Three Stories from La Place de la Concorde

The first story takes place at a time when the traffic driving around this square is much more plentiful, before télétravail--working from home--becomes the new normal.  My family and I wait for the little green man to light up, signaling it's probably safe to cross.  You have to keep your eyes and ears open in Paris, no matter what the crossing light says.  While we wait, our attention is caught by a white van stopped in the middle of the road.  A workman gets out in distress because his van has hit a besuited man on a bike.  The man in the suit stands up on the cobbled street, presumably angry at the offender who even at a distance we can tell is making profuse apologies.  The suited man will have none of it.  The owner of the white van holds out a conciliatory bottle of water, perhaps the only thing he has to offer as amends.   The man in the suit refuses, straddles his now slightly wobbly bicycle and pedals off.  Maybe this is the wrong reaction, but I find myself feeling really sorry for the man in the white van.  But also, be careful riding your bike in Paris!

The year is 1940.  The French government has abandoned Paris, and the Nazis are coming.  The United States is not yet involved in this latest European storm, and Paris is full of at least 30,000 Americans.  Many of them flee, too.  But the American ambassador remains.  William Bullitt is made provisional mayor of Paris by France's Prime Minister and Interior Minister, entrusted with the safety of Paris as she awaits the arrival of the German army.  When the Nazis arrive to claim and occupy the French capital, it is an American who meets them and oversees the transfer of power.  Many Nazi officials take up residence in the Hôtel de Crillon pictured above.   Just across a small street, peeking out behind the hotel sits the American Embassy, and when the German occupiers attempted to run a telephone cable across the street to be hooked up to the embassy's line, the Americans said a bold, "No."   

Two days after I snapped my latest picture of the Luxor Obelisk (I can't help but take a picture of this shiny-topped beauty every time I pass.) it marked its 137th anniversary of presiding with pride of place over the Place de la Concorde.  Someone once told me Napoléon brought this massive stone back from Egypt, but this turns out to be misinformation.  This obelisk, erected by Rameses II in front of the temple in Luxor, was in fact, a gift to Louis-Philippe, the last French king, from the viceroy of Egypt in 1833.  I'm happy to know it wasn't stolen, because covered in hieroglyphics, it's a treasure indeed.

Family Bike Rides

 Last night we went on a family bike ride.  

As we gathered cameras and helmets and K.J. pumped air into sagging tires I had a flashback to when I was a teenager and our family opted to do a self-guided river-rafting adventure down the Nantahala River.  At least, I'm pretty sure that was this trip, and we were on the Nantahala?  Maybe I'm wrong.  But I'm definitely right about it being the self-guided option, and without the official instructor giving instructions, I remember those first moments on the river.  

None of us were really working together, we were frustrated, but then finally, somehow, we got into a groove and figured out what we were doing and had a really good time.

Last night we all had various problems starting out:  the wrong shoes, unfamiliar bike gears, bikes that were uncomfortable sizes, someone (maybe me) who went on a 5-mile ride with her husband the night before already had a sore rear end and groaned when she sat back down on that seat.  K.J. said, "This might be a really short ride."  Who could blame him for thinking so?

But somehow, we found our groove.

And that's just the way it is with family endeavors or maybe with any other kind of group.  The less-than-stellar start won't define the whole journey.  The grumpy attitudes will get worked out, and the best part of the memory will be like mine rafting down the Nantahala with my family:  the taste of the cold, sweet water splashing in my mouth and the thrill of the ride.

Feed the Birds

The first morning we wake up in England is at the tail-end of the recent heatwave on this side of the Atlantic, and it feels stuffy inside.  J and I go out to eat breakfast on a bench overlooking the harbor.  It's cool and overcast now, and it's such a relief after the constant sweating of the past week.  The sound of squawking seagulls interrupts the morning peace.  I look just to my left and point out to J that the seagulls must be hoping for a few droppings as the bins are emptied.

This man's partner walks toward us to empty another bin and stops to shoot the breeze.

"We feed the baby seagulls every morning."

So they're not just hoping for accidental droppings; they're flying in for a breakfast buffet they know to expect.

"Seagulls are smarter than you think.  Sometimes people put bags on the top of the bins to keep them from getting in, and we've seen them go flying straight into them to knock them off the top."

