Youngs Around the World

After an overnight flight from Kathmandu, we arrived in Paris and found our hotel in the historic and eclectic neighborhood of Montmartre. We were surprised by the briskness of the air in the midst of summer and it was a welcome reprieve from the unforgiving heat of Nepal.

It was nine a.m. and we could not check into our room until 3:00 so, after dawdling around the lobby for a while, we decided to try to get in to see a doctor at one of the hospitals. We opted for a British-French semi-private hospital (France has socialized health care) and miraculously got in to see a doctor and have an ultrasound that afternoon. The outcome was sad but conclusive…finally. Surgery seemed the logical next step, given our strict travel schedule. However, we were unwilling to thwart our plans to leave for Grenoble the next morning and opted to deal with the surgery issue upon returning to Paris in a few days. Although we did spend our entire first day back in Paris at the hospital, we were thankful for the opportunity to be seen on such short notice. We returned to Montmartre just in time to check into our hotel, grab some delectable takeout, and melt into bed.

Grenoble was beautiful. The three-hour train ride from Paris took us through plots of sunflowers, golden fields with centuries-old farm houses, and the magnificent French Alpes. We had come to watch a stage of the Tour de France, which finishes atop a mountain called Alpe d’Huez. In planning this little detour, we were disappointed to discover how scarce and inadequate was the information online regarding the logistics of watching the stage on the mountain itself but we assumed that there would be plentiful info and public transport options for ushering the flood of cycling fans up the hill come race day. Our preoccupation with health issues for the past month had caused us to arrive in Grenoble completely unprepared. We realized when we disembarked from the train that we had no idea where our hostel was or how we were supposed to get there but, after that initial stressful realization, we pulled it together and found our way via public bus.

The hostel staff knew little about the Tour and, since Alpe d’Huez was the next afternoon, we dropped our bags and headed straight back to town to seek information. A few frustrating hours of pounding the pavement in Grenoble yielded the following: 1) the road to Alpe d’Huez would be closed on race day; 2) there was no public transport available since the road would be closed; and 3) no one in Grenoble gives a damn about the Tour de France. Our only option was to rent a car that day, drive up the mountain, and sleep in the car. Naturally, almost all of the rental cars in town were already rented and the few that were available were exorbitant. As fate would have it, we would instead watch Alpe d’Huez in a small corner tavern with a big screen T.V.

Determined to make the most of our visit to Grenoble, we spent our second day taking in the town. Wandering through the historic town center, we marveled at old stone churches and quintessential French architecture with its signature wrought iron detail. The narrow cobbled streets were lined with outdoor cafes, patisseries, and fruit and vegetable stalls. At la rue Chenoise and la place aux Herbes, a quaint and busy courtyard surrounded by 14th-18th century homes, the aromas of the daily fruit, vegetables and spices market filled the air.

The colors, smells, and quiet bustle of the locals buying their fresh ingredients for the day brought to mind the concept of the art of living. I thought briefly of the shopping in the States – the “big box” stores like Walmart, Target, Costco and American grocery chains. In comparison to this beautiful, artsy neighborhood with its butcher, baker and candlestick maker, the “big boxes” seemed vulgar and utterly lacking in personality. Still, in spite of its status as an unapologetic bastion of consumerism, the United States of Awesomeness (thanks, Trish, I love that!) has the best shopping in terms of variety, quality, service and convenience on the planet Earth. With the exception of Martha Stewart and her loyal disciples, we seem to have forsaken much of the art of living with our “big boxes” but while there is a beautiful simplicity to the art, I’ll take Costco any day.

After hours of aimless wandering through the historic streets, we walked along the river snaking through the northern edge of town. It was lined with some of Grenoble’s prettiest old buildings. We rode the cable car to La Bastille, an old wartime fortress on the mountainside to take in the spectacular panoramic views of the valley. After that, we picked up some cheese and a warm baguette and made a picnic in the park. The weather has been absolutely gorgeous and the parks were full of people, young and old, enjoying the abundant summer flowers and fresh air. It was a lovely sight.

On our last day in Grenoble, almost as if to atone for the impossibility of Alpe d’Huez, the Tour de France race course ran along the main street just outside our hostel. Hours before race time, we joined the locals in lining the curb, patiently awaiting our chance to steal a glimpse of the riders.

