Tracie and Don's European Vacation: From Begining to End

2006-07-18T20:07:00.000-07:00

Sorry, I tried to fix some spacing and threw everything off. The text turned yellow, the spacing scrunched up and the more I did to fix it the worse it got. Now the spacing is miles apart and the text is green, yellow and black...which I don't you can see at all. I'm working on fixing it but this is a long a-- story and it's taking a long time to fix. (tlh 6/29/11)

PART I: Concord, North Carolina, January 4-6, 2006

Click HERE for the set with these cute dogs

So, I’ve downloaded all the pictures from both of our cameras onto my computer. Don’s were all on one chip because his camera tolerates those large memory chips. My camera pauses too long to digest anything with those chips, leaving me tapping my foot, anxious to capture my next composition.

Then the trick was to decide which ones to upload (to Yahoo). Or more appropriately, which ones not to upload. “Does anyone really need to see this picture of me, devoid of all fashion-sense, make-up and poise?” (NO! not the above image you see here!!! That's a DOG--a REAL dog I mean!) The thing is, for this trip we were more intent on the impression we would leave with than the one we would leave behind, so the limited suitcase space was filled with the intent of dedicating our time in Europe to standing behind cameras rather than in front mirrors. Packing was a challenge all the same. We had instructions from the IBS group conducting this class/tour that we were only allowed one suitcase and one carry-on each. Do you know how much room one thick wool sweater takes up in a suitcase—even if it’s rolled up to maximize space? We were told to pack light—consider doing laundry while on the trip—and bring formal business attire for the company and class visits. Keeping all that in mind, plus the fact that Don had read somewhere that 10 degrees above zero was not uncommon for Europe in January—warmth and seeing as much of these foreign lands as we could in the short time allotted were our concerns. Hence, Tracie-portraits on this trip are all pretty hideous! Never-the-less, while I may spare you one or two really awful shots of me, I won’t leave them all out, because Don went through allot of trouble composing them and assuring me I was gorgeous.

Wednesday, January 4^th

This group of photographs is the first leg of our journey—the John Wayne airport (SNA) to Concord, North Carolina (KJQF) leg. What’s so interesting about John Wayne Airport? You can go take pictures there yourself any time you want (if you're one of my local friends that is—and why would you want to if you’re not?) Yeah, you're right. That’s why I limited my photo-taking at the airport to the really important stuff—the drug sniffin’ long-nosed furry guys (dogs, not guards). They were strolling back and forth passing all the terminal zone/lounge areas. Each time one passed I lamented my camera had not been at the ready to catch them in action. And then, lo and behold —three of them stopped RIGHT in front of where Don and I were seated; their owners leaned on the backs of chairs chatting. My intent was just to photograph a couple of the dogs, but then a couple of 8-year-olds (or there-abouts) came along wanting to know if they could pet the dogs. I’d have thought not, but the guys said, “You can pet this one, but this other is mean.” The pet-able one is the one stretching in photo number 4. Do I even have to tell you that I followed the children’s example and pet him too?

The American Airline plane to Dallas was pleasant enough. When we arrived we had to wait for another plane to leave our gate area before we could de-plane. It was an anxious 15 or so minutes with the captain assuring us that the airport was aware that there were 54 people aboard with connecting flights. When we were finally released we raced (now, mind you, anyone watching this would have to have been at least a smidge entertained--we’ve got these huge heavy down coats on for 10 degree weather that won’t fit in our bags—I’m wearing knee-high snow boots, and a huge backpack is thunking about behind me as I run) to and up the escalator that lead to the 2^nd level where a nifty electric monorail races around in a circle to all the different terminal zones (our first of what was to be many experiences of standing on a moving train hanging onto a pole to keep from toppling over). We jumped off at Zone A and ran to our gate. The airline personnel greeted us by asking if we were the Halls—infamous already! When we arrived in Charlotte (about 4:00 p.m. their time) we learned our fears were correct. There had not been time in Dallas to chuck our baggage in after us and we’d arrived ahead of it.

So Don’s Mom, Joan; younger brother, Dan; Sister-in-law Brandi; and 6 month old niece, Emma picked us up in Don’s Aunt Jean’s Van and promised to bring us back after dinner to collect our bags. Leaving the airport, the temperature was in the upper 30’s—blue skies with a few adorning clouds.

Dinner was in a restaurant in downtown Charlotte’s TransAmerica building. A brewery: there were huge silver (colored) drums of beer visible through a large window passed along the route to the restrooms.

Did you know in North Carolina beverages, not just coffee, are bottomless? I’m not positive that’s true of alcohol though because no one ordered any….Oh! and restaurants have smoking sections—but then, why wouldn’t they in Phillip Morris country?

We went back for our bags without any problem and then got to see Dan and Brandi’s very pretty house. Sorry. No pictures.

We were then delivered to Fred’s (Fred is Jean’s son—Don’s cousin) house, which is one of the houses Joan (again, that’s Don’s Mom) and Jean (Don’s Aunt) had purchased in North Carolina. The interior home shots here are of this house.

The pictures here that say “Joan's house” are exterior shots of the first house they purchased in North Carolina that they live in. Very cute and cozy. I thought it might be rude/invasive to take indoor pictures there so I did not.

As with the first house they purchased, they also fixed up and furnished Fred's house. It was Fred who had volunteered to come to CA while we were on our trip, and watch our animals. So staying in his little house worked out quite nicely. As shown in the photos, it has a living room, kitchen, dinning room (which is used as an office), two bedrooms, and one bathroom. Oddly enough, as we’d found with houses in the San Bernardino mountains, few houses in the area have garages. Unlike San Bernardino mountains, most Concord houses have large basements, that for the most part, satisfy the need. They can’t park in them (usually) but they can store allot there.

Staying in Fred’s house was very pleasant---accept for that first night when we were rudely awakened by a woman pounding on the door at 2:00 a.m. asking to be let in. We’d been warned that Fred had recently met the sister of a neighbor who’d been rather assertive about visiting—well, I’d say so! Don went to the door and without opening it told her Fred wasn’t home and to go away. Then she wanted to use the phone. “No, you can’t use the phone, go away.” (Are we friendly or what?!)

