Stranded
The email arrived that morning: Your flight has been cancelled due to an airline workers strike. I was just about to leave my small hotel near the Marseille airport, but the message stopped me in my tracks.
After more than an hour on hold the airline representative gave me two choices: take the next available seat–a week from Tuesday, or receive a full refund.
“But I have to get to London in order to catch my flight home. I can’t wait until next week!” No one seemed to care, so I took the refund.
Perched Villages
I hung up the phone and became an unwitting contestant on The Amazing Race, deferring only to my intelligence and expertise at geography (all those Saturday nights studying my Atlas were finally going to pay off).
Boats, buses and trains—those were my options. If I could get to Calais, I would jump on the ferry to Dover, following in the footsteps of many travelers before me. It seemed so romantic, yet too time-consuming. Instead I chose the creation of modern man—the Chunnel.
Fields of Red Poppies
With my computer battery at 4% and the electrical cord at home in Mexico (that’s what happened the last time I deferred to my intelligence), I purchased a train ticket to Paris. With 2% power, I quickly went to the Eurostar website and found a seat to London. It would take me 6 hours in total to get to my destination, not bad. I hit “send” and received the confirmation to travel…three days later. I had entered the wrong date. The computer screen went black. With the train to Paris departing in an hour, my instincts said jump on board and head north.
“This is a non-refundable ticket,” the agent reminded me when I finally got to the Eurostar office in Paris.
“Yes, I know, but these are extenuating circumstances,” I begged. She got an earful about airline workers, my computer battery and, of course, the hurried mistake. But like the airline, she didn’t care.
Notre Dame
“You’ll have to buy a new ticket.” When she quoted me an astronomical price for one of the last seats leaving the continent during a transportation strike, I realized it would be cheaper to stay put and wait to use my existing ticket. So, I chose Paris and unexpected adventure.
When I wrote friends that I was stuck in the City of Light and that the weather was perfect, no one felt sorry for me. “But the strike….” They didn’t want to hear it.
Sidewalk Cafe
I wandered the streets, ate too many pastries, and practiced my almost non-existent French with anyone who would listen. I sat in cafes and watched people pass by, pulling out my notebook, pretending to be Hemingway without the booze and knack for metaphors. I sat in parks and starred into space, happy with my decision, thoughts and memories…especially of another woman stranded in France.
I had spent a lot of time thinking about Dorothy, my former landlady, while I was in the south of France. She had told me it was her favorite place on earth. I met Dorothy in 1992 soon after arriving in San Miguel. She was 94 and spent most of her time in bed, her body was frail, but her mind still sharp. On the first of every month, I would go to her house, into her bedroom, and hand her the rent money.
“Get inside!” she said to me the first time we met, pulling back the covers. It was an odd request, but I only hesitated for a second before crawling under the sheets. Dorothy loved to tell stories, mostly about her youth, her time in New York in the 20s trying to make it as a woman in a man’s world of art and design. She became very successful, but only after marrying and getting her husband to pretend he was the artist. He would go around to the big publishing houses and get jobs doing book covers, then take the assignments back to Dorothy. They laughed at the powerful men who had no idea a mere woman was their star designer. They laughed all the way to the bank and then the south of France, where they relocated in the mid 30s.
Patisserie Francais
Dorothy and her husband spent their days wandering the countryside and painting, picnicking on bread and cheese, drinking local wines. One day as she described the perfect picture of happiness and bliss, she added, “And then we had to leave in the middle of the night.”
“What!” I cried.
“The Nazis were coming. Didn’t I tell you my husband was Jewish?” I begged for more, but Dorothy said she was tired and needed to sleep. How dare she leave me on the brink of WWII, but I didn’t have the heart to keep the old woman from her nap.
During my next visit I learned about their escape. Even though Dorothy and her husband hated to leave France, they realized the only safe place for them was home, in America. They traveled to Portugal on their own Amazing Race, having heard there were still boats that would cross the Atlantic. They got to Cascais, the port city near Lisbon, the day after the last boat sailed. They, too, were stranded, but not for three days. They were stranded for four years.
I thought about Dorothy and how she had to unexpectedly make a life in a foreign country she knew nothing about. Of course, she made the best of it. She painted, threw parties and made great friends. When the war ended and the boats came back, they returned to America…but only for a little while. Soon, adventure called again and they headed for Mexico.
After being stranded in Paris, my sense of adventure was also calling. Calling me to the tiny village of Crosby Ravensworth in England’s Lake District…to be continued next week. I, like Dorothy, will create suspense by taking a nap.
Tags: Cascais, delicious expeditions, France, kris rudolph, Provence, stranded in France, stranded in Paris, travel problems