The caravan of sponsor cars preceded the racers, rallying the fans with incessant honking, blasting music and tossing trinkets into the crowd. An hour passed between the caravan and the riders. When the peloton finally whizzed by the level stretch of road in a mere few exhilarating seconds, our hearts raced at the sight – a kaleidoscope of spinning pedals and colorful spandex. And then they were gone. We had spent about four hours sitting around in the sun, waiting for those few brilliant seconds. While I do not share my husband’s passion for cycling, I looked at him in the wake of the peloton and exclaimed, “That was so worth it!”

We left on the evening train back to Paris – to meet Aaron’s mother who would fly in the following morning; to get closure on the miscarriage; and to revisit one of the most amazing cities in the world.

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The relaxing four-hour train ride provided a good mental transition from bustling Paris to Bohemian Amsterdam.  We arrived at Centraal Station in the early afternoon and, after a few tense moments of trying to locate our tram stop and (unsuccessfully) the whereabouts of Aaron’s Ray Bans, we made our way to the address of the room that we’d booked for the next five nights.  To our surprise, the address was residential so after checking and re-checking our notes, Aaron hesitantly rang the bell and was greeted by a smiling woman who introduced herself as Henriette.  As it turned out, we had unknowingly rented a spare room in someone’s home and it is absolutely charming!  The house is a narrow, brick four-story, we think owned by Henriette’s delightful mother, Jes (I’ve been calling her “the Dutch Yiayia” because she reminds me of my own beloved Yia) who lives on the ground floor in the rooms next to ours. 

Henriette and her siblings live in the three floors of apartments above with their respective families.  How cozy!  Our room gets its distinct charm from the Nordic antique furniture: dainty, delicate wood chairs upholstered in red-and-cream-striped silk, a gorgeous wooden built-in closet and marble-topped nightstands and artsy accents.  There are “little hippy” touches too – the kaleidoscope curtains and psychedelic bed cover and they quaintly contrast while strangely complementing the antique décor.  The Dutch Yiayia is a lovely hostess and has stocked a small pantry with an electric hot water pot, utensils, glassware and dishware for two as well as an assortment of instant coffee, teas, candies and cup-o-soup packets.  Each morning, after we leave, she comes in and washes all of our dishes and takes out our trash (and refills the chocolates because we eat them all every day).  When we first met her, we inquired about the nearest laundry facility and she offered to let us use her washing machine.  The next morning, she was going to show us how to use it but we weren’t supposed to knock on her door because she sleeps late.  We gathered our pile of laundry on the bed and went out for few hours.  When we returned, our clothes were washed and hanging neatly on a drying rack in the foyer.  This little lady has melted our hearts with her warmth and endearing sweetness.  You meet her and you just want to hug her!  She’s so cool.  This has been the best place that we’ve stayed so far; it has felt like a home on the road!

Amsterdam and Holland are famous for a lot of things – canals, tulips, wooden clogs, cannabis-selling “coffee shops” and, of course, the Red Light district.  There are also museums, high-end boutiques and outdoor cafés, and hundreds of years of history in this one-time capital of Europe.  We’ve spent a lot of time walking around this very compact city, sitting in cafés, observing locals and tourists alike.  Having been in Amsterdam for five days, it’s hard not to notice some things that we’re simply not used to seeing.

First, a little drug education: Probably most famous are the “coffee shops” that dot the streets in the greater metropolitan area.  At these local purveyors of higher enlightenment, any one over the age of 18 can walk in and order his/her choice of cannabis or hashish from an extensive menu with selections from around the world.  The process is similar to ordering a bottle of wine at a nice restaurant, where the knowledgeable sommelier is happy to impart the differences among the many varieties available.    You can order pre-rolled joints or in bulk quantities by the gram and a side of paraphernalia if you please.  If an establishment calls itself a “café”, then you cannot buy or smoke “soft drugs” there.  If it says “coffee shop” on the sign, then you are sure to inhale an aromatic, evergreen-like, inviting soft smoke wafting out of its doorway.  These establishments do not sell alcohol but have an otherwise enticing selection of coffees, teas, and fruity concoctions for the amplified taste buds of their patron stoners. 