Thursday, Jan 5^th:

A fun breakfast at a nearby restaurant. After driving by some of Joan’s other properties (intended to be rentals once fixed up) and a successful trip to Burlington Coat Factory for new suitcases (a faulty wheel caused us to abandon one we’d brought and it's twin just on principle) and a great lunch at another nice little food stop, we spent most of the day at the Wilshire house with Don’s Mom and Aunt. Don was consumed with his computer, trying to deal with problems at his job. He was particularly frustrated as they seemed to be blaming him for problems that were actually not related to his work. Meanwhile, I chatted with his Mom and Aunt and aimed Don’s camcorder at the bright red Cardinals conferencing in the tree two feet from the balcony. Jean and Joan took us to a wonderful Buffet for dinner.

Joan made up a sign for us to put on Fred's door for the night saying Fred was out of town, and whether by virtue of the sign, or of our inhospitality the night before, there were no middle-of-the night knocks. Sleep was still illusive (elusive?) though, due to the three hour time change we’d not quite acclimated to, and the full-size bed I’d decided we should use, given it was in the (very cute) “guest room” (leave it to me to choose cute over practical) and we were guests, after all—so it was only logical we use that room/bed. So, occasionally one of us would kick the other.

Friday January 6^th.

More computer work for Don, some last minute purchases at Walgreen’s, and another tasty buffet meal with Jean and Joan filled out the morning. The afternoon was pretty much about getting back to Charlotte Airport (CLT) to catch a plane (a comfy American Airline 767) to Philadelphia so that we could catch a plane in Philadelphia to Paris (on a rather uncomfy “Airbus” upon which we spent almost 7 mostly uncomfortable hours). The last photos in this group are of us waiting for that Philly plane. Don can be seen still talking to the folks at Behr trying to help them understand their problems.

Stay tuned for part II of “What I did on my Summer….I mean Winter, vacation.

P.S. This is (obviously) my first attempt at "blogging" so you may notice frequent reposting of the same thing as I experiment with getting images in and what-not. I hope I do not inadvertently delete comments in the process and appologize if that happens/happened. Thanks for reading!

PART II: The Airbus, January 6-7, 2006

Click HERE for the set with more sky views

So, last we left off, we were waiting at North Carolina’s Charlotte Airport for a plane to Philadelphia so that we could rendezvous with our plane to Paris….

The flight out of Charlotte was the first to begin International procedures. The excitement level raised another notch when we heard the boarding instructions repeated in French. Cool! This is really happening. We’re on our way to Paris!

Customs was not the ordeal I’d feared it might be. I’d had visions of airport personnel rifling through our luggage for contraband (so packed my best underclothes), leaving me to jam it all back in…. At least in our presence, rifling was not involved.

The international flight wasn’t too much different than our previous flights. We got to brandish our passports as we boarded the plane in Philadelphia; fill out a name and address card while we were on the plane that we handed back to a flight attendant; and to get our passports stamped after we disembarked. On the return home, there was a little more to it, but not much…and that’s not for another eight days.

Our flights to Charlotte had been American Airlines. These flights would be US Airways. A 767 for the flight from Charlotte to Philadelphia, and an Airbus 330 from Philadelphia to Paris. (Oh! There’s that word again!) The 767 had me thinking, “Nice. And the next plane could be even better, because, probably, a plane that people are going to be spending some 7 hours on has to be cozy.”

Don was busy photographing the sky on the Charlotte to Philly flight (labeled “En Route to PHL”). The clouds were showing off; taking advantage of Rim and Rembrandt lighting, from the sun looking back at them as it climbed down off the sky. (Well, maybe not Rembrandt, lighting. A nose is required for Rembrandt, and those clouds had not a one.)

After a few hours, we land in Philly; de-plane; speed-hike to gate A26 (the very farthest away it could be from the gate we had disembarked from—predictably, since I was on a 7 day (numerologically speaking) and everything was happening in slow motion as it is wont to do under that influence); release the heavy backpacks onto chairs; shrug the heavy coats off onto the tops of the packs; breath; sit; take turns with restrooms and bag watching; locate boarding passes and passports (conveniently [i.e. unfashionably] dangling from travel wallets around our necks like conference badges); and wait for the “Boarding zone 5” announcement. There it is! Heft coats on; drag backpacks up (jumping to defy gravity long enough to get the straps up over my shoulders); stand in line (yet again); proffer passports—contorting our faces to match the passport photos so there’s no identity question in the attendant’s mind, and on we go!

Oh wait! I left out the part where Don’s Mom had encouraged us to go ahead and ask how much a little upgrade to first class might be. When we first arrived at the gate, Don approached the desk, “May we upgrade to 1^st class?”

Airline lady: “How?”

Don: “How?”

Airline lady: "Yes sir, how are you paying for that?” (She must have been embarrassed to ask the entire question the first time.)

Don has his own 'how' question:“How much is it?” (One of those, "if you have to ask, you can't afford it situations?)

Airline lady: “Three thousand, sir.” ("Sir" is a nice touch and should always be uttered after "three thousand")

“Three-thousand? (gulp.---pause) DOLLARS???”

Don’t worry. I caught him before he hit the floor. We walked away wondering if she meant apiece.

But in retrospect, it wouldn’t surprise me if frequent fliers; (you know, those who know what they are in for?) are willing to pay that for a little leg and reclining room.

The first musings I found myself having, and might have shared with anyone willing to listen, shortly after finding our seats were, “Now why, on this of all planes, would that seat in front of me be so low to the floor and have that monstrous hump of metal taking up more than one quarter of the very narrow width previous planes allowed for a carry-on? Is it an over-the-wing thing? Is mine the only one that has it? No, Don’s got one too. So does that seat across the isle. They all do.” As these thoughts are running their course I am occupied with shoving, turning and kicking my backpack; willing it to shrink. Likely as not the hump was some kind of industrial strength seat-anchor that keeps seats from launching in “forced” landings, but it was damned inconvenient, if you ask me…which no one did.

