Some days I walk down the street or sit in a café with a beatific smile on my face and a tear in my eye (or maybe it just comes across as a goofy grin – you’d have to tell me) because I’m just overwhelmed by the visual or olfactory or gustatory or tactile or auditory beauty of this place.
(I have to say that, in this respect at least, it helps to travel alone – you spend more time looking around and listening around and focusing on tastes and smells and sensations than you do if you’re sharing the experience with someone else. Sharing the experience is great, no question, but it’s also a little distracting, in my humble (but outspoken) opinion.)
Anyhoo, the last couple days I’ve been reminded of the auditory delights of this place:
• Sitting in a café and hearing the delightful faint bell-ring of tiny spoons being placed on saucers - it tells me that I’ve arrived here and pretty much nowhere else.
• Quiet conversations in the beautiful almost “singing” quality of the French language – the room can be full of people, but it’s not loud. I can’t understand what they’re saying, but it really appears that they’re enjoying each other and the art of conversation.
• The Doppler effect modulating the pitch of an ambulance’s singsongy eee-ooo-eee-ooo siren as it’s going past you.
• The city buses have a horn, of course, but when they’re approaching a bicyclist or a pedestrian that might not see them the driver uses a bell sound – ding ding ding ding ding – to signal his presence in a way that won’t make the bicyclist or the pedestrian jump out of their skin. (Of course, motorists aren’t always that kind to each other!)
• The beautiful soft chime of two wine glasses clinking - whether intentionally as people are toasting each other or unintentionally as a waiter places them on a tray.
• Walking past an elementary school (it’s behind closed doors of a building that looks like so many others, so you don’t even know it’s there) when the kids are out in its playground, laughing and calling to each other. Today I walked past “Crèche Municipale” (a public kindergarten in the neighborhood) and a very young child was singing the ABC song, the English version, with a French accent – you know, a-b-c-d-e-f-g; h-i-j-k; lmnop … – even more cute than when a tiny American does it!
• Most motorcycles and scooters are fairly well muffled – not too many Harleys around here! There are a lot of motorbikes, but there are also a lot of bicycles sporting cute little brrrring-brrring bells (roll your r’s when you say brrring-brrring and you’ll get what I mean!).
•The trickle trickle drip drip swoosh swoosh of the plastic lime green feathered brooms of the street washer guys (wearing lime green jumpsuits, naturally) as they dip those brooms in water that has been sent running down the curb from a spigot opened up the street, to wash doggie souvenirs (and other miscellaneous stuff) from the sidewalks. I know that they wash streets and sidewalks in other cities, but here they do it with style!
• Generally, if you hear a loud voice here, it’s an American's (sad to say, it’s as if we think it’s all wide open prairie!). Although, I gotta admit, I went to a very large outdoor pizza joint tonight and it got just too loud for me – people of all nationalities were stretching their vocal cords!
OK, so maybe I got a different kind of tear in my eye tonight!
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Déjà Vu, All Over Again! – Tuesday, 16 June
In January a few years ago I stayed in this same École Militaire neighborhood in Paris’ seventh arrondissement. Late one night I went to a café a couple blocks from my rue Cler apartment for a bite to eat. I was sitting in a glass-enclosed, glass-ceilinged area (very pleasant places to be in the daytime when it’s sunny but chilly), which gave me the perfect location to witness a very unusual phenomenon – a torrential thunder-and-lightning snowstorm (I’m sure there’s a proper meteorological term for it; maybe one of you know – thundersnow?!?). Huge wet flakes piled up on the round tables outside the restaurant. When the snow finally let up a bit and I decided to go back to the apartment, I stopped at one of the tables outside and used the snow on it to make a little snowman for a centerpiece. My slightly curmudgeonly waiter knocked on the window and motioned for me to clear off the other tables in the same manner, then smiled and waved goodbye.
Well, today I stopped at the same café, Le Bosquet, and I’m pretty sure that the same slightly grumpy grandfatherly gentleman waited on me! Immediate flashback to the thundersnow! But this time it was a gloriously sunny day, perfect for a glass of rosé, which came with a little dish of herbed olives. Yum! What a way to revive and restore!
The artisan bakery Pain d’Epis is just across the street in this photo – fabulous breads and pastries – it’s my favorite in the area. A great cheese shop, Marie-Anne Cantin, is just about a half-block down the street (a slab of her butter and three of her cheeses found their way home with me today), and a terrific condiments shop, L’Epicerie Fine, is just a few steps farther.