The ambience inside is a collaboration of dim lights, smoky haze and psychedelic melodies.  People are happy and relaxed, peacefully celebrating the liberties they have only in this liberated city, where soft drug use is viewed as a health issue rather than a criminal issue.  Interestingly, Amsterdam also boasts a number of “Smartshops”, which sell fresh psychedelic mushrooms and truffles.   These come in as many “flavors” as marijuana and the legal distinction is this: fresh mushrooms are considered to be in the “grey area” between soft drugs and hard drugs.  The process of drying converts them to hard drugs so, even though the euphoric effects are similar between the fresh and dried versions of these trippy vegetables, Smartshops can legally sell the fresh while the dried are illegal.  That said, the public cigarette smoking in both Paris and Amsterdam is much more offensive than any of the above-mentioned vices.  Next summer, when we’re back in Europe, we’ll have to remember to pack our gas masks.

Second is the omnipresent testosterone vibe that permeates this city.  For the numerous young adult male entourages (seemingly the most prevalent demographic) who come here to sow their young oats and experience the wild life, there are many temptations, besides legal drugs, to gain their attentions.  The Gentlemen’s clubs and pornographic cinemas advertising live sex shows and other perversities, the numerous erotica stores, and the infamous Red Light District draw them into a world of Godless indulgence.  As it is our goal on this trip to see the world, in all of its beauty and ugliness, we took the tram into the Red Light District on Saturday night to observe it during its highest magnitude of bustling activity. 

The streets were packed with an odd mix of gawking tourists, curious young couples, and the aforementioned groups of males on the prowl.  The streets of the district are intermixed with pubs, Gentlemen’s clubs, and, of course, the Red Light women of the world’s oldest profession.  The unfortunate women of all nationalities, young and beautiful in skimpy lingerie, smile and sway in their windows, ignoring the gawking tourists, waiting for a customer to come in and take another little piece of their souls.  It pains us to look too long at them…pretty caged birds.  We want to save them but it is a lost cause.  Each window has a red light above it.  If the red light is on, and the curtain is closed, it means a customer is being serviced.  If the red light is off, then no one is working that window at the moment.  This environment invariably brings to light the worst faces of men.  In their drunkenness and testosterone-inflated states of mind, they taunt the birds in their cages and shout obscenities at them but these birds are tough, hardened by the circumstances of life which have dealt them their current lot, and they fire back with verbal atrocities that ring through the streets.  As we were passing by, one of the women opened her door and threw water and insults at a man on the street, which splashed us also.  She quickly apologized to us and shut herself back in…two minutes later, she was back to smiling and swaying.  Tough birds.

Finally, as in most large cities there are of people hurriedly rushing around from one place to another, but in Amsterdam they are all on fiets (bikes).  We have never seen so many bikes in our entire lives!  There are approximately 800,000 people living in Amsterdam and an estimated 600,000 bikes.  Bicycle-riding is truly a way of life for the Dutch.  Men wearing suits and women in beautiful flowing dresses ride next to cell phone-holding students and mothers with children in seats on the front handlebars and back wheel.  As a pedestrian, you are much more likely to be hit by a bicycle than a car!  Bicycles dominate the landscape here, so we decided to see what it’s really like to be a fietser (cyclist) in Amsterdam.

“Hell on Wheels” as told by Aaron:

We rented a couple of heavy, steel-framed, fixed-gear bikes from a local outfit named Mike’s Bike Tours.  After some paperwork and quick instruction on how to lock them, we were off on an adventure to explore the countryside and towns north of Amsterdam with only a rough Lonely Planet map in tow.  Tina has been fighting a head cold but agreed begrudgingly to go along, knowing how much it would mean to me.  We spent the next 10 minutes working our way through the city traffic, coming within six inches of getting clobbered by a tram, and arrived at the ferry dock just behind Centraal Station.  Taking a ferry across the waterway and setting off just after 10am with an expected high temperature of 70 degrees and a light breeze out of the South, it was a seemingly perfect day for riding.  Almost immediately after disembarking the ferry we got lost and quickly discovered that while many people in Amsterdam speak fluent English, the Dutch people outside of Amsterdam did not.  We finally found our way and although we were now riding our original planned loop in reverse, we were happy to be on our way.  The sturdy, 30-pound bikes were like beach cruisers, not extremely comfortable or aerodynamic for a long ride, and the seat began almost immediately to chafe me in all of the wrong places.  But we were riding through the Dutch countryside, through centuries-old towns and cobblestone streets, across rustic wooden bridges and adjacent to reed-studded canals, lined with small wooden boats, and lush green fields with grazing jersey cows and sheep.  It’s easy to see how so many great artists were inspired by these tranquil, rolling landscapes.