So I got up and stuffed my full-length down coat into the bin while Don chose to use his as a blanket. I pulled out my paperback (Carlos Cataneda’s The Teachings of Don Juan: a Yaqui Way of Life—too much peyote involved to take any “teachings” seriously, in my opinion) and my ipod (preloaded with Robin Cook’s Seizure—no comment on this one, as I gave up trying to concentrate on listening to it early on), and then hefted/shoved the buggers (the back-packs that is) into the overhead storage. This I tried to do quickly to get out of the way of passengers still boarding. True, there would be some seven hours left to stand and rummage through our packs after the flight got underway, but when everyone is hoping to sleep, I doubted that getting up and down allot was the way to win friends or influence people.

Further musings---“Reclining to catch some z’s? Probably not going to happen.” The video screen for the passenger behind me was on the back of my headrest. Apprehensively I considered, “If I recline, is the lady behind me forced to re-adjust her video screen and/or her own seat? Would the next person back then have to readjust, and the next, and so on? Well, perhaps I’ll just stay awake.”

Hours later… “Man, my back aches. What if I try just a wee bit of a recline? Hmm, isn’t this button supposed to release the seat-back? Should I press harder on the seatback? ‘Woman sues airline and fellow passenger when seat flings hot chicken and orange-sauced-carrots; dousing trousseau en route to Paris.’ No. Never-mind.” (This seemed all the more possible considering the precarious angle of my own food tray; it’s right side listing toward the isle where I also envisioned a chicken free-fall.)

But the food was good. Annnnnd, when, after the third reboot, they finally got the video players working I got to see “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory”. Not my first choice, but I feared that my earlier fumblings with the multiple buttons on my control unit was causing the malfunction of the entire system (because it’s always all about me, as you know) so I let the thing kind-of do it’s own choosing. This was followed by “Madagascar”, which, though a cartoon, was better, in my opinion than Willy Wonka. I like Johnny Depp. But his Charlie character was just too odd. (If you want a great Johnny Depp movie, try Pirates of the Caribbean.)

We’d left Philadelphia at 8:10 p.m. Eastern Standard Time. And while this particular passenger wondered if the model used for shaping airplane seats was the Hunchback of Notre Dame; if it was the knee-high snow-boots or the seat-back pressed against her knees that was causing calf-cramping; and how the concrete slab beneath her could possibly be a floatation device; the US Airways 330 Airbus hurdled through the night until, eventually, it caught up with the sun and soon thereafter, at about 9:20 a.m. (12:20 a.m. California time, 3:20 a.m. NC time) fairly gently touched down in Paris.

Don? Well these pictures probably tell that story. Notice they are all of the ground after the plane has landed in Paris? You’ve got the picture. And you should be hearing something as well, like SNORING!

But if you ask him, he’ll tell you that he too watched a couple of movies, and an episode of Frasier, and even some other shows….. and that the photographs are only ground shots because it was dark when we were in the air. I confess that all of this is true, but there were definitely some periods of sonority going on beside me. When asked about this particular flight Don’s response is, “It was fine. It sure didn’t seem like seven hours”. I rest my case.

But, you’re right. I’m exaggerating the discomfort, at least a little. I mean, how bad can anything be when all the while you feel like a child on Christmas eve: Morning is sure to come when it’s supposed to, and when it does it’s….CHRISTMAS spelled P-A-R-I-S-!

PART III: First Day in France, Saturday, January 7, 2006

Click HERE for the rest of this set
City Hall of Levallois-Perret district in Paris

Charles de Gaulle airport:

Once off the plane, we lined up to get our passports stamped and then moved on to the baggage carols. Actually, Don stood by waiting for our bags to appear while I found the lady’s room. First sign we’re not in Kansas anymore: Forgive me if it’s in poor taste to discuss the errr, washroom, but it was so not-American it deserves comment. Very small—like, I think just two…errr, chambers. And the paper? Inadequate. Remember those little squares used in elementary schools to cut down on plumbing problems? And think 192 grade (coarsest grade needed in finishing surfaced lumber). The actual facilities themselves? Think porcelain---ALL porcelain -- ONLY porcelain….Think savings on toilet seat cover tissues and dispensers due to the fact there is no place to lay one. Seriously. At least not in this public restroom.

When I found Don again he had all of our baggage so off we wandered in search of the professor who was to meet us there. Our instructions had said to watch for someone holding a pink sign. Not seeing any pink, we began to wonder how recently they’d read their own instructions—maybe it’s not pink anymore. We settled on a rather proper mature gentleman holding a white sign that said “Professor Chase.” Neither of us remembered the name of the professor who was meeting us there. We were willing to believe it was Chase. “Professor Chase?” the man asked.

Thinking he’d abbreviated away a precedent “Are you looking for” we walked along with him as he continued, “You brought your wife. We thought you were coming alone. I’m afraid the vehicle will be a bit cramped.”

A few more steps and we’d have been out the door. I was nearly willing to let the question in my mind go, but Don, fortunately, found words. “You’re with IBS?”

“No.” And with that he practically ran back to his post, sign in hand. We hoped we hadn’t caused him to miss Professor Chase.

Ten minutes later we were rescued from “what do we do now?” anxiety by Professor Tom Baker. Other students gathered and off we went to load baggage and then ourselves onto the bus. Rapid French exchanges between the bus driver, Professor Baker, and a translator who’d appeared out of nowhere had me wondering if our young driver knew where she was to take us.

The Bus Trip:

As we whizzed down a freeway I stared out at large directional signs, lanes that seemed narrower than those at home, and cars—whose styles looked familiar, but whose logos, for the most part, did not. In retrospect I do not believe I saw one Hummer (but then, they aren’t really that common here either—thank heaven), or even an SUV. I saw a van or two that looked like Aerostars, but that was as big as I recall most vehicles getting.

Once off the freeway we seemed to be in a maze of alarmingly narrow one-way streets. In nail-biting alarm I marveled at the daring of our driver; zipping down streets, barreling around tight corners as pedestrians, motorcycles and cross traffic repeatedly blundered with equal daring and speed across her path. I would never drive a monster like this here! In fact, I wouldn’t drive anything here!