"Sometimes we have to break up fights between the seagulls and the crows."

My mind conjures up a picture of rival gangs in West Side Story, and I'm reminded that every life and every job has something interesting to lighten the load.  It makes me happy that these men spend their mornings feeding the birds while they keep the harbor clean.

A little child shall lead them.

One of the hopes of Emmanuel International Church in meeting together in the parks around Paris this summer is that we might be a blessing to those we encounter in the city while we're not meeting in a building.  Speaking English in the middle of France can often lend itself to impromptu conversations with strangers.  It occurs to me this morning that God may have answered that prayer in our group last night in an unexpected way.

It was so exciting to see people again in person yesterday afternoon after months of Zoom calls, and I especially enjoyed seeing the kids reunite.  One little boy in particular is the most joy-filled, exuberant little fellow I have ever met, and he rushed up to greet us excitedly when he arrived at the little spot we claimed in a park near the Eiffel Tower.

All around La Tour Eiffel there are men selling miniature Eiffel Tower replicas in several sizes.  They approach everyone who meets their eyes and some who don't to try to sell a key chain for un euro.  They spend their days selling some, being rejected a lot (much more now I imagine without tourists in the city due to COVID-19), and packing up in a hurry if law enforcement tells them to clear out.  It can't be fun.  Many of these men are from Northern Africa and beyond, far from home and family.

Last night as our church family gathered on picnic blankets, I looked up to see a man walk to the center of our group.  Before anyone could say, "Non, merci." to his offerings, this 3-year-old boy ran straight to him with a huge smile and joyful laughter, wrapping his little arms around this big man's knees, and looked up at him with shining eyes.   The man smiled in surprise and immediately dropped his offerings on the ground and dug out a key chain to give as a gift, free of charge.  To this little boy, this stranger was one of the family, deserving of a happy welcome, and after a day of rejections, I can't help but think that adorable hug and grin was a highlight.

I think I'm going to bring some extra euros to church in the park next week.  Everyone needs a miniature Eiffel Tower or two.

Paris in the Fall

When the sky is a bright blue the Arc shines white against its backdrop.  I sit on a bench with a friend and talk while more and more tourists crowd the sidewalk.  The chestnut trees drop their leaves first.  They’re brown and crunchy under my feet as I walk down the garden paths beside the Champs-Élysées about an hour later.

A man with a crêpe stand on a bicycle jogs beside it as he pushes it quickly down the path.  The fountains in the Jardin des Ambassadeurs spray water cheerfully.  It won’t be long before they’re turned off for the winter.  I notice a grouping of statues I’ve never seen before, but I don’t see a sign explaining what they are. I walked to this park a lot when we lived in the city.

I sit on a bench to rest my feet.  Even small outings in Paris begin to hurt your feet, and I’ve walked the length of the Champs-Élysées.  I scroll through Instagram and listen to an American couple on the bench next to me debate which way to go as they study a map, rotating it to get the direction right.  I stop and offer them help when I get up to leave, but they’ve figured it out.  They were looking for the nearest Metro stop.  

I continue walking through construction work still happening at Place de la Concorde and make it to W.H. Smith.  It’s a haven of beautiful books, but I have no budget for buying new books, except I do pick up the newest illustrated Harry Potter for Ella.  We had it on pre-order at Amazon, but we’ve had so many problems with deliveries lately.  I’m happy with the decision to stop in and buy it here, because I get a free tote bag with the cover illustration on it.  The only downside is I now have to carry this very heavy book that I don’t want to get damaged around Paris the rest of the afternoon.  

I cross the Rue de Rivoli for a little walk in Tuileries.  I sit in a reclining chair and people watch for a few minutes, drinking the Strawberry Cream Diet Coke I picked up at W.H. Smith.  I keep wishing they’d stock Diet Mountain Dews again.  It was such a fun surprise that time I discovered them there, a happy reminder of home.  It won't be long before the long rows of trees have scrawny bare limbs, but for now, autumn is in Paris.