After stopping for lunch at a small café in Broek in Waterland, we continued on our journey through a number of small towns, occasionally taking wrong turns but eventually making our way to the center of Edam, our final destination about 25km northeast of Amsterdam.  Many local bike tour companies do group tours to the town of Edam with stops at cheese and clog-making factories along the way, so we thought that it might be worth a visit ourselves.  It was a quaint, historic town with the original construction of narrow brick lanes and small brick shops lining the canals that snaked through the village.  After a brief stroll, we began the long ride back which, unbeknownst to us at the time, would transform our leisurely countryside bicycle ride into “Hell on wheels”.  We noticed that the wind had begun to pick up from the light breeze earlier in the morning to sustained high winds with strong gusts and we were now facing it head on.  As a cyclist I’m used to riding into the wind but riding a single speed bike that weighs twice as much as my bike back home into a constant headwind was not fun.  And it was about to get worse.

Our original plan was to ride a counter-clockwise loop through several country villages, then return to Amsterdam.  However because we started off in the wrong direction, we amended our plan to now complete the loop going clockwise.  What we failed to realize was that the last leg of the loop, a distance of about 15km, would be along the coast of a huge lake atop a dyke that was completely exposed, heading south directly into the wind.  We pedaled along at a snail’s pace, occasionally dismounting and walking because our legs were burning and the wind was so fierce that we could no longer make the pedals turn.  After what seemed an eternity of pedaling, a lot of cursing (mostly by Tina), and sour attitudes all around, we made it back to the shelter of town and miraculously found the ferry dock on our first try.  We returned to the center of Amsterdam, fighting the pedestrian and car traffic, and eased our pain, both psychologically and physically, with steaming dishes of Italian pasta and pizza.  Limping home, we both agreed that we had been a little over-ambitious about the 35-mile itinerary with our tank-like bikes.  In hindsight I probably wouldn’t do it again, but it was my first long bike ride in almost four months and I feel like a fietser again.

Tomorrow evening, we leave for Cairo.  Our adventure in Amsterdam has been fulfilling in a different way than Paris.  We’ve spent our days and nights aimlessly wandering and exploring the city with no agenda but to take it all in.  We did check out the Van Gogh museum; while the story of Van Gogh’s tortured soul was fascinating and his works divine, we still had the Louvre in our hearts and the little Van Gogh museum was less impressive (and ironically more expensive) in comparison.  We spent one gorgeous sunny day barefoot in the park, where we witnessed some tone-deaf German (just guessing) adolescents singing off-key odes to Jesus and proceeding to “baptize” one of their members in the creek.  We spent one chilly night in the warmth of our cozy room, talking for hours, listening to music, and overdosing on Dutch cup-o-soup.  We have wandered along the canals and narrow, brick side streets and popped into cafes and coffee shops at random. Amsterdam is similar to Vegas in that it has a lot of guilty pleasures to offer the curious traveler but when it’s time to leave, you’re ready to go.

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Versailles was magical!  We began with a tour of the Chateau and its majestic salons and corridors.  The muraled ceilings, the regal red and green silk wallpapers, the gold-embroidered bed coverings, and oil portraits of generations of royal bloodlines entice the imagination into romantic fantasies of inhabiting such celestial palaces.  We dream our own faces into the marble busts atop the mantles and into the portraits of gents and demure dames in Renaissance gowns of velvet and lace, with pearly-white heaving bosoms.  The Royal Apartments seem almost fictional as one cannot reasonably fathom a life in such luxurious excess. 

The Hall of Mirrors incites pure delight with its glistening crystal chandeliers refracting colorful light from the floor-to-ceiling paned windows offering the best view of the Edenesque gardens below.  The inner wall of the hall is aligned with gold-trimmed mirrors, creating the illusion of space and light.  Also spectacular is the Hall of Battles, a long, lavish corridor lined with enormous oil paintings depicting centuries of French battle scenes.  The tourist headsets are complimentary with the price of admission and we enjoyed listening to the recorded stories of many of the battles portrayed on these great walls.