The second time past the same road sign confirmed my suspicions that her bearings in this region were weak. Fortunately the road sign said “Laurel Evergreen”, so we were in the neighborhood. The trouble was, the sign shared a post with many other signs angling out in different directions that did not appear to line up with any of the streets, point down any of them, or even bare their names. All that complicated by the one-way street factor, and you have to know it was amazing it only took her a few wrong turns to find the right one. Then suddenly we were unloading at Evergreen Laurel Hotel, 8 Place Georges Pompideou Levallois-Perret, 92300

France

– filing into the lobby, each of us with our luggage in tow.

In and around the hotel:
48◦53’40”N,2◦17’18”E

This Hotel is in the city and business center of Levallois-Perret. Away.com describes it as “an elegant residential area close to Paris. The nearby metro reaches the Op'ra & main touristic, business & shopping areas of Paris in only 15 min. 20 km from CDG Airport, 5 min. from Porte Maillot, Convention Center of Paris & La D'fense business district…”

Our group hosts were three professors (two of whom had their wives along); Dr. & Mrs. Baker, Dr. Johnson, and Dr. & Mrs Vegso. Dr. Baker ascertained at the desk that our rooms were not yet ready, as it was only about 11:00 a.m.. Dr. Baker had been here many times before so was able to suggest nearby restaurants and a grocery store. We left our bags with a concierge and zipped up our coats for 32 degree breezes under mostly clear skies.

The hotel was part of a large circle of buildings which surrounded a large but dormant fountain. I tried to imagine the dancing waters that Spring time visitors doubtless get to enjoy in full bloom. This was probably the first time, and certainly not the last that one of us expressed a desire to return some Spring.

After a short walk we discovered a foot bridge, climbed up on it, and were shocked to find ourselves looking over the Seine. After thoroughly exhausting photo opportunities at either side and end of this bridge we returned to the Hotel circle.

We then headed down a street that skirted our hotel leading away from the circle in the direction opposite from the river. This street was lined with yellow canvassed vendor stands. Some of the stands sold fruit, bread, or fish—others sold scarves, socks, purses and the like.

A co-worker of Don’s who’d been to Paris had loaned him 100 Euro, so we were armed with 50.00 Euro each. Never the less, when we spied a bank at the end of the street we were anxious to discover whether it was going to give us money without complaint. Don stuck his card in and pulled Euros out. Success!

Walking back through the bazaar, Don stopped to try on some gloves. I don’t know about you, but shopping is contagious with me. My first thought as he paused before the gloves was, “I’ll help Don find gloves that fit him. I don’t need any myself. I’m enjoying the warmth and comfort of these cashmere lined leather gloves I bought just before the trip.” But when I actually looked down to help him, a different set of thoughts snuck in;”The price is reasonable… Isn’t that clever the way the mitt folds back and Velcros to the back of the hand when dexterity is required?....I don’t have any like this….’never even seen any like these….not even in the shops on the mountain where it snows…you’d think if these were available at home I’d have seen them up there…do I even have a pair up there?.....suppose I’m up there and have forgotten to bring any with me, and I need a pair? I’d end up buying something more expensive that isn’t as good when I could just get these now and keep them up there. …”

Walking on with our new gloves, stopping to look at things here and there, it suddenly occurred to me I was now missing one of the leather gloves I’d removed to try on the others. Holding it’s partner in one hand I turned to retrace my steps when a mature woman (guessing late 60’s -- early 70’s) pointed at the glove in my hand and said a long string of somethings in French.

Assuming she’d seen my glove I said, “Merci” and headed in the direction she was pointing. Scanning the concrete I went as far as the stand I’d been at when last I’d had it, without success. Half way back to Don a mature man extended his hand to me. In it was my glove. The woman who’d first spoken to me was beside him. She pointed to the hedge-top and said more French things. I tried to stretch my mono-word vocabulary to express my gratitude for them seeing to it that I found my glove, “Merci-merci” (maybe doubling-up will give it new meaning). Who says French people are cold to Americans? That little couple was fabulous! After a couple more small purchases we returned to the hotel to see if a room was ready for us. Yes!

From what I’d been hearing before we’d left, I was expecting something somewhat less than what a similar hotel at home might provide in the form of creature comforts, but I wasn’t sure how much less to expect. For example, we’d been warned that the hotels tend to be cold in the Winter. We were pleased that room 249 of the Evergreen Laurel heated right up when we turned up the thermostat. A less fortunate example, is that when Don had suggested we bring a travel iron (and appropriate conversion plug), I had reminded him that most hotels come equipped with irons and ironing boards. He, in turn reminded me that what is true in ‘the states’ is not necessarily true in other countries.

“Well, it’s a 4 star hotel, for goodness sake, how barbaric can they be?”

Don had maintained that I might be surprised by a lack of conveniences. So, anxious now to prove myself right, I put my suitcase down and went to the closet.. Uh-ohh. No iron. No ironing board. Maybe they’re hiding someplace else in the room. Nope. Ahh, but here’s a sign. It seems, with a quick call to the front desk we can get laundry and ironing service…. in trade for a fist full of Euros. “Good thing you brought that travel iron….didn’t you?”

We unpacked some of our things. Don requested an Internet connection from the desk downstairs and was able to get on his computer to check his work situation, and then laid down for a quick nap. Meanwhile I read, hoping that the IBS advice to stave off sleep until night, was good advice. My eyelids were getting heavy and my mind was not digesting the concepts my eyes were feeding it. I almost gave in and laid down myself when Don popped up, not exactly refreshed, but certainly hungry and ready to find something to eat. We’d have an hour before meeting the group at 6:00 p.m..

We were disappointed to discover upon stepping back out, that the bazaars where we’d hoped to pick up an inexpensive bite had all folded up and disappeared. When we found ourselves in front of a café our optimism about eating inexpensively returned. I’d always been anxious about going to a Foreign country and being unable to communicate, but sitting there eating, after having guessed correctly about menu items, getting the point across about the decisions made, and trading coins successfully, was actually something akin to exhilarating. Admittedly, we were a little dismayed at the miniature size of the cups (Don calls them “Toys ‘R Us” cups) and strength of the coffee we kept getting served at various restaurants each time we requested ‘café’. “What’s up with this, do they honestly only have Espresso in France?” We were later to learn, upon asking a French waitress in London about this little mystery, that one must say “long” (I think that’s what she was saying—it sounded like “lone-ga”) café’ to get a normal size and strength. She said many French proprietors actually know what Americans want but stubbornly bring them what they asked for instead. And this brings me to another observation about Paris—at least what we saw of it. No Starbucks. No Dietrich’s. No franchises in general. This is not a complaint mind you, just an observation. (I later learned from someone raised in France that there actually is a MacDonald’s in Paris—‘guess I just missed it.)

