departures and arrivals

This is one of those topics that readers do not care about: when did your flight leave? How late were you on arrival? Bleh, move on. Tell us how things are in your new place, don't waste our time on the banalities of air travel.

Yet, for the traveler, leaving and then finally getting there is important: emotions run high on both ends. At least for me they do. I dislike leaving home and flight delays make that departure drag. But I do like arriving in Paris. Not so much at the Paris airport, which requires endless navigation, but in Paris, the city. It's at that moment -- when I step outside from the Luxembourg RER train stop that I think -- when I get too old or too poor to continue the crossings, I will miss this moment of alighting by the Luxembourg Gardens in Paris.

Apart for the emotional spikes surrounding departure, there are the practicalities and yes, I'll bore you with just a brief mention of a few hiccups I encountered in leaving.

The weather was fine. A few random rain clouds. A pilot could navigate through those blindfolded. But, planes are like cars, lawn mowers, wheelbarrows, mopeds, farm carts and bicycles. They get flat tires. (Ed has changed tires on all the above.) My plane that was to take me to Detroit got a flat and even the nice cushion I gave myself for a connection proved not to be enough. I was going to miss my flight to Europe.

Because I booked an evening flight (I wanted not to back out of picking up the kids on a Monday, which is the busiest work day for both parents), I knew I was in trouble. There are limited flights out of my hometown after 7 p.m. and only a couple connect to a place where I can get on a Europe bound flight.

Luck. In travel it can put you back on track. Absence of it can derail even the most carefully planned trip. This time it was going to be my best buddy. Delta booked me on the last flight to Minneapolis -- in time for an ocean crossing from there.

And another good outcome: I was so tired after all the recent activity at the farmette that I actually slept for a couple of hours, which for me is a rare treat. Most often I arrive in Europe after a night of no sleep.

(Breakfast, Amsterdam airport, so late that I can only call it an indifferent lunch)






And so I alight from the commuter train at the Luxembourg Garden gates, later than planned, but happy to connect with all that this side of the ocean stirs within me.


















And then I walk to my little hotel, just two blocks down the hill (Paris is not flat: you learn this quickly if you ever drag a suitcase across its bumpy streets). I leave my bags in my lovely little room (actually not so little - I'm in an upgrade) and quickly set out. I have a few errands to run before my friend arrives (tomorrow).

(an unplanned stop at a shop around the corner -- to add a bee to my lapel...)






As the night light intensifies and shops close all around me, I hesitate by this favorite cafe restaurant. Should I ask for a table?





No, it calls for too big of a hike back to my hotel after. When I am alone in Paris, I like to eat dinner pretty close to where I am staying. I don't know why -- perhaps it feels more like I am in the neighborhood of "home" then.

Today I try new place, one that my hotel had reviewed in one of their seasonal newsletters. It's called the Cod House and it's a blend of Japanese and French tapas style food and it's perfect for me. I start with a raw yellowtail and one of their lovely coctails...





... Then a delicious sea bass in soy, with pea pods and an incredibly yummy strip of eggplant gratinee.

But I am tired. It's been a very very long day. Delicious, sensual Paris is worth it of course, but still, at the end of the day the eyes grow heavy. Especially on the day of arrival.