Lyme Regis, a short tale

I'm looking at town names on Google Maps as we make our way to our yurt campsite (wouldn't you like to visit Puddletown?) when I notice how close we are to Lyme Regis.  We decide to make an unplanned stop.  Jane Austen wrote about this seaside town in Persuasion, and I find her descriptions online and read them aloud as we near the roundabout for our detour. 

The first thing I notice from The Cobb car park is a bright pink building, first in line of the long row above the bay.  The beach is made up of small brown, white, and gray stones, but there is a small strip of sand running into the sea as well.  The expanse of sand is probably much bigger when the tide is completely out. 

Three children are laughing and squealing as they swim in the sea, one last swim before summer vacation is over perhaps.  It’s not too windy in this protected bay.  Big boulders are piled along one side, and I can see tall rolling hills of green and brown in the distance.  They disappear slowly into the mist.

I spy a promising looking corner bookshop on the main road.  It is filled to the brim with stacks and shelves of books--so many books!  But there aren’t just books in the shop; it is filled with all kind of things.  Random things.  There are lava lamps, old paintings, and a trombone leans against a bookshelf in the corner.  Rickety wooden steps invite you to go downstairs, but I’m afraid the shop is about to close, and I don’t go down.  Ella finds an ordinance survey map of Scotland K.J. is looking for, and I give the preoccupied shopkeeper a two pound coin before stepping back onto the main street. 

Red, white, and blue bunting hangs across the street joining the two rows of shops and restaurants.  It’s a low uphill climb to the top of the street.  When I look back I can just see a rectangle of blue sea and sky beyond.  It starts to rain lightly.  It lasts just long enough for me to put my camera in its bag to keep it dry.  We turn around to walk back down the street, and shining through the rectangle is a rainbow curving gently toward the water.  I’ve almost forgotten what a land of rainbows England is, with its constant shift of rain, cloud, and sun. 

Suddenly a man steps quickly out of a bakery on the opposite side of the street with a big bell in his hand.  I'm just beginning to wonder what he's up to when he raises his arm and rings the bell loudly, calling out in a deep voice:  “World-class quiches one pound fifty!”  Clang!  Clang!  Clang!  World-class quiches one pound fifty!” and walks back into the shop in two long strides. Ella and I look at each other and burst out laughing.  She supposes that it’s closing time, and everything is marked down.  I love the idea of a small town crier coming out into the street every night to let everyone know the price of bread is now reduced. 

The rainbow lingers over the sea as we meet back up with K.J. and James at the public toilets and get back into the car.  It’s just a quick stop, but I'll always remember it.

"A very strange stranger it must be, 

who does not see charms in the immediate 

environs of Lyme, 

to make him wish to know it better."

- Jane Austen - 

Something Different

Living in a different country than the one I was raised in gives me a heightened awareness of the things happening around me.  I notice what is the same and what is different, how what is different can usually be connected with what is familiar in some way.  

We've all had the experience of passing the homeless or down-and-out person on the street.  If you're from the southeastern United States like I am, it's probably been in your car.  If you're in a city it's outside a subway or on a crowded street.  We all struggle to know what to do in those situations and respond differently depending on how prepared we are or in how much of a hurry.  Sometimes we give money or pray for them as we go by.  In Alabama you might give them a bottle of water and a burger, a Coca-cola.  In Paris you often see such a person with a baguette and a bottle of wine.  

There's a man who sits outside our local supermarket.  He's nearly always there when I go inside.  I don't know his story, but I see him sit, and I watch people be kind, stopping to pass the time of day in a language I only understand the smallest fraction of.  Small towns are like that all over the world, I guess.  People slow down and care for one another.  

Some days I see a smattering of coins around him, sometimes that ever-present baguette or other food offering.  But one day as I was leaving the supermarket I noticed something I'd never noticed before in a situation like this.  There he sat, a fixture in this small town, surrounded by small houseplants and flowers.  I don't know who first left an offering of beauty, but for this day on the pavement there were flowers, bright spots of color on a grey day.

Traveling

Sunday morning I walked downstairs to eat breakfast in the hotel reception area.  A couple of tables over one man was explaining to his companion how the French press their coffee was served in worked.  In England they call it a cafetiѐre.  I realized they were Americans, a fact that I should have realized sooner because when I'd walked in the room, one of them made eye contact and smiled at me, which my brain now registers as slightly unusual behavior.  The man then got up and asked for wheat bread while the man serving us clarified, "Brown?"   I smiled inwardly because all these differences were once unknown to me, too.  