Ah-oh. This one has gone over the word limit I’d set myself. Sorry. I’ll stop here for now. The photos here are those taken just in and around (within 15 minutes of walking) the hotel on that first day.

PART IV: First Night in France, Saturday, January 7

(Click HERE for other Part IV images)

After our snack and espresso at the café, we returned to our hotel room for camera batteries. Exiting our room, we decided to see if we could get to the elevator by going down the hall in the opposite direction than we’d been taking; having traversed 3 legs of a square in each previous trip. We laughed to find how short the trip actually was when we went the right way.

We gathered with the IBS (International Business Seminars) group of students and professors in the lobby at 6:00 p.m. for an optional evening excursion to get acquainted with the Metro and see a little of Paris. After Professor Baker handed out our Metro tickets we paraded out the door, around the corner and up the street to one of the many entrances to the underground Metro.

Being a native Californian who has never visited New York, subways are alien to me. Probably subways are all pretty similar. But I noticed in a movie we saw last week (16 Blocks) that the entry of the New York subway looks a lot like those in Paris. We fed our ticket into an electronic gate, it sucked the ticket in, we took a few steps closer to the gate, our ticket popped out of a dispenser and we stepped through the turnstile.

Covering mostly high gloss beige brick walls were movie posters and advertisements. One particularly amusing subway sign (and this might actually have been in the London subway), warned against traveling inebriated. Reminiscent of our many red circle with a bar through them signs, it showed footprints abruptly ending at the edge of the concrete platform, suggesting an unwitting suicide by train, or a broken limb from the 5 foot drop, at the very least.

The trains were usually crowded, to the point of standing room only. Since we were not going far it seemed easier to avoid the struggle to get to a vacant seat and the discomfort of inhabiting one coveted by others. So along with several strangers, we held onto a pole just inside one of the many entrances of the train, and tried to maintain balance despite speedy accelerations, decelerations and centrifugal jarring. Only some of the trains had speakers over which train stops were announced. We managed not missing our stops by: listening to announcements when they were provided; watching the overhead maps that showed each stop—lighting the current one; watching the signs on the walls at each station; but primarily by Don studying the travel book’s train route maps ahead of time and tracing our progress on said map as we rode.

One thing that surprised us was that we observed no one using a cell phone—not just in the subways, but anywhere on the streets. Headsets attached to any sort of walkman device were in conspicuous absence as well.

Upon arrival at the Arche de Triomphe the Professor reminded us of the train route here, and where to get off on a return trip to the hotel, and the group dispersed for individual exploration.

The captions on the photos explain about as much as I know of the subject in each. There is one that is blurry (O.K., O.K., exceptionally blurry), but I included it because I thought it a good testament to Paris’ nick-name; the City of Light. You can’t really tell from the picture, Don got a better rendition with his camcorder, but one of the buildings had a light show across its entire façade, with such extravagant flashing of little blue lights as to set off an epileptic fit, even in one not prone to the malady.

We were too exhausted upon our return to care that all but one of our television’s channels broadcasted in French. You probably interpret that to mean we finally had a good night’s sleep. Don did. I, however, could not sleep deeply enough to ignore the intruding sounds of what could have been a French relation of Tom Waite, Kereoke-style (which, by the way, is the farthest Tom Waite should ever have gotten). Our second floor window overlooked the glass roofed lobby—the glass proving to be poor sound proofing material. But then, who goes to Paris to sleep?

PART V: Paris, Sunday Morning, January 8, 2006

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Sunday, our first time waking up in a Foreign country, we went to the lobby for a complimentary breakfast at 7:30. Leery about what anything was and would taste like I was happy for the buffet arrangement. The scrambled eggs tasted wet, and puréed, but I was relieved to recognize something. I recognized the sausage as well, and those were fine. The scalloped potatoes were firm (undercooked?) and had no sauce, butter or dressing. I looked for ketchup and didn't see it. Don pointed it out after I'd finished. Oh well.

The fruit salad was comprised of--green apples, apricots, grapes (with seeds), and water melon. I was both relieved and sad to learn the tiny dollop of white stuff I topped the fruit with was whip cream. Sad, because I'd have used much more, had I known for sure it wasn't mayonnaise, sour cream, horseradish, or something completely foreign. The best part was the chocolate chip croissant. Small glass bottles of Evian water were provided, and I had grapefruit juice as well. Don had coffee, and this time it wasn't espresso!

At 9:00am we went to meet with the IBS professors and students. We all introduced ourselves with out names and our professions and something interesting about ourselves, which is how it came out that two of the girls had a twin. That seemed a little surprising that two in a group of 33 would be a twin. And does it count that Don is the son of a twin? In the meeting we were given instructions on the importance of being on time to all group meetings and general information about Paris, such as that it is not necessary to tip as high as we do in the states. They don't expect any more than a few coins. Don wasn't comfortable "under-tipping" though so we made a few Parisians very happy.

When we came out of the meeting is when I decided I had to take a few photos of this attractive bride and groom whose wedding reception was being catered in a room just off of the hotel lobby. They were still being photographed when we returned from our bus tour hours later.

PART VI: Paris Bus Tour, Sunday Afternoon, January 8, 2006

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Sunday afternoon we went on the bus tour arranged by the IBS professors. I’ve given the photos captions that tell about as much as I know of the photographed subject. A few of the photos were taken before the tour in and around the hotel as we awaited the arrival of our tour bus.

PART VII: There are TWO channels! Sunday Evening, January 8, 2006

Click HERE to see accompanying images with Part VII. While you’ve already seen my photos of the Sunday bus tour, these are from Don’s camera.

Ha! There's actually TWO English speaking channels: CNN and BBC!

