"I’ll go to Cambridge and see the grandkids!," I fantasize during a sleepless night in February. My husband is hospitalized for breathing problems, the second of two blizzards grips the area and on this third day with no electricity, the temperature in the house has fallen to 40 degrees. Cold and wakeful, I muse about lying on a tropical beach or taking a cruise along the Turkish Coast. As I drift in and out of sleep, I settle on a more practical scenario that includes a couple of days with the children in Cambridge, a day trip to London and a three day tour of Paris.
Quickly working out the details of flights, trains (Eurostar and Heathrow Express), and a brief group tour in Paris, I book my tickets ... the very day the volcano in Iceland violently erupts and emits an enormous ash cloud that promises to linger. Airspace over England is closed for a week. I don’t worry too much. I have a couple of months for the atmosphere to clear and I have taken the first step in this brave plan of mine — a get-away abroad as a single woman.My departure day approaches and the ash cloud drifts down over Ireland and Scotland. Miraculously the cloud skirts London and my British Air flight departs on time. My son and baby granddaughter meet me at the airport and, after escaping the heavy traffic of the London peripheral highway, we drive to his house outside of Cambridge. The fertile fields along the roadside are blooming with brilliant yellow rapaseed, used to make cooking oil, and are a preview of the rural meadows of Cambridgeshire.
Jet lag prevails and though it is still early evening, I crash. How quiet and dark the night becomes. I hear no sounds, no cars passing by, no animal rustles or calls. There are no street lights and even the moon is obscured by clouds. I can’t sleep in this utter darkness and silence!
“Mom,” says my son, “I have to go to a meeting in central London today. Ray will be in school but while I am busy, you and Josie can take a walk. I’ll put her in a stroller and you can wander around and see the sites.” What did he say? An eleven month old grandchild and me alone together in downtown London?
We take the train from Cambridge to London, then the underground to Convent Garden, and part ways. Josie and I stroll down the Strand to Trafalgar Square, continue to Downing Street, past Westminster Cathedral and Big Ben. We walk along the river on the Embankment and see the enormous “Eye” (the Millennium Wheel) on the far bank. When we return Josie is smiling broadly at all of the activity in the busy streets and I am triumphant with a camera full of multiple photos of the sights we have seen.
My itinerary says it is time to go to Paris. I arrive in London from Cambridge, walk the short distance from King’s Cross Station to St. Pancras Station, go up the ramp to the platform and board the sleek Eurostar (the chunnel train). The English countryside speeds by and then we enter the tunnel under the Channel. When we emerge we are passing through the French countryside marked by a graceful windmill farm. Two and a half hours later we arrive in Paris.
After a quick cab ride to the hotel I am greeted by the concierge with startling news, “Sorry, Madame. Your tour group has changed hotels.” I remind myself to be courageous in this adventure and hail another taxi that takes me to the new hotel where I am informed that the bus tour that I am to join here in Paris, is still on the way with an uncertain arrival time.
I leave a message at the desk for the tour guide to call me when the group arrives and go to my room. After settling in, I return to the concierge to inquire about the group. Surprised, he asks, “Oh, didn’t the guide call you? They have come and gone out on tour.” A scary feeling of being left behind in a strange city overtakes me and, trying not to panic, I ask him to call the guide for me on his mobile. Thankfully he picks up right away and we quickly agree on a meeting place for me to catch up with the tour. I take yet another taxi to the dock where the boat (the picturesque “bateau mouche”) is to leave for a cruise on the river Seine.
As the sun sets, the evening becomes cool and cloudy and the views of Paris from the water are misty and reminiscent of the Impressionist watercolors created by so many French painters. There is a classic view of a famous site at every turn of the river. We cruise by the Eiffel Tower, the Cathedral of Notre Dame, the D’Orsay Museum and the Louvre, the Isle de France, the National Assembly, and under the numerous romantic bridges that cross the Seine.
The next day we climb up to the Basilica of Sacre Coeur — only 193 steps! And then walk around the famous square filled with the kiosks of working artists. We stroll by the old windmills that remain in the area and give the cabaret “The Moulin Rouge” its name and, and then go back down the hill to Place Pigalle. The bus takes us to the Cathedral of Notre Dame for a short visit, and finally to the town of Versailles for a tour of the Palace. No problem with this vigorous day, right? Allez!
The Palace of Versailles is hot and crowded with tourists. The Hall of Mirrors is filled with a crush of bodies, all reflected in the mirrored walls. We decide to escape the crowds by going into the gardens for a bit of fresh air. “Fermé!” we are told, ”Closed for a concert!” My camera, held up to the old and runny windows, captures respectable views of the formal leafy walkways and fountains. I will have fond memories even though these moments are not quite the way they were planned.
It is time to return downtown so we can go to the top of the Eiffel Tower. “This line is shortest” says my tour companion. Of course it is short as we learn at the box office that it is the line to climb the stairs to the top. We smile at the thought, declare ourselves strong and ambitious and ascend to the first level. The city is spread out below us. We gaze at striking views of the famed city and declare the climb well worth it.
Seven days have passed and my trip is over. I return to Heathrow Airport. The ash cloud is still menacing the city and at 1:00 AM Sky TV announces that the airport is closed. The sleepless night is endless but I receive a happy surprise when I roll over at 6:00 AM and turn on the TV. It seems to be a miracle that the cloud has parted for the moment and the skies over London are open once again. I rush to the airport and after a random security search (just for me — all items out of my suitcase, backpack and purse and a second body frisk), I board and the plane takes off as scheduled.
I arrive home eight hours later with a few tales to tell.
©2010 Adrienne G. Cannon for SeniorWomen.com
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