I asked where they were from.  Texas.  We got to talking about who we were and what brought us to a hotel in Canterbury.  He told me about when he was in high school and a revival broke out in their small central Texas town, and they would meet in a different church each night.  They moved from the Baptist to the Methodist to the Lutherans.  Part of his story included skipping band practice because "it was August, and we had to get ready for football season."  He didn't have to explain that to me, though.  I know all about band camp.

I walked into Poundland to see what things I might buy for one pound that day.  The self-checkouts were in Elvis mode.  The King's voice sang out:  That's one for the money, two for the card." After I paid he said, "Thank you, a-thank you very much."  

I was standing outside our hotel waiting for K.J. to unlock the door as a couple walked by, and I couldn't help but think the tones of the woman talking to her husband sounded familiar.  She smiled as she passed me, and I almost let them walk by without speaking, but then I called out, "Where are you from?"  Florida.  She's a genealogist, a word I keep having trouble spelling, and she and her husband both have their roots in families in Kent.  She knows who her 10th great-grandfather is, and they're staying with some of her husband's 4th cousins.  She can trace her family's journey from England to Virginia.  They're black Americans, and I wonder what hard things were uncovered in this tracing of their family trees, but she doesn't mention any of that.  They're both so thrilled with finding their English roots.  She tells me to have a blessed day when we part ways.  

We've spent all afternoon and night in the car and arrive after 10 p.m. at our AirBNB.  Our hostess explains to me how everything works in German, and I nod along and say okay because I think I can understand about the sofa bed and the kitchen tap, but her final instructions in which I only understand the word auto are a complete mystery to me.  Hopefully we didn't need to know whatever she said too much.  

We try to unpack the essentials to get everyone to bed, and as I'm putting things in the fridge I look up and see a mouse scurry along the side of the wall behind a cabinet.  Of course I jump in the nearest kitchen chair.  (Why do we do this?  Is the mouse going to hurt me?)  This is not a happy beginning, and not for the first time on this trip do I think about leaving reviews on AirBNB and debate my desire to give constructive criticism with not wanting to cause people to lose business when otherwise the place is perfectly fine.

We're sitting at the table in the garden at the end of the following day eating pizza and enjoying the sunset.  The other half of our AirBNB host appears to greet us.  He's in his 70s and has a bright smile.  He asks how everything is, accepts a Sweet Chili potato chip.  He speaks a little English, identifies a flower K.J. photographed on his morning bike ride.  He ruffles James' hair as he says good night.  He's delighted that we're here, and we decide not to write anything about the mouse.

An Easter Sunday Anniversary

Happy Easter!  The above photo was taken last year on Easter Sunday 2017.  That morning I couldn't take a step on my left foot without a searing, stabbing pain shooting up my leg.  It was like walking on glass, which 7 months later we would finally discover was exactly what I was doing with every step.  

I stood in the hallway and cried last Easter Sunday because of the pain and then limped to church and played the piano, limped back home and served Easter Sunday lunch to our family and a guest because that's what grown-ups have to do.  I'm just so thankful that's all over, and I'm especially thankful today, the anniversary of when this saga began.  It's appropriate that it's on a day of resurrection and new life.

This Easter Sunday morning I can take a walk through Paris without pain, and I've never been more thankful for pain-free mobility.

The Tale of a Piece of Glass

Eleven years and three months ago, I was an 8-month pregnant 24-year-old who dropped a glass in our kitchen in Louisville, Kentucky.  I'm sure I picked up the big pieces, but instead of sweeping carefully in all the nooks and crannies to make sure every last piece of glass was off the floor, I took the lazy way out.  I pulled out our red Hoover and set it on hardwood floor mode and vacuumed the kitchen.  #Lazy before hashtags were a thing.

I woke up that night with a horrible leg cramp in my right leg that left me limping to the kitchen the next morning where my left foot found a piece of glass.  I think it went in pretty deep.  I cried and pulled it out and felt that my life was unfairly hard as I was now limping with one leg and walking on my toes with the other foot as I gingerly made my way down the hospital hallway to a breastfeeding class that night.  