After the bus tour Sunday, we dined at a café whose service was extremely slow. Don had Duck (brave warrior that he is) and I played safe with a shrimp and avocado appetizer. Or, at least I thought it'd be safe, until it arrived smothered in French dressing—(Ach!)—is this a joke? If we’d gone to Italy would I have gotten Italian dressing? I really like Italian dressing—although I suppose even that might taste weird on shrimp and avocados. Our waiter was so thrilled with Don’s tip that he offered us some free coffee as we were walking toward the door…..we thought he meant to-go, but when we accepted, his co-conspirator behind the counter set down two “Toys R Us” cups and poured something very dark into them—not only were they quite bitter, they were too hot to swig down. So, despite being donned in our winter garb ready to brave the icy wind blasts of the Paris winter night, down we sat at the counter, struggling to quickly consume our gifts—we then smiled and Merci’ed our way out the door…half-wondering if the entire restaurant might have burst into uncontrollable laughter at our departure.

This is how I came to know about the two English channels. It was not “Early to bed, early to rise” for us, just “Early to rise.”

Monday morning we were grabbing our coffee (no, not gluttons for punishment. We already knew the hotel coffee was pleasantly palatable) and chocolate chip croissants on our way to meet with the IBS group in a little media room (one computer, a display rack of current journals, and a couple of newspapers including the Financial Times) off the lobby. In what felt like roll call military fashion, we barked out our assigned numbers, Don was 15, I was 17 (someone named Joy Hall got 16). We did this before leaving the hotel on each trip, in the subways, and in buses to make sure no one was left behind.

Our two esteemed bank administrative speakers in our first company visit seemed to be somewhat anti socialist. Though I think not to the extent that an American anti socialist is anti-socialist. They seemed a little displeased with the results of having accepted the Euro, although they had been for the ideal of it, and stated that it was actually easier to adjust to than the “2000 berg”. They were displeased with 30 hour work weeks and wished to return to 40. They were displeased with the rate of unemployment and the seeming lazes fair acceptance of it, and they were displeased with the population's addiction to government support; be it jobs or an unemployment program. So I learned a bit about the government, the people, and the goals, procedures, and marketing of banking in France and in general.

PART VIII: IBS Business Tours, Monday, January 9, 2006

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We walked out of the bank, and gathered at the Metro stop. After sounding off and receiving instructions on where to disembark, we boarded.

When we arrived at our next destination, the mall in the photos, we were given an hour for lunch. Don and I headed for the first restaurant we saw. While he found the men’s room, I had the weighty job of ordering lunch. I was quite proud of myself when I found Salmon, and ordered two, two coffees and a liter of Evian--I’d grown fond of the glass bottles it came in. J The fish was fabulous. The coffee was espresso….Which reminds me; Did I mention we’d been given instructions regarding how to conduct ourselves during our visits? ‘Do not remove jackets (especially the men) unless your speakers do; do not yawn (no problem there, considering all the espresso); and do not leave while someone is speaking (major problem after espresso!)’

The attachment, once again, is my hard to follow notes from the company visit. But in short, the visit was pleasant (except for that ‘no getting up’ rule which I finally had to break, or die) The second speaker was easier to understand than the first—Their English was perfect, it was the concepts that I was unfamiliar with. The people at KPMG are auditors….like Arthur Anderson, they help companies with their books. After they explained what they do and invited anyone that was interested to apply for a job, they took us to a room decorated in rosewood for Champaign (or soda for we abstainers) and little desert items like chocolate covered strawberries.

The photos are of the concourse where KPMG is located. I’m afraid I have no idea what the tall white arch type thing is. The daylight pictures were before the company visit, the night photos are after the same place, after the visit. The ones with flash are more sharp, but, although they are blurry & they trick you into thinking it’s not very dark out, I like some of those without flash better. The restaurant where we had lunch is the very blurry Bistro photo. I was trying to just grab a quick shot of it as I passed, forgetting that it was going to require a long exposure.

Below ground, the route to the Metro station was an indoor strip mall of small shops (sorry, didn't take photos).

PART IX: Versailles, Tuesday, January 10, 2006

Click HERE to view Don and Tracie's images from set IX

By Tuesday morning we were finally pretty much in synch with the Paris clock and left our beds in time to get down to the lobby for breakfast and return to our room to prepare for the morning ahead. We even had time to check at the desk for any extra charges (none) so we wouldn’t get slowed down the following day on our way out of Paris.

We met with the other IBS students and the professors in the lobby at 8:30 and after “sounding off” walked to the Metro. This was the day of the Education Center, listening to professor Graham Brown (--not very French sounding is it? That’s because he was from England.) until noon. In brief, he spoke about stereotypes and how the French might have come to be perceived as they are—a little of their history, and allot about the European Union.

On the way out I noticed that the full size mattress I’d seen on the way there was still laying on the sidewalk across the street, minus it’s sleeper. Hmmm, transients are a little more bold here, or maybe there’s just no place to keep out of sight. Don and I made a quick stop into a shop that sold computer items and after asking if they had what he needed (a serial card or some such thing) in English and getting confused expressions Don found a box that looked like what he needed and pointed at it. They happily sold it to him and off we ran to catch up with the group.

After the lecture we returned to the hotel, first hitting the grocery store next to it for a few items—such as raspberries (Yum-slurp!)

Lunch was at “Judy’s Tarts” (at least I’m pretty sure that’s what it was called.) Tossing caution to the wind, Don risked his manly image, and joined me in a lunch of salad and quiche.

At 2:30 we boarded the bus to Versailles. Don did an excellent camera job with his new camcorder, filming even the bus ride—which was great because that’s when the tour guide began his story about Versailles, how King Louis the XIV took 40 years building it as a home. King Louis the 15^th and 16^th also lived there, as did Queen Antoinette. Oh, speaking of bus tours—I think I forgot to mention when I told you about Sunday’s bus tour that we also went through the tunnel where Lady Diana’s car crashed. One can certainly see how deadly high speeds would be. The tunnel is quite narrow, as all the streets we saw seemed to be. And perhaps not in the wee small hours, but during the day it’s a busy area. O.K., back to the story at hand. Our tour guide also took this opportunity to warn us that the Versailles gardens are poor at this time of year. I’m afraid they were rather dull.