Well, today I stopped at the same café, Le Bosquet, and I’m pretty sure that the same slightly grumpy grandfatherly gentleman waited on me! Immediate flashback to the thundersnow! But this time it was a gloriously sunny day, perfect for a glass of rosé, which came with a little dish of herbed olives. Yum! What a way to revive and restore!
The artisan bakery Pain d’Epis is just across the street in this photo – fabulous breads and pastries – it’s my favorite in the area. A great cheese shop, Marie-Anne Cantin, is just about a half-block down the street (a slab of her butter and three of her cheeses found their way home with me today), and a terrific condiments shop, L’Epicerie Fine, is just a few steps farther.
Could we Transplant this Church and its Garden to Minneapolis, Please?!? – Tuesday, 16 June
As I was sauntering down rue de Grenelle today, I stumbled across this church at #147 - I had seen it before but had somehow forgotten it. Its stone appears to have been recently cleaned and restored – I couldn’t miss it this time! It sits in a beautiful courtyard that you can easily miss if you’re in a hurry to get somewhere (ah, the joys of being a “flâneur” – a stroller, a wanderer (even though my mobility is somewhat limited), who is here to “be” rather than to “do”!).
At the front of the courtyard, right on the sidewalk, sits a half-timbered house. Then in a lovely simple garden, tucked among 19th century Haussmann-era buildings (and with the American University in Paris just behind it) you find this gorgeous church. It’s a French Evangelical Lutheran church called Paroisse Saint-Jean. Hmmm...Evangelical Lutheran...I could do that...but it’s only a couple blocks from my favorite Sunday hangout, The American Church in Paris...maybe I could split my time between them...hmmm....
Here are some of my photos of the church and garden, plus one from the church’s website www.eelf-stjean.org
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
First Clues that “We’re Not in M’pls Any More!” – Monday, 15 June
For many years, I’ve used the “Airport Connection” shuttle service to get from and to the airport. Depending on the time of day, you might have the van to yourself or you might be sharing it with six other people. Which means that you might have a direct and efficient route from/to the airport or you might get to see some new parts of Paris if the driver drops off or picks up another party before or after you! Share, share, share – it’s not always the American way!
For the first time, my shuttle driver was a woman (and a very fine driver, I must say)! She had a sidekick who served as the navigator/front-man/suitcase-slinger/phone-answerer. It worked very well. Other times I’ve been a bit nervous when the driver was consulting a map while driving (or answering the phone or turning around to chat with the passengers). But she could actually pay attention to the driving. The mid-morning hour, combined with the rain and an accident somewhere contributed to big traffic delays on the A3. I left the airport at about 10:00 and was deposited at my apartment at noon – and I was the first dropoff! Good thing I wasn’t in a big hurry! But at least I could enjoy looking at the wild poppies growing along the roadside, check out a bunch of car models we don’t see in the U.S., and take a short snooze or two!
The elevator in my building might be the smallest one I’ve ever seen! I could just barely walk straight in (I didn’t have to shift diagonally). It held me and one suitcase (I had to take two trips to get everything upstairs). The interior is – no exaggeration here – about 30 inches wide and about 20 inches deep. It’s cute, and it’s efficient, and it does the trick, but oh my goodness, what a squeeze! The sign says it accommodates two people. They’d better be VERY friendly!
The apartment is on a lovely tree-lined boulevard called Avenue de la Motte Picquet.
It’s just above Café Max (the red awning in this photo), and a couple blocks from Napoleon’s tomb at Les Invalides. The tables outside of Max’s were filled with businessmen when I got back to the apartment tonight. At the end of the block there's a big flower shop and a posh restaurant/café. My metro station is La Tour-Maubourg - its entrance is in a beautiful little park across from the flower shop. A taxi queue/shelter sits adjacent to the park. Bus #28 stops right outside my door, and bus stops for four other routes are within a couple blocks of the apartment. A Vélib’ rack (Paris’ ubiquitous self-service one-way bicycle rentals) sits outside my door. So many transportation options besides good ol’ shoe leather! Banks, a post office, cafés, chocolatiers, bookstores, newsstands, pastry shops, grocery stores, bars, a mattress shop, hotels, restaurants, an antique watch/clock repairer, the Chilean embassy, a snazzy purse/wallet shop, a car wash, real estate agents, a dance studio, hairdressers, etc. line the boulevard – it’s a village!