The pain from the glass and the leg cramp soon went away and 10 years and 2 months passed by with me recalling that incident every now and again.  It was so painful that I never forgot it.  Last October I went too quickly down our carpeted stairs in sock feet, and I slipped, banging the arch of my foot into the bottom piece of wood on a chair at the foot of the stairs.  I had a little blood blister, and my arch was sore but felt better in a couple of days.  About 3 weeks later I started having a horrible stabbing pain in my left foot, and I saw a soft lump form.  The lump gradually went away.  I rested and iced my foot.  I thought maybe I'd pinched a nerve as well from using a rolling pin to massage my foot with Ella (who was doing that for some heel pain at the suggestion of the podiatrist). 

For 6 months I was aware that something wasn't quite right with the left arch, but the stabbing pains went away, and I wore good shoes all winter, so all was well until spring came.  I wear walking boots and house-shoes most of the time in North Yorkshire, so when the weather turned, bare feet, flip-flops, and flats felt so fun.  But the night before Easter my stabbing pain was back, and I was in tears Easter Sunday as each step felt like stepping on a knife.  I spent our Easter holiday get-away in Whitby sitting on the sidelines, icing my foot and taking ibuprofen.  I assumed that maybe all this pain was plantar fasciitis since it came in the wake of a lot of bad footwear choices.  For months, I iced and stretched and rested and iced and stretched some more.  I bought insoles.  I paid the most I've ever paid for running shoes with good support.  I missed out on family walks.  It would seem to get better, and then the pain would be really bad again.

Sitting at Robin Hood's Bay while the rest of my family played on the beach

Since our family vacation to Scotland at the end of August, it has been horrible.  I've missed walking around town, dropping by friend's houses, taking Ella on her birthday party outing.  September felt particularly discouraging, as after 6 months I was feeling like this was my life now.  

Trying not to let the crutches slow me down

One Wednesday night at our church gathering an army doctor friend examined my foot, and as I was pointing out where exactly the pain was we both felt a small bump.  He said he really thought it didn't sound like plantar fasciitis and looked up the name of a couple of orthopedic surgeons I could call.  It felt like such a lifeline.  Because I wasn't sure about the plantar fasciitis anymore either; I just knew I needed someone to look inside my foot and see what was going on and feeling that bump in the exact place of the pain felt like such a good starting point.  

We fast forward through the initial guess about what it could be, which still didn't have the nicest prognosis, to the ultrasound scan where the doctor and K.J. and I were both surprised to see that my plantar fascia looked absolutely fine.  There was just something there that shouldn't be, most likely a piece of glass.  

Are you kidding me?

Since having a piece of glass embedded in your foot isn't really the type of thing likely to happen without noticing, we really think it's from that broken glass in Kentucky all those years ago.  It's the only time I've stepped on glass, and it was embedded in my foot.  It obviously formed some kind of protective barrier that was dislodged when my foot hit the chair last year.  Ever since it has moved a bit, sometimes hitting all the most sensitive nerves in my foot causing reverberating pain when I put my weight on it.  It's so crazy that something so small, so normal, so routine, could have been the cause of such pain and frustration for so many months.  Yet, I am so overwhelmingly grateful that this is the case!  After living with chronic pain for 7 months, I'm a little hesitant to believe it's all over, but as long as the wound heals well, it should be a distant memory in another few months.  

Moral of the story?  Don't be lazy.  Sweep up your broken glass, or it might come back to haunt you. 

This morning I read Psalm 20-21, and this verse stands out as the cry of my heart this morning:  "You have given him his heart's desire and have not denied the request of his lips."   Here's to a future of walking and being so grateful for every step.

Stories from the Road, vol. i

Last month when we spent at afternoon in Robin Hood's Bay we stopped in for a late lunch of fish and chips at the Fish Box.

As we were sitting at a table waiting for our order to be ready, a lady came rushing in with stress and anxiety oozing off her.  She sat her elderly mother down at a table across from ours, and I couldn't help but overhear her frantic voice on the phone explaining her situation to a car recovery company.  Her car had broken down and she was now stranded here with her 90-year-old mother who had dementia.  It was definitely a stressful situation for her as she made phone calls and then did what every good British person does in a stressful situation:  procured a cup of tea.  