And then there were the gardens!  The sunny afternoon made for a gorgeous descent into the main garden, where the bright green lawn seems to end in the sky.  We lounged in the grass along the edge of a cross-shaped canal and soaked up the sun, pondering the rental of a rowboat.  The gardens were vast beyond the water, though, and at Aaron’s suggestion, we opted to take bikes instead.   This turned out to be a brilliant choice as we spent the next glorious hour gliding along with the gentle breeze coolly carrying us through the autumn woods.  As we merrily pedaled along, I felt a youthful freedom that I had not felt in years!  It was exhilarating to feel suddenly devoid of inhibition, devoid of uncertainty and anxiety, and to be childishly, wholeheartedly, breathlessly living in that moment!  Time stopped for us; it was a vision that will be safely tucked away among my fondest memories in that treasure chest of perfect moments.

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Everything about Paris has been wonderful!  It’s our first stop and we’ve already discussed the possibility of never leaving.  What’s not to love?  Take your pick of the world-class museums, amazing food, the relaxed outdoor café culture, or the fact that French is one of the most beautifully spoken languages in the world, but we are enamored with Paris.  I especially love the countless patisseries that beckon to me from the street with their brightly lit display cases boldly advertising the special du jour through the windows.  Stepping inside I am overcome by the abundant decadence which takes form in croissants, chocolate éclairs, fruit tarts, cookies, and bushels of freshly-baked baguettes.

While we have enjoyed every moment thus far, we’ve been going non-stop for nearly a week.  The early excitement of the trip ahead, the novelty of unemployment, and the endless list of things to see in Paris have all created this urge within for us to pack as much as we can into each day.  We run from one Metro stop to the next and speed walk between museums and churches and cafés.  But we’ve seen all of our personal highlights- Musée du Louvre (3 times!), Musée d’Orsay, Eiffel tower, Montmartre and Sacre Coeur, Champs Elysées and the Arc de Triomphe, Place de la Concorde, Notre Dame and Ile de la Cite, Hotel des Invalides and the Dome Church, Place de la Bastille, Hotel de Ville, and too many beautiful churches to name.  After waking early and crashing early each day, we finally had our first night out in Paris.  We walked from the Marais district along the

Seine to the courtyards of the Louvre.  The tourists were gone, the ground within was completely dark and the façades of the surrounding buildings were softly lit with white lights.  A lone violin player straddled the two courtyards and the combination of his music and the greatness of this place created a mood that was both magical and romantic.  We left and caught the Metro to head across town to see the Eiffel tower after dark.  We’d seen it during the day on Saturday and it was swarming with Parisians and tourists alike, enjoying one of the nicest sunny days of the year.  We decided that we had to go to the top and see for ourselves what the city of lights has to offer.  The view from the top was awe-inspiring from every vantage point and thus far, a highlight of the trip.

Our busy days have been compounded by the necessity of switching hostels because neither of the two we have stayed in so far have had the additional availability we needed.  Our initial idea was to only reserve a night or two in a new hostel and then if we liked the place, we would request to stay longer.  When you’re lugging around 35-pound backpacks its nice being able to leave them in the room (locked to something sturdy, of course) and go exploring all day.  The first two nights at our hostel near Montmartre were fine, but certainly nothing special.  Given the option we probably would have stayed there for our entire Paris visit.  But we had to move and so we spent the past three nights at a low-budget hotel in the Parisian suburbs.  The room was bigger than the first but there was no shower curtain and it was a hike to the train station, so we’re not exactly sad to leave.  We haven’t been able to find accommodations at the last minute as easily as we would have liked so we’ve booked two more nights in Paris, and then the next five in Amsterdam but we still haven’t decided what we’re doing after the first two nights in Cairo.