Rue Cler, one of my very favorite streets, is a short three blocks from the apartment. Tonight I had dinner under the awning (it was still drizzling a bit) at a café I try to patronize every trip, Café du Marché on rue Cler. My Confit de Canard (duck leg and thigh that has been preserved by curing with sugar and salt, then roasting in duck fat and setting aside to age in the fat, then heated and crisped before serving) with fried potatoes, a green salad, slices of baguette, a glass of red wine and a cup of espresso came to €14.70 (about $20) - yet more evidence that “we’re not in M’pls any more!”
For the first time, my shuttle driver was a woman (and a very fine driver, I must say)! She had a sidekick who served as the navigator/front-man/suitcase-slinger/phone-answerer. It worked very well. Other times I’ve been a bit nervous when the driver was consulting a map while driving (or answering the phone or turning around to chat with the passengers). But she could actually pay attention to the driving. The mid-morning hour, combined with the rain and an accident somewhere contributed to big traffic delays on the A3. I left the airport at about 10:00 and was deposited at my apartment at noon – and I was the first dropoff! Good thing I wasn’t in a big hurry! But at least I could enjoy looking at the wild poppies growing along the roadside, check out a bunch of car models we don’t see in the U.S., and take a short snooze or two!
The elevator in my building might be the smallest one I’ve ever seen! I could just barely walk straight in (I didn’t have to shift diagonally). It held me and one suitcase (I had to take two trips to get everything upstairs). The interior is – no exaggeration here – about 30 inches wide and about 20 inches deep. It’s cute, and it’s efficient, and it does the trick, but oh my goodness, what a squeeze! The sign says it accommodates two people. They’d better be VERY friendly!
The apartment is on a lovely tree-lined boulevard called Avenue de la Motte Picquet.
It’s just above Café Max (the red awning in this photo), and a couple blocks from Napoleon’s tomb at Les Invalides. The tables outside of Max’s were filled with businessmen when I got back to the apartment tonight. At the end of the block there's a big flower shop and a posh restaurant/café. My metro station is La Tour-Maubourg - its entrance is in a beautiful little park across from the flower shop. A taxi queue/shelter sits adjacent to the park. Bus #28 stops right outside my door, and bus stops for four other routes are within a couple blocks of the apartment. A Vélib’ rack (Paris’ ubiquitous self-service one-way bicycle rentals) sits outside my door. So many transportation options besides good ol’ shoe leather! Banks, a post office, cafés, chocolatiers, bookstores, newsstands, pastry shops, grocery stores, bars, a mattress shop, hotels, restaurants, an antique watch/clock repairer, the Chilean embassy, a snazzy purse/wallet shop, a car wash, real estate agents, a dance studio, hairdressers, etc. line the boulevard – it’s a village!
Rue Cler, one of my very favorite streets, is a short three blocks from the apartment. Tonight I had dinner under the awning (it was still drizzling a bit) at a café I try to patronize every trip, Café du Marché on rue Cler. My Confit de Canard (duck leg and thigh that has been preserved by curing with sugar and salt, then roasting in duck fat and setting aside to age in the fat, then heated and crisped before serving) with fried potatoes, a green salad, slices of baguette, a glass of red wine and a cup of espresso came to €14.70 (about $20) - yet more evidence that “we’re not in M’pls any more!”
Don’t Like the Weather? Just Wait a Few Minutes! - Monday, 15 June
Back in my hometown of Duluth, the weather taught us to be very hopeful people. We’d say, “Too hot for you? Just wait a couple minutes, it will change!” (Of course, we could only say this in August, but you get the idea….) Maybe that’s one of the reasons Paris has always felt like home to me. Don’t like the weather? Just wait a few minutes – it will change! [Fun fact: Paris is at 48 degrees N latitude, farther north than Duluth at 46 degrees N!]
We descended through thick clouds, and by the time I got outside we had “liquid sunshine” (as my mom used to call it), a.k.a. a downpour. While waiting about 20 minutes for my shuttle it changed to a drizzle, then rain again, then just overcast, then….