Now some folks did seem to be using their flashes in here, so I did at the end, but as with the Notre Dame Cathedral, it just seemed too irreverent a thing to do and the ceilings are so high my flash wasn’t much more than a pin drop’s worth of light. Also, the paintings were all ready quite reflective—flashing them would have been like flashing a mirror. This of course means that the lighting of many of my pictures is a bit warmer (doubtless you know, that’s hip photo-talk for “yellower”) than it actually was—well, I mean, than looks natural. It was real lighting, it’s just that our eyes adjust and compensate for any kind of imbalance of color temperatures in lighting—they do their own white balance—which is why if you stare at a colored shape for a few minutes and then at a white surface you will see a ghost image of that shape in the opposite color—but again, I digress. The photos, also like those at the Notre Dame Cathedral--and those night shots, are a wee bit blurry. Sorry.

PART X: The Eurostar, Wednesday, January, 11, 2006

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After a 6:30 a.m. breakfast in the hotel lobby we went back to our room to finish packing: I must have been tired Tuesday night when I packed toiletries and garments at the bottom of the suitcase, causing me to have to start afresh.

We took a bus to the Eurostar station with anticipation rising. We were about to board the fastest train we’d ever ridden, and under water no less! I’d been chatting with one of the professors who’d asked me if attending the tours was boring me. I’d explained that I really couldn’t imagine a more enjoyable first visit abroad. Tourist areas don’t thrill me as much as being amongst a region’s natives for a sense of how they live. He’d reminisced then about past trips he’d taken through the French countryside that reminded him of his Kentucky home and I commented that the French countryside was something I’d love to see someday. I was in luck he’d told me. The Eurostar passes through the French countryside! And yes, it does—but very fast, and every time I caught a glimpse of countryside and turned the camcorder back on, the glimpse fleeted past, and all that was visible was a wall of dirt (high brim). What we did see was flat and pastoral. Lot’s of green with a small structure here and there. And for quite some distance a freeway skirted along on a similar path.

There were a couple of announcements made once we were all seated that were made in French first and then in English. The English was spoken with a British accent, causing me to share with Don my astute observation that our French speaker had gained her English education from the Brits. I’d noticed this, not as much with the tone, as with the terminology, of our Parisian bankers when they’d used words like “Flat” instead of “apartment”. But Don disillusioned me with his more astute observation that he was pretty sure they were two different speakers.

Don had pulled out his portable GPS device as soon as we boarded and clocked us through France at between 165 and 170. Through the tunnel we were speeding along at 180. These speeds were particularly impressive when passing another Eurostar going in the opposite direction.

The closer we got to England’s Waterloo Station the slower the train got, causing Don to comment that the tracks were not as good there, while I maintained that they probably needed to go slower through the more densely populated regions.

I’m afraid I didn’t take many pictures of the Eurostar trip because Don had me busy holding the camcorder. So what we have are a few photographs taken in the station in France and a few in the “train” after being seated—the ones I like to call doorknob portraits (wide angle lens photos always remind me of doorknob reflections). To get a better idea of what the exterior of the Eurostar looks like you might want to try Google’s “image” function with “Eurostar”.

PART XI: London Bus Tour, Wednesday, January 11, 2006

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A few of the gentleman IBS students had volunteered to be baggage handlers and they did an excellent job expediting luggage loading and unloading. With suitcases clattering behind us, we paraded with our group out of London’s Waterloo Station and across a street to our awaiting tour bus (or Coach, as the British prefer), where the same volunteers helped the bus driver load luggage into side panels in the bus. I didn’t know busses could handle 30 some-odd large suitcases, or that bus drivers got stuck with loading and unloading them. I bet the bus drivers didn’t know it either when they signed up for bus driving school.

The first thing our tour guide said as we approached the bus was, “The bus entrance is on the wrong side, it’s on the left of the bus.” That didn’t stop students from walking to the right (wrong) side of the bus and returning shame-faced to where the rest of us were gathered handing off our luggage to the luggage loaders. … I bet you think that after you enter correctly once, you’re cured of doing it wrong.

I love the sound of the French language, but I confess it was a relief to be able to read signs and understand conversations again.

“Oh, how exciting is this?! This world looks SOOOO different from mine. I feel like I’m on the movie set of every fabulous London movie and television show I’ve ever seen! And look! Didn't we read they'd done away with those double-decker red busses? Not. And what fabulous looking taxis; not only am I on a film set, it's my favorite era for style--1940's!

There probably isn’t a square inch of London that hasn’t been written about and/or filmed, and I loved being reminded of the various things I’ve read or seen. One of the first, and most contemporary places we were introduced to by our tour guide was the Australia House: the home of the Australian High Commission: a.k.a., Gringot’s Bank (Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, J.K. Rowling—American version: “…Sorcerer’s Stone”). A couple of others that brought something to mind as I sped-read street signs before we passed them were: 221 Baker Street, the Sherlock Holmes Museum (Sir Arthur Conan Doyle) and Charing Cross Road (84 Charing Cross Road, Helene Hanff---movie of same title starred Anne Bancroft & Anthony Hopkins [wikipedia]).

When the guide mentioned the London Bridge being sold and now bridging Lake Havasu, in Arizona, Don asked if the guide thought it was true that the purchaser, Robert McCulloch, thought he was buying the Tower Bridge. The guide chuckled and replied he was sure that Mr. McCulloch had seen the blueprints and new what he was getting.

Describing the skyline, he spoke of one building as one “You either love it or hate it”. Don thinks he was referring to Lloyd’s Insurance, a building with all of it’s guts (utilities and elevators) on the outside of the building. I thought he was referring to the Swiss Re, a building that looks like a huge bullet (which isn't to say that either of us hated either one):

30 St Mary Axe is a building in the City of London, London, United Kingdom. It is informally known as "The Gherkin", and sometimes as The Swiss Re Tower, Swiss Re Building or Swiss Re Centre, after its owner and principal occupier. It is 590 ft (180 m) tall. The building is famous for its daring architecture by Pritzker-prize winner, Sir Norman Foster and ex-partner Ken Shuttleworth.

