Le bonbons ou la mort!...that's what I learned to say in France: "Trick
or Treat!"
I do not think of myself as cynical; the opposite, in fact. But when Tanja our travel agent kept repeating "The Trip of a Lifetime"..."The Trip of a Lifetime!"..."THE TRIP OF A LIFETIME!" - I was highly cynical. What did that mean, exactly? I was very busy, so except for a few yes or no questions and giant colorful books of places I was too busy to look at or even fathom, Tanja pretty much took my credit cards and put our "Trip of a Lifetime!" into her own hands.
But, you know—Tanja was the
first person we toasted at each and every stop, because...Tanja was right. It was the trip of a lifetime.

Things got off to a very
rocky start at Charles de Gaulle airport with an interminable dawn walk
through packed terminals, security, passport, up and down lifts and escalators
in search of the missing Gate 43, waved off the last bus to our plane idling on
the tarmac, into something akin to a paddywagon where we were strapped in,
locked in, and left...until the Girl With the Dragon Tattoo finally showed up
and sped us out into a lightning-laced storm, past our plane, then left us again; a few bumpy
moments later we found ourselves raised from the dead and released right into
the back cargo door of the waiting plane.
Our bags did not make it.
Since travel's travel, how
do you know when you're
having the "trip of a lifetime"? It seemed to be sometime
later, when fellow travelers (also on their "trip of a lifetime")
would ask, "So where have you been?" We would answer in all travel-exhausted
innocence: "Well, we started in Venice where we stayed at the Hotel
Cipriani (their eyes got big)...then
we took the Orient Express to Paris (raised eyebrows), where we stayed at Le Meurice on the Rue di Rivioli
across from the Tuillieries and Louvre Museum (big O mouths now)...and now we are getting on a ship to sail down the
Seine River to Normandy." Silence. (They realize they shoulda got Tanja.)
Everyone compares notes; I
just didn't expect our notes to be so impressive, even to seasoned travelers
and the knowledgeable in the industry.
The Hotel Cipriani on the Isle of Giudecca is a paradise of history and intrigue among the
Venetians. It's the kind of place where you feel you could be anyone
(movie maven, Mata Hari, Madonna, Mick Jagger) in any era. A private
water taxi whisks you to San Marco (St. Mark's Square.)
We were promised by our
"handler" a "Very-ah Romantic-ah Evening-ah!" My
cynical hackles rose up, but she wasn't exaggerating, either. At dusk she
dropped us at the famous Florian, that magical outdoor cafe with its own
orchestra, for an aperitif, then off on a gondola ride down the Grand Canal,
segueing off into the midnight, full moon maze where anything can happen! (And
does! And did! But what happens in Venice stays in Venice!)
A late dinner at the exotic, Moorish-style Fortuny restaurant would have capped
off the evening, except that we had to have nightcaps at Harry's Bar. Was
it dawn yet? And that was just Day One of our "Trip of a
Lifetime." What is Italian for "Oh, dear!"?
Our final day in Venice, we
water taxied to the train station to see the glamorous blue and gold Orient
Express gleaming in the pink dawn fog.
So many people to board? No,
no, they are just there to make snapshots of themselves with the train and the
also gleaming blue and gold-uniformed staff. Then the red velvet rope is
removed for the passengers to be escorted to their historic carriages, each with
a special name and history. I am sure (just certain, so don't burst my
balloon!) that Dame Agatha Christie wrote her famous Murder on the
Orient Express in our
carriage. After all, I believed the short, bald gentlemen with the
handsome moustache must surely be famed detective Hercule Poirot! What's
it like aboard? Elegance and hilarity: elegance for the decor, the black
tie dinner, the music of yore in the bar car...hilarity for navigating the top
bunk as we roller-coastered up the Alps...only to eventually double up in the
lower bunk as we rock and rolled down the Alps and into Paris.