But the rain doesn’t seem to dampen Parisians’ spirits. Just outside the immigration hall at Terminal 2E of Charles de Gaulle airport is a fairly dingy “arrivals” hall with a small Illy coffee bar. It’s always mobbed with confused people trying to figure stuff out. The people in front of me were taking forever to find the sugar and coffee stirrers, so the young black man working the bar looked over their shoulders at me and asked for my order. I said “café noir, s’il vous plaît” (black coffee, or espresso), and he chuckled and pointed at himself and nodded his head in approval as he said “noir, comme moi” (or something like that, in any case a reference to “black like me!”). Just the warm and cheerful welcome I needed!
We descended through thick clouds, and by the time I got outside we had “liquid sunshine” (as my mom used to call it), a.k.a. a downpour. While waiting about 20 minutes for my shuttle it changed to a drizzle, then rain again, then just overcast, then….
But the rain doesn’t seem to dampen Parisians’ spirits. Just outside the immigration hall at Terminal 2E of Charles de Gaulle airport is a fairly dingy “arrivals” hall with a small Illy coffee bar. It’s always mobbed with confused people trying to figure stuff out. The people in front of me were taking forever to find the sugar and coffee stirrers, so the young black man working the bar looked over their shoulders at me and asked for my order. I said “café noir, s’il vous plaît” (black coffee, or espresso), and he chuckled and pointed at himself and nodded his head in approval as he said “noir, comme moi” (or something like that, in any case a reference to “black like me!”). Just the warm and cheerful welcome I needed!
What World Recession??? People are a-Travelin’! - Sunday, 14 June
Northwest Airlines’ direct flight to Paris is now operated by Delta. All 250 seats of the Boeing 767 were full – young, old, families, vacationers, business people, a variety of nationalities. Based on conversations I heard around me, I’m guessing that about half of the travelers were French. As I recall, Northwest used a slightly larger plane for this route, an Airbus 330 that seats about 300, but in any case it’s been a LONG time since I took a totally full flight to Paris! Gotta say the service was efficient, the leather seats comfy, and the woman in the middle seat of my 3-person row didn’t have to climb over me to go to the toilet (she made her husband get up!).
But the guy in front of me felt compelled to fully recline his seat as soon as he could, and left it that way whether he was resting or eating or helping his daughter or walking around the cabin, causing me a bit of discomfort and irritation whenever I would whack my knee into it! So thank goodness for MP3 players – about 2/3 of the way through the flight, I decided to combat the frustration by spending some time with two of my favorite geniuses – Hélène Grimaud and JS Bach. Her first Bach album is absolutely transporting. The high art of the works themselves and of her insightful and passionate performances successfully overcame the minor irritations of my situation! Ms. Grimaud plays Bach’s original keyboard works and also some transcriptions (Busoni, Liszt, and Rachmaninov) with astonishing skill, intellect, power, heart and transparency. Buy a copy of this CD and support one of the greatest young artists around! Heck, buy a copy of each of her CD’s! You won’t be disappointed!
Quick international travel tip: if you want to speed through passport check, use a cane and limp a bit! Hopefully, some of the staff in the arrival area were scanning the crowd for evil-doers. But at least some of them were attuned to people that might need help. They flagged me over and opened one of the crowd-control barriers for me, allowing me to move right to the head of the line at passport check. I’ve often observed a real graciousness by the French towards handicapped people; this reinforces it!
But the guy in front of me felt compelled to fully recline his seat as soon as he could, and left it that way whether he was resting or eating or helping his daughter or walking around the cabin, causing me a bit of discomfort and irritation whenever I would whack my knee into it! So thank goodness for MP3 players – about 2/3 of the way through the flight, I decided to combat the frustration by spending some time with two of my favorite geniuses – Hélène Grimaud and JS Bach. Her first Bach album is absolutely transporting. The high art of the works themselves and of her insightful and passionate performances successfully overcame the minor irritations of my situation! Ms. Grimaud plays Bach’s original keyboard works and also some transcriptions (Busoni, Liszt, and Rachmaninov) with astonishing skill, intellect, power, heart and transparency. Buy a copy of this CD and support one of the greatest young artists around! Heck, buy a copy of each of her CD’s! You won’t be disappointed!