__ Wikipedia on the Swiss Re

Wikipedia goes on to discuss the origination of the nickname “The Gherkin” and the history of the site it is built on.

Next was a restroom stop: St. Paul’s Cathedral. It was here that Betty, a very lively-fun IBS student reminded all of us present in the room that "we used t.p. just like this in elementary school!" On a more reverential note, Don bought a beautiful CD of Evensong in the gift shop. When we played it later I was surprised to realize it had a song on it that is on our most recent Enya CD. We met up in the snack bar where we used a bank card, because we had no Pound-type money yet, to buy a couple of snacks and then we scuttled across the drive to a versa teller and remedied the poundless problem. Hoping we weren't delaying a bus load of people, we then ran over and photographed/camcordered the exterior of St Paul’s and then returned to the bu---coach.

Photographing the gate, the Nike statue, and the exterior of Buckingham Palace was a moving experience. We were told the flag flies when royalty is present. (I didn’t see a flag, so either they were not—or I was looking in the wrong direction.)

The last stop, we were told, would be very brief, so Don and I stayed in the bus while others ran to the restroom at Westminster Abbey. The wife of one of the professors told us that there were times of the year that it didn’t occur, but that there was a chance we might be able to catch an Evensong service at Westminster Abbey at 5:00 p.m. one night while here, and promised it would be a very uplifting experience if we could. She was SOOO right!

PART XII: Mayfair District, Wednesday, January 11, 2006

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Upon completion of our London tour, the bus deposited us at the Millennium Mayfair Hotel, 44 Grosvenor Square W1K 2HP, London, United Kingdom. I can’t imagine a better place to spend our first (second, and third) night(s) in London!!!

Room assigning took some time, Which most of us spent wisely; lounging about, waiting to be told where to go. The IBS game-plan was to rotate roommates so that folks wouldn’t be stuck with the same roomie they’d had in Paris. Those who requested were allowed to keep the same room-mate. Don and I kept each other.

The lobby was small in comparison to the Evergreen Laurel, but comfortable and elegant. Two small talking elevators (“Please mind the doors”. “doors opening”, “doors closing”—that kind of thing.) eventually got all of us up to our rooms, while the third elevator stubornly resisted our promptings, and proved by morning to be out of service.

Having installed ourselves into our fabulous hotel room, we went in search of food. Just steps from the back exit of the hotel (which leads into an ally sort of affair), we bumped into a fabulous little restaurant that felt like the epitome of English charm. A mature gentleman dining alone was seated nearby. Excited to speak to a local, we wished him a good evening as he prepared to depart and learned that he lived so close that he would be walking home.

Our lovely waitress spoke with a French accent so we took the opportunity to solve the Paris Espresso mystery. It was she who told us the way to order coffee is to request Café’ Long (sp?), and who revealed that often the French realize an American doesn’t want Espresso but they serve it anyway—apparently that’s what you’re asking for if you just say “Coffee”.

It was only stainless steal, but there was something charming about the shiny coffee pitcher that came to our table, so I hurriedly pulled out my camera and aimed as our diner was on approach. Too late. Dinner arrived before I’d managed any kind of arrangement. After dinner I ordered a desert which involved chocolate and raspberry. It looked so delicious that again I was compelled to share the experience via my camera. This time I succeeded, but not without frustration over composition and lighting. I’m somewhat dissatisfied with the results but I’m including it anyway.

Walking back to the hotel Don found a store window that caught his attention. After taking a picture himself he handed me his camera and asked that I take a couple (he finds tripodlessness just too frustrating). Sorry if these photographs are too racy for you. You’ll know what I’m talking about when you see the photos.

Grosvenor Square is an amazing place to be. The Millennium Mayfair Hotel looks upon a large rectangular park. It was already dark but that didn’t stop us from attempting to photograph the American Embassy and the Eisenhower statue. The flash was inadequate, and in-fact only managed to convince me that there were Spirits among us (see transparent spheres in night Eisenhower statue and park photographs). No, that’s not dust. It’s Spirits I tell you!

Low batteries (the camera’s, not ours) forced us to return to our room. We replaced them and ran back down to the park for a few more photographs.

Did I mention yet that crossing the streets was challenging? This night there wasn’t much traffic, but we never really got used to it coming from the wrong direction. Even though there is writing in the street a foot from the curb at each crosswalk warning which direction to look for traffic from, we tended to read the writing across the street because that’s where our eyes had to go to watch the traffic signals.

We started at the “white Portland stone memorial crowned with an American Eagle;” (wikipedia description http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grosvenor_Square) a memorial to the American Eagle Squadron of 1940. Next, we walked across to the East side of the park to explore the Memorial to those lost on September 11^th, 2001. After a few photographs here, we enjoyed a close encounter of the third kind with an adorable Golden Retriever and her owner. The friendly dog walker wondered aloud why I was taking photographs of the buildings beyond the memorial. I explained I was attempting to be artistic with the silhouetting moon. Doubtless she thought these silly tourists didn’t realize the buildings on that side were neither embassies nor the previous homes of historical figures (such as the house that John Adams lived in on the Southwest corner of the square).

After listening to the angelic voices of the boys choir in Evensong (remember that CD we’d purchased at St. Paul’s?) while e-mailing a few friends, we concluded this very full day with television London style.

PART XIII: Jaguar, Thursday, January 12, 2006

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Breakfast in the Millennium Mayfair Hotel was fairly indistinguishable from those we’d had in Paris, which was fine, but why didn’t anyone warn me that the bus ride to the Birmingham Jaguar S-Type Assembly plant would take TWO HOURS? The first hour I spent captivated by the English country side streaming past the windows as the bus driver kept anyone within earshot of him entertained; with his delightful cockney accent, chatting about this, that, and the other thing. The second hour I spent locking my eyes on each approaching off-ramp, and mourning relief’s loss as we passed.

I’d brought my camera along for illustrative purposes, for this, Don’s assigned company, but alas there was a moratorium on photography beyond the lobby/show room.

So I made the best of it in the show room before we were ushered up to the loft-lounge for coffee, while Don’s group gave an overview of the Jaguar/Ford company from their preliminary research. Following this we filed into a large banquet/conference room to view a widescreen infomercial on the history and fine points of the Jaguar. I