Paris: "A nice hotel," that's all I asked
for, but genie Tanja booked us at the wild-historied Le Meurice. Why bother to
go out and "see" the City of Lights at all when you can sit in the
Dali Restaurant and marvel at the Philippe Stark redo of this palace? Yes,
that's Salvadore Dali, who once lived here. (Now, others do, but it's all
a chi-chi secret! Though names do drop!) The service? Dali
once asked for 60 sheep to be brought to his room; they were...he pulled out a
pistol and proceded to shoot them. Oh, did I not drop zee names, as
Poirot might say? Elizabeth, queen; Elizabeth Taylor...oh, yes, and more
royalty and rock and roll stars than you can shake a stick at. And don't
forget the Nazis. And so: on to our appointed rounds such as
shopping at the Galleries Lafayette, eating Mont Chaud and eclairs at
Angelinas, lunch at the Jules Verne restaurant on the 2nd level of the Tour
Eiffel (including private elevator service!) A night at the Moulin Rouge,
where a reserved car dropped us out front with the masses of curious onlookers and those in line to buy or present their tickets. "Are you the
Longmeyers?" a voice behind the ubiquitous red rope asked. "Oui!"
The rope is removed and we are escorted in first and to the best box. It
seems a "voucher" from Le Meurice is worth a thousand words (and
probably Euros, but Tanja ain't telling and I ain't askin'!) I could tell you
what we saw, but that would take all the fun out of your "Trip of a Lifetime."
Up to our ears in croissant and chocolat, we eventually headed to the River Baronness, our waterbourne home for the coming week, as we
sluiced down the Seine toward quaint and curious ports famed for fortresses,
cathedrals, Knights Templar, and such. But not before a night cruise
beneath the full moon (What? Do they paint it up there in the Paris
sky?), the gold-glistening Eiffel Tower, and all the bridges of Paris,
awash in champagne, and what seems like a forty course dinner. The next
day, it's on to Monet's Giverney, the Palace of Versailles, and the beaches of
Normandy, where Papa left two roses: one at the grave of a U.S. soldier
whose name and hometown are noted on one in a sea of white cross tombstones,
and another on the grave of a soldier known only to God. He, too, had
the "Trip of a Lifetime," though the trip was one no one wanted to
take, and the lifetime was shorn way too short. It was a sober evening.
I have only hit high spots,
not the bleed of Euros at a usurious exchange rate...the scramble for the news
of Hurricane Sandy "back home" (though a neighbor gets word our new
house is only awash in sunshine.) There is the attempt to speak French, my most
successful effort being non-verbal: staring down a potential pickpocket
(the same one more than once!)...and rolling eyes at the ceiling while standing
my ground until I get the table I want (you know, the empty one, buddy!, not
the one by the loo!) Favorite moments? Seeing Papa surprised at
every turn, since he knew virtually nothing about this Tanja-planned trip! (And
I did an Oscar-worthy job of lamenting, "Oh, I guess we probably will have
one of those cubicles belowdecks"...when we had a suite a stone's throw
from the dancing, dinners, drinking, and such.)
But my favorite was seeing
Papa adore the gondolas, something I thought he would find cliche, Disney
World-ish, or worse, Las Vegas-ish. He just found them darn fun,
fascinating, and had we stayed longer, he might have just bought himself a
striped shirt and straw hat and taken up the trade, singing off-key love songs
in Iowan Italian, I imagine. I would love to see that!
We saw late summer
sunshine, near snow and frosted breath in Paris, and autumn leaves along the
Seine as the orchestra sang (well what else?) "The autumn
leaves...of red and gold" (in
French of course, which sounds so much better) and ended with a blustery
gray-liveried day that seemed to scream "Buy one last souvenir—a coat, and
so we did, the gift to self that will keep on giving all winter long, reminding
us of our "Trip of a Lifetime."
Travel is so weird. You
plan, you pay, you go. Suddenly it's over and all you have to show for it
are a Montmartre of bills, a kilo of calories to to burn off, an obscene slew
of photos lost in digital lands across a computer, iPad, and two cell phones,
and, oh, yes—memories to last a lifetime, including, I suppose, knowing
how to say le bonbons ou la mort, "Trick or Treat!" in French.
PS: THANKS, TANJA!
Thanks to Michele, Michael, Paige, and all for holding down the Gallopade
fort while we were gone; thanks for all the prayers for our health and
safety (you done good!), for the Bon Voyage party, for the room at Chateau
Yother, for the trip to the airport, Paige, and fetching our car back, for
all who were Mimi and Papa in our stead on Halloween, and everything else.
I will bring my le bonbons bag to work with small trick or treat thank
yous for you all!
Lastly, thanks, Papa! Papa?
Papa? PAPA?