Quick international travel tip: if you want to speed through passport check, use a cane and limp a bit! Hopefully, some of the staff in the arrival area were scanning the crowd for evil-doers. But at least some of them were attuned to people that might need help. They flagged me over and opened one of the crowd-control barriers for me, allowing me to move right to the head of the line at passport check. I’ve often observed a real graciousness by the French towards handicapped people; this reinforces it!
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Where There's a Will, There's a Way (or, Do Your Research and Be Flexible) - Wednesday, 1 Oct.
Everything was packed, garbage was taken downstairs, everything in the apartment was put back in its place, and I was turning the key in the lock to take myself and my suitcases down to meet the shuttle driver (early!), and my phone rang. It was the shuttle company. They had bad news – my driver’s vehicle had broken down – I should call a cab to take me to the airport and they’d refund me my fee. Rats. A wrinkle. I’m OK with things not going as planned during the core of the vacation, but a little less OK with things going awry relative to transportation to the airport for the return flight home – there’s a bit less wiggle room.
But I was planning to grab a café crème at the corner café while waiting for the shuttle driver, so I thought I’d ask the waiter to make the call for me while I was enjoying my crème – he’d be better at giving the address, etc. When I asked him if he’d do so, he looked at me like I was some kind of crazy tourist – he explained that there was a taxi stand just down the block. I tried to explain to say that yes, but two suitcases plus a carryon plus my jumbo purse were a bit much for me to haul to the taxi queue. He agreed to help, but instead of calling a taxi on the phone he started looking down the street, trying to hail one as it drove by, frequently expressing frustration when the only ones that went by were occupied. Of course, he also had friends to greet on the sidewalk and people to serve who sat down, and an available taxi drove by at least three times when he happened to be greeting a friend or had stepped inside. I’m not sure what his problem was with making a phone call to get a taxi, but after about 20 minutes of this I decided to head for the taxi queue.
So off I set. I should have stopped at the cash machine across the street to ensure that I had enough for the taxi (the shuttle had been pre-paid), but one less street to lug my bags across was one more good thing (and I didn’t want to leave the bags sitting at the café). My wide load and I slowly proceeded down the sidewalk for about four blocks, providing a morning frustration to people who had to wait to get around me in sections where portions of the sidewalk were under construction. But finally, after crossing one more busy street, I reached the taxi queue in a little island in the middle of the giant “Place de la République.” I waited just a few minutes for an available taxi to stop, and the driver had an animated conversation with another potential fare while putting my bags in the trunk, but eventually we were off! (I discovered later, when looking at my detailed street map again, that there was indeed another taxi queue only about a block from the café, behind the bank in which the cash machine was located. No wonder the waiter thought I was crazy – I was! So the lesson from this is “take the time to pull out your map!”)
But anyhoo, off we went to the airport. I asked the driver if he accepted Visa – he said yes, although he clearly wasn’t an English speaker. He stopped once to pick up a piece of fruit for himself at a market, and traffic in town was, as usual, stop-and-go-and-wait, but traffic moved well once we reached the highway to the airport, so it wasn’t too much of a problem, schedule-wise. The driver was very friendly – he was making plans to visit many relatives in Canada, so he had an audio (British) English-language course going in the car. I joined in the fun of repeating the phrases and answering the questions.
When we arrived at the airport I gave him my Visa to pay, and he said no, no, he didn’t take Visa – cash only. And I was about 20€ short. So I had to run into the airport, looking for the cash machine to give him the rest of his fee. Found it, transaction done, now it was a matter of standing in the long queue for checkin. Happily, this went smoothly, although it was long and I knew it was another long walk to the gate, with probable delays at passport check and security (I was right), leaving little-to-no time for perusing the goods at the duty-free shops!
The flight back was smooth, and I was seated in a row with a French mom and her two little girls (they appeared to be about two and four years old). The older one would occasionally poke me and say, “madame, madame, …” asking for help with her video system or asking for one of the cookies I brought on board, or showing me the book she was reading. Very cute. She even stood up on her chair and addressed the flight attendant this way, asking (unsuccessfully) for some food she wanted. Just before we landed the mom asked me if I had a air sickness bag in my seat pouch – she was sure that the younger one, sitting next to me at the time, was about to puke. I didn’t, nor did anyone around me, so the poor kid ended up puking all over her cute little shirt (a favorite, apparently) that had a little kitty on it. She cried softly and kept saying “désolé, désolé” (“sorry, sorry”) to the kitty on her shirt. So sweet!