When her order was called and she left her table to pick it up, K.J. and I glanced over at her mother, who looked back at her daughter and then over at us and said cheerfully, "I don't know where she's going, or why I'm here!  I tell you, the older you get, the more worries you have."  We laughed and smiled at her reassuringly.  K.J. told her to just sit tight.  In the midst of the chaos and with a mind that no longer comprehended it all, there was nothing for this lady to do but sit tight and smile.  

I loved that moment.  I thought of that sweet lady again today when I was reading those familiar verses from Matthew 6 where Jesus tells us not to worry about what we'll eat or what we'll wear or money or anything that's going to happen in the future at all because we have no control over any of it!  And in life's chaotic moments we don't have a stressed-out Father in heaven making frantic phone calls to try and sort it all out.  We can sit tight because He "knows what you need before you ask him."  And if you're British, you might as well enjoy that cup of tea.

240 Years

We had friends over last night to celebrate the Fourth...English friends which feels slightly strange when you stop to think of the event we are commemorating.  It made me stop and give thanks that the bad feelings between our two nations didn't continue for too long.  It was a really fun night, a typical July 4th in England perhaps, listening to rain on the conservatory roof, being glad I chose to do BBQ chicken in the oven and hamburgers on the George Forman grill instead of cooking outside.  The day was filled with sunshine, though, even if the night was filled with rain.

I didn't take any pictures last night amidst the fun and mayhem of lots of children, but I did have a few from our celebration on a local American base a few days ago.

Last August our church went door-to-door with leaflets about Grace Church so people in the surrounding villages would know where we were.  One of those leaflets made it through the doorway of an American military family who never would have found us without them!  The Geis family then became regular attenders at Grace Church until they went back to the States this past spring.  Through them I met several other ladies at a Bible study on the base where they have so generously welcomed me and my family!  It was so fun to be able to celebrate America with fellow expats and to see a good fireworks show.  There were all kinds of fun activities for the kids, keeping them occupied until it was dark enough for fireworks, close to 10:30 p.m.  We watched Irish dancers, and there was a magic show.  I got a little tickled at the irony of being entertained by the English at a 4th of July celebration.

See you soon, America!

Haworth, Home of the Brontes

This is a story about how my mom and I drove to Haworth in West Yorkshire to visit the home of the Bronte sisters only to discover that the parsonage where they lived is closed for refurbishment in January.  It's not as sad as it sounds.

When we arrived in the village I parked up above it where we could look out on the moors.  The wind was howling and whistling and set the stage perfectly for a visit to Bronte country.  Sadly I discovered that I had forgotten my coat.  It was nearly lunchtime so we decided to eat before going to the parsonage that is now a museum, and that ended up being a good decision not only because it delayed our finding out that the parsonage was closed but because it was the best meal I've eaten in Yorkshire.

I had an amazing butternut squash and chorizo lasagna, the dishes were adorable, and the tea delightfully warming after the walk in the wind.  After lunch we walked through the cobblestone streets in an almost eerily quiet village, the kind of quiet that you only find in the first week of January, I suppose.

All of the bookstores were closed, which was a disappointment because they looked amazing.  And I most assuredly would have wanted to buy the "Reader, I married him." mug if that delightful shop had been open.

Looking back I think the quiet and closed shops should have made me think that the parsonage might be closed as well, but it didn't occur to me, and that doesn't really surprise me.

I was too busy enjoying the pretty doors.

I think most people who read Wuthering Heights for the first time ask themselves what fueled these type of stories?  Maybe it was, in part, the desolate but beautiful surroundings, the shrieking wind, and the graveyard that would have been the view from their front windows.

Being in Haworth definitely made me want to re-read a few novels AND go back again when the museum is open.

You can usually count on the church to be open, and we listened to a man regaling two other women with stories about the Bronte family.

There weren't any stained glass windows in the church during the Bronte's time, but I loved this one donated by an American citizen "to the glory of God in pleasant memory of Charlotte Bronte."

The architecture is beautiful.

It was a bitter walk into the wind going back to the car, but it was so atmospheric I don't think we would have had it any other way.