Pat and Martin's Travel Adventures
September 6, 2016
Today we left our cabin on the edge of the forest and the shore of the fjord in a rain storm. Along the way, we shot through endless tunnels cutting through massive mountains of stone. We skimmed past along lakes and along the coast through mist, drizzle, and deluge.
As the sky cleared, mountains began to a
ppear from across the silver sea. Layer upon layer of pale grey, dark grey, misty blue peaks emerged, veiled by shifting clouds.
Serendipity is delightful! We were driving on a forested road back to our cabin after a demanding and rewarding hike to the top of a peak overlooking the fjord, the valleys and layer upon layer of mountains. Why am I not writing to you about that impressive scene? We planned it, we persevered, and we conquered it. We have bragging rights.
The answer is this: Serendipity. Something caught my eye, something unusual. Martin pulled the car over. He started towards the overlook. “No,” I called, “it’s over here.” We looked down at a steep gorge, with flat rocks that tumbled in every imaginable angle and massive rectangles of stone making deranged stair steps. It looked as though a mighty castle had been swept off a high cliff by Thor himself, and had crashed in pieces down a plunging chute. Here was a a suggestion of an ancient stone wall, there was a ledge like a rampart, here was a giant cornerstone thrown by some unfathomable force greater than anything we have ever witnessed.
All this was remarkable. But it was the very absence of something that was even more amazing. One would expect to see in such a precipitous gorge deep, churning water gushing down the mountain. Not so. Water languidly pooled and gurgled and slowly made its way down, no deeper than a foot or two. In this wild place, forged with huge forces, there was calm.
And there was something else even more extraordinary: Bright green, spongy mosses covered the banks with tufts a foot deep. Everything was blanketed in nature’s velvet. Below, every rock wore its mantle of green. Walking across a six-foot slab in the gorge was like stepping from a shower onto a plush bathmat. What looked treacherous from above, when encountered up close, became a benign paradise. You could step from one stone to the next without ever touching water, without fear of slipping. Up ahead, a place where you might plunge to your death in a cascade of water. No, merely natural steps leading to the next calm pool, spread with spongy green cushions.
We could have whizzed by in our car. Instead, we looked twice. A few minutes turned into an hour. We happened upon this place where everything was not as you would expect. A place of dreams. The spawning ground of nymphs.
August 29, 2016
Today is our anniversary. Two years minus two days ago today, on a cool morning, Martin took me to Pont St. Michel. All the way along the bridge, left and right, the bridge glittered with hundreds of locks, linked, together, on this span above the Seine. Lover’s vows and lovers’ hopes squeezed close, bound to its guard rails, locked with keys that have gone to the four corners of the earth.
In the end, the burden grew too heavy for one bridge to bear. One sad day, the appointed executioner severed every lock. All those lovers know not where their locks now lay. They only know what is preserved in their hearts. Every click of the lock was an act of courage, hope or steadfastness. How do these stories end? How many of them have stayed truer to their love than did the locks upon the bridge?
We know only what is in our own hearts. Actually, we are lucky if we do know our own hearts. The path to that knowledge can be perilous, and declarations of love can exact the courage of a lion – or maybe even a lioness.
Two years minus two days ago today, on a sunny afternoon, Martin suggested we go to the park at the tip of Isle de Saint Louis. As we leaned against the ancient stone railing, watching the Seine flow by, he asked me a very important question. I gave a very important answer. We sealed it with a very significant kiss.
Now, one year ago exactly, on a sunny afternoon, we celebrated our one-year wedding anniversary. We returned to that overlook on the tip of Isle de Saint Louis. Together, we locked a shiny new golden lock – not on a bridge that could in time be unable to support the weight, but on the solid rock of an ancient island. There was no question. However, it was sealed with a very important kiss.
August 28, 2016
Whenever I come to Paris, I always get a special feeling. I have wondered what it is about this city that touches an emotional core. After four days of wandering through the Latin Quarter, strolling the banks of the Seine, and lingering in cafes, something came to light. Morning, noon and night, people live their lives communally on the side streets of their neighborhoods.
One morning, we sat at a sidewalk cafe bakery, sipping cafe au lait and nibbling the flaky, golden crust of a croissant. I watched the people. It was early, and few tourists had ventured out. I watched the locals; you knew them immediately. The mother pushing the stroller. The man in the suit carrying two baguettes home under his arms. The young woman in the red skirt on the bicycle. The old woman carrying the basket of vegetables. It occurred to me that Parisiennes live their lives together, in the streets. They meet. They greet. They eat. Each day, they go to the corner fruit stand, and to the bakery and to the butcher, and that it was all here, on this very street.
A man sat at the table behind us near the entrance, bantering with the waiter and conversing with those who strolled in. “Ah, ah,” he says to me, “Prenez la table comme ca, pour votre spouse. Il a les jambes longue!” And he popped over to assist with sliding the table over so Martin had more room. I had been oblivious to this need. Smiles and laughs. Voila! Un ami nouveau. Then, there was my backpack to attend to. “Oh, no, no. Votre sac, ne le prenez pas ici.” And he gestured to the other side of my table, near the protective planter. I had not noticed the peril my possession was in. Indeed, I myself was in need of protection. My patron then felt that we needed a picture–perhaps to record the utter perfection of the arrangement. I focused the camera for him and handed it over, whereupon he walked into the street instead and snapped the shutter with aplomb. (The picture turned out featuring a trash bin and barely squeezing our faces in.)
A handsome young man with blonde hair, sitting at a table across from us, gave us an amused wink. (He had escaped the attentions of the patron.) Voila! Another conversation ensued. He was from Copenhagen, Mikel, here for six months studying and staying with his friend Dominique, who of course, he also introduced. When Mikel found out we were celebrating our anniversary in Paris, and that indeed we had been married only one year, he became effusive. We had come to the perfect place! Dominique chimed in with a restaurant recommendation (Loulou’s near the Louvre, which turned out to be excellent). Mikel jumped in to tell us we must also go to the Jardin du Luxembourg right now, for the blooming flowers. They are the best. He sees them every day when he jogs. He declared, “I love this city. It is my home. You are so, so welcome here!” And he said it with such sincerity, we did indeed feel the city had opened its arms to us.
August 17, 2016
The day did not bode well. We had planned to hop on the ferry to the island of Aeros around midday. The good thing was that most tourists had gone home, and they had cut the ferry fees in half. The bad thing was that they fully booked their ferries. We had our reservations all set at this charming 18th century thatch-roofed farmhouse near the village of Aeroskobing, and how were we going to get there? We ended up negotiating our way out of our difficulties by driving half an hour to another harbor, waiting for several hours, and finally getting on board. Fortunately it was a fart faerie (it means “fast”, and yes, we did resort to 6-year-old humor to while the time away).
Upon arrival to the port, our driving time to our destination had doubled. Still resilient of spirit and in good humor as a result of our prolonged engagement fart-faerie-f-word humor, we set out to find the place. Meanwhile, we tried eight times to connect with Michael on Skype and show him our idyllic new abode. We failed. This was a bad omen.
Throughout the land, golden fields of wheat and grass were being shorn. Farm machinery was on the move, furiously mowing and threshing, piling, baling and hauling. We urbanites enjoyed it for the first five minutes. Then, I began to sneeze, drip, run and tear. Those old allergies that I thought were a thing of the past, blew in with a vengeance. I finally contained myself, my face wrapped with so much kleenex, I looked like a wounded veteran of foreign wars. Bing! Michael came through. Just in time for the dramatic first view of our new place. What fun! The dialogue went something like this: “Oh, I think it’s just up ahead. . . Google maps says we’re here…No, it can’t be right… That’s because it isn’t…(Other chit chat as the winding drive continues.) Here it is! This is IT! This is it? …What are we in for?…Where is the entrance? … How do we get in? …OMG…” At this point, Michael had to go to work.
Well, we did get a text from our host telling us to go into the old stable to find the key. We hardly could tell which building was intended for horses and which one was for us. After clever finagling with the old key, the door opened. I went in with no problem. Martin, however, being 6 foot 3, had to double over like an appendicitis victim in order to enter the doorway. Even I had to concede that these ceilings were designed by midget demons. Not only that, but every time one entered a new room, there was a 6-inch threshold to trip on. It was a strange warp of time to enter this house. Flooring transitioned from bleached wood to tile to thread-bare rooming house carpet without warning. Antique painted wood china cabinet coexisted with Ikea futon couch. A wooden country kitchen table shared space with a glass coffee table held up with wheels which had been removed from a bed frame. The bed mattresses which were not intended for us lay naked in their striped ticking. This was not the best of Danish design.
Martin travels with every imaginable electronic device, cable, and plug. (Not a surprise, knowing his former profession.) Also true to his engineering nature, the first thing he does in a strange place is to investigate every light switch and electric socket. The afternoon light was rapidly dimming. The windows were small. This was a prudent notion. Half an hour later, he had still not figured out how to turn the kitchen lights on. This was not an auspicious sign. My nose was dripping. I was afraid I might electrocute myself if I assisted. Things were really not looking good.
Well, you may be wondering at the title of this story, “The Best Thing Today”. It is, simply put, that one thing that can put right all ills of the day — that thing called “Dinner”. We fled the place, twisted our way into town and flung ourselves through the courtyard gates of a place called — yes, it’s true — “Nunm”. We had a bottle of wine and one of the best dinners of our whole trip.