It turns out that one of my suitcases (on international flights you can check two – such a luxury these days!) decided to fly to Minneapolis via Amsterdam, so it will be delivered to my house on Thursday. And my cat Cyrus the Great gets to spend one more day with his friend Nancy at Cat Nap Inn since some emergency arose for her and I wasn’t able to pick him up on Wednesday evening. But all in all, the “will” found the “way” and my journey ended happily.
But I was planning to grab a café crème at the corner café while waiting for the shuttle driver, so I thought I’d ask the waiter to make the call for me while I was enjoying my crème – he’d be better at giving the address, etc. When I asked him if he’d do so, he looked at me like I was some kind of crazy tourist – he explained that there was a taxi stand just down the block. I tried to explain to say that yes, but two suitcases plus a carryon plus my jumbo purse were a bit much for me to haul to the taxi queue. He agreed to help, but instead of calling a taxi on the phone he started looking down the street, trying to hail one as it drove by, frequently expressing frustration when the only ones that went by were occupied. Of course, he also had friends to greet on the sidewalk and people to serve who sat down, and an available taxi drove by at least three times when he happened to be greeting a friend or had stepped inside. I’m not sure what his problem was with making a phone call to get a taxi, but after about 20 minutes of this I decided to head for the taxi queue.
So off I set. I should have stopped at the cash machine across the street to ensure that I had enough for the taxi (the shuttle had been pre-paid), but one less street to lug my bags across was one more good thing (and I didn’t want to leave the bags sitting at the café). My wide load and I slowly proceeded down the sidewalk for about four blocks, providing a morning frustration to people who had to wait to get around me in sections where portions of the sidewalk were under construction. But finally, after crossing one more busy street, I reached the taxi queue in a little island in the middle of the giant “Place de la République.” I waited just a few minutes for an available taxi to stop, and the driver had an animated conversation with another potential fare while putting my bags in the trunk, but eventually we were off! (I discovered later, when looking at my detailed street map again, that there was indeed another taxi queue only about a block from the café, behind the bank in which the cash machine was located. No wonder the waiter thought I was crazy – I was! So the lesson from this is “take the time to pull out your map!”)
But anyhoo, off we went to the airport. I asked the driver if he accepted Visa – he said yes, although he clearly wasn’t an English speaker. He stopped once to pick up a piece of fruit for himself at a market, and traffic in town was, as usual, stop-and-go-and-wait, but traffic moved well once we reached the highway to the airport, so it wasn’t too much of a problem, schedule-wise. The driver was very friendly – he was making plans to visit many relatives in Canada, so he had an audio (British) English-language course going in the car. I joined in the fun of repeating the phrases and answering the questions.
When we arrived at the airport I gave him my Visa to pay, and he said no, no, he didn’t take Visa – cash only. And I was about 20€ short. So I had to run into the airport, looking for the cash machine to give him the rest of his fee. Found it, transaction done, now it was a matter of standing in the long queue for checkin. Happily, this went smoothly, although it was long and I knew it was another long walk to the gate, with probable delays at passport check and security (I was right), leaving little-to-no time for perusing the goods at the duty-free shops!
The flight back was smooth, and I was seated in a row with a French mom and her two little girls (they appeared to be about two and four years old). The older one would occasionally poke me and say, “madame, madame, …” asking for help with her video system or asking for one of the cookies I brought on board, or showing me the book she was reading. Very cute. She even stood up on her chair and addressed the flight attendant this way, asking (unsuccessfully) for some food she wanted. Just before we landed the mom asked me if I had a air sickness bag in my seat pouch – she was sure that the younger one, sitting next to me at the time, was about to puke. I didn’t, nor did anyone around me, so the poor kid ended up puking all over her cute little shirt (a favorite, apparently) that had a little kitty on it. She cried softly and kept saying “désolé, désolé” (“sorry, sorry”) to the kitty on her shirt. So sweet!
It turns out that one of my suitcases (on international flights you can check two – such a luxury these days!) decided to fly to Minneapolis via Amsterdam, so it will be delivered to my house on Thursday. And my cat Cyrus the Great gets to spend one more day with his friend Nancy at Cat Nap Inn since some emergency arose for her and I wasn’t able to pick him up on Wednesday evening. But all in all, the “will” found the “way” and my journey ended happily.
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