic or undesirable. THEY will do it: you won’t have to.

So that is exactly what I did. I offered this opportunity to a few treasured people in my life; my children, some close girlfriends and a couple of men. I knew for a fact that they would not all indulge.

I submitted a beguiling scenario with joy, relish, and verve. What I was mostly repaid with, was skepticism, pessimism and doubt.

“Of course you’re hesitant,” I confirmed in respond to the dubious looks on their faces, “but just survey the amazing possibilities. I’m offering you a week’s vacation in the south of France with no strings attached. If anyone should be nervous, it’s me! I’m putting my job on hold and borrowing against my savings. I’m the one taking a risk, you’re going on Spring Break.”

But when I looked in their eyes, I understood their dilemma. They were grownups! And grownups have been taught to be responsible and level headed. Free spiritedness and spontaneity have been leached out of adults and replaced by guilt and fear. And because I had few Peter Pans in my entourage, these people, one at a time, (just as my epiphany had prophesied), began weeding themselves out.

I held no grudge, I simply became more in tune with my need to go. While my inner child was begging to be unleashed, she was also desirous of playmates. But I couldn’t egg them on, or shame them for their attitudes, I could only paint a pretty picture and make sure they saw the sincerity of my invitation. My two bedroom chateau was waiting, like a steamy cup of java, for cream and sugar. Once my people woke up and smelled the coffee, they would find their room and me, anticipating their arrival.

So although additional people were uncommitted at the moment, other puzzle pieces snapped together with precision.

The trip would commence on British Airways. Why you may ask? Simple! Less money, no layovers and complimentary wine! And since I love wine (I’m sure you’re aware of that by now) and rely on it to aid me with important decisions, I planned to drink gallons. My theory was that one could never start too soon, so an airline that offered it the moment you boarded, was right up my alley. I planned to refill my glass often as the scenery changed and the miles drifted away beneath me.

Suzanna and I together selected Barcelona as the port of entry since Madeline had informed me that car rentals in Spain were far more reasonable than in France. To save even more money, and fully comprehending that it had been over twenty years since I had driven one, I chose standard transmission over automatic. I was so confident that I would regain my skills, I hired this car for the entire length of my stay. I had places to go and wonderful things to see. My own transport opened me up to even more adventures as well as the ability to pilot myself back to Barcelona at the end of my journey.

The photograph in my head was now in the final process of being developed and I knew that the longer the film sat in the chemical bath, the clearer and more permanent the image would be.

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You Too Can Do It On Four Pairs Of Knickers, Chapter 4

Posted on April 30, 2016 by viennajames

CHAPTER FOUR: WHAT’S NEXT?

My seed of an idea was now sprouting. I was gaining confidence in my ability to make decisions, but still had one last office related chore to perform. I needed to inform the staff and I needed to do it before my little secret leaked out. These people were more than mere co-workers or minions, they were my friends. Because turn-over in our organization was practically nonexistent, we had had years to learn, nurture and grow together. This was a group of hard working, dedicated women, and because we trusted and depended on each other, their opinion of my plan, mattered.

The first Tuesday of every month we hold a staff meeting consisting of clinical and administrative personnel. Patient care is postponed for an hour to realign with our mission statement. Complaints are voiced, solutions proposed, proposals denied, counter offers submitted. So although there is always an agenda, these meetings that have only estrogen in attendance, can frequently take on the tone of a hen house. Tuesday June 6th unfortunately turned out to be one of those days. This had been the target date to disseminate my information and there was no turning back. With only 8 more minutes remaining and the atmosphere charged with high volume energy, I went for broke.

“There is one more thing I would like to announce,” I said a little sheepishly. No one paid attention so I tried again. “Excuse me, there is something I really need to tell you.” The cacophony continued.

Emma knew what was coming and came to my rescue. “QUIET!” she shouted, “Jaimie has something else to say.” The boil reduced to a simmer, so I charged on.

“I’ve been employed here at Brooks Family Medicine for over 20 years and like everyone else, I have taken my share of vacations. But this time I feel that I need more than a holiday break. I need to enrich my life and it will take more than seven days to do it. So I’ve decided to take a sabbatical for two months… I’m going to the south of France.”

The simmer turned to silence. I braced myself for the consensus that I was having a mid-life crisis, or like my daughter, conclude that I had some incurable disease. But I held my ground. Although I saw many stunned faces, it was me that ended up being shocked, not them. One clap, closely followed by another, broke the silence until I was wreathed in a standing ovation.

“You go girl! was shouted, followed by, “Oh Jaime, that is utterly fantastic!”
And then the twenty voices were spanking me with a butt-load of questions, ALL of which were positive!

″When?″ they asked. ″Where in France? Who’s going with you? What airline are you flying? Do you know anyone there? Will you get a car? Can we come too? Will you come back?”

Not one person said “What the hell are you thinking?” or “Is this some kind of joke?” And nope, there was not even one “Are you out of your freaking mind?”
Instead they were like party kids vying to be the first to strike the piñata as their questions danced around the room.

I was reassured by their enthusiasm, but aware that we were running short on time, so I seized back the reins.

“I will never be this young or healthy again in my life. This is as good as it’s ever going to get. Every day I will get a little older, but not necessarily one smidge smarter, so I’m not wasting another second debating the pros or cons of this trip. I do, however, need your acceptance and the security of knowing that you all will take care of our business in my absence. And just for the record, I DO intend to return.”

I was again rewarded with smiles and head bobs, so decided to take a quick stab at providing the few answers that I had in my possession.“September” I stated. “I’m leaving in the middle of September and won’t return until the end of November.

My French location is a tiny anchovy fishing village named Collioure. It is set on the coast of the Mediterranean Sea near the Spanish border and is walking distance to vineyards and beaches.

No one is going with me, however, I’m open to guests. I have rented a two bedroom doll house and would welcome anyone who felt the lure to discover France.

I’m leaning towards British Airways because Air France seems unable to compete in price or luxury. I haven’t yet decided if I will fly into Paris and then train down to Collioure… or if I will enter through Barcelona, pick up a rental car and cruise up the Spanish coast to France. Since I’m undecided at this point, I’ve downloaded maps on my portable Garmin, just to be on the safe side. There are still many unknowns and I’m both excited and a bit frighted at the same time.

And lastly, the answer to the question of, ’Do I know anybody in France,’ is No. Not one living soul!”

Their eyes began to glaze as I witnessed a combination of envy and respect, sautéing in a skillet of approval. I was professing an intention that most people only fantasize about. I was seizing the moment and doing what many of them would never even attempt. This was all very out of character for me, and I’m sure that on some level, they doubted my ability to pull it off. Hell, I doubted my own ability. But they were on board and I breathed a sigh of relief.

As the meeting broke up, everyone scrambled to refocus on the afternoon schedule. Everyone save one, who lingered behind. Caroline had been born in England and although very Americanized, retained her European heritage as well as her British accent. She touched my arm and with wonder in her voice said, “Jaime, I’m so proud of you. America is a lovely country, but there is so much more out there. I’m thrilled that you see that. Please keep me posted through every leg of your journey!”
Unable to speak, I grabbed her up, squeezed her hard and listened as another tumbler on the combination-lock went ‘click.’

Posted in continuing sagas, travel, Uncategorized, writing | 2 Comments