And so, after spending the first five days rising early and walking until our feet could no longer carry us, we tried to slow down.   This is not a 7-day vacation from which we can return to our lives “back home” and recover during the ensuing work week.  This is our new life and we must make time to relax, learning to live, and rest, on the go.  We woke up later this morning, packed our bags and moved to our new hotel, and decided to spend a leisurely afternoon in the gardens of the Rodin Museum (where the statue of “The Thinker” is).  We peered through the hedges the other day into what looked like a beautiful spa-like courtyard and Tina insisted that we return.  Today, the sky was slightly overcast but it was warm enough to relax and read on wooden chaise lounges with the high walls of the garden keeping the wind at bay.  The setting was so tranquil with the freshly trimmed lawn embracing the tree-lined walkway and the beautifully manicured hedges framing the statues scattered throughout.  It was just what we needed today.

On a final note: I love subways!  I’ve ridden them in the U.S., in Hong Kong, and in Europe and they’re convenient, relatively cheap, and always on time.  Sure, they’re dirty, smelly and at times unbelievably complex and confusing and the Paris Metropolitan is no exception.  But once you get the hang of it, I can’t think of a better way to get around a big city.  We take the metro daily and have become very proficient at transferring from train to train while dodging busy business professionals, wide-eyed tourists and mothers with strollers.  I have a feeling we’ll miss this luxury in the Third World.

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This city is so alive with its eclectic mix of art, architecture, and multiculturalism, all of historic significance. One has no choice but to dive right in and so, powered by adrenaline and cafe au lait, that’s exactly what we did!

We checked into our hostel, dropped our bags, and headed straight to Sacre Coeur. Started in 1875 and completed in 1914, the cathedral is located on a hilltop in Montmartre. The old stone walls are ominous and foreboding, however, the view of the city is marvelous and inside a luminous mosaic of Christ is the dominant feature.

Notre-Dame preface: My most vivid, though adolescent, reference to this famous monument is of course “The Hunchback of Notre-Dame” and I couldn’t stop thinking of Quasimoto ringing those bells!

In reality, the churches (Sacre Coeur, Notre Dame, St. Sulpice so far) are some of the most famous and beautiful in the world. They are breathtaking inside with their Heavenly domed ceilings, stained glass iconography, giant stone pillars, marble sculptures and murals depicting the life of Christ and stories from the Bible. The architecture in Paris is thus far unmatched by any that we have ever seen. Each cathedral has a main altar in the middle and there are smaller individual chapels around the inside perimeter that each have their own pious persona. Candles are alight all throughout the nave and in the individual chapels. Each has a grandiose pipe organ which, with a choral accompaniment, likely makes for an unforgettable Christmas service.

Musee du Louvre: Let me preface this next excerpt by saying that I am a total museum fanatic! When I check out a new town, the first thing I want to know is what kind of museums it has. This bias is important to note when I say, without hesitation, that every person should make it a priority to experience the Louvre at least once in his/her life. Once a fortress, the U-shaped building is lined with sculptures and the famed glass pyramid at the main entrance is a fine, if unexpected, contrast to the squared building. We arrived early and made a beeline for the Mona Lisa, rushing past brilliant works of art on both sides of the long corridors. The draw of the Mona Lisa has more to do with its fame than with the painting itself but nonetheless, a crowd of early-risers had already congregated around it. After snapping the required photos, we worked our way casually through the Pavillion Denon, which houses many of the awe-inspiring Renaissance oil paintings (my favorite) and sculptures from France, Italy and Spain. For anyone who has the slightest interest in the Christian faith, these oils are not only humbling for their artistic magnificence but they also bring to life the scriptures read during a lifetime of Sunday liturgies. (As a side note, I must confess that I am enamored with the perky but voluptuous female subjects of the Renaissance and am anxiously awaiting the day when that body-type is back in vogue. Until then, I’ll just keep turning down that second “croissant du chocolat”). Also unforgettable are the marble sculptures. I read The Agony and the Ecstasy some months ago and was intrigued by Michelangelo’s methods of studying corpses to learn the musculature of the human body. With that in mind, I studied these incredible carved marbles with an eye for muscle tone and curvature. The definition of each curling lock of hair, the torsos so exquisitely arched and curved that you think they are going to heave with breath; they are simply astounding! The art and architecture of the building itself are nearly as marvelous as the works inside. The brilliant, high ceilings are laced with murals with incorporated sculpture and, if you don’t spend a few moments admiring these masterpieces above, then you have done yourself a disservice. We have not even scratched the surface of the Louvre; we must DEFINITELY go back again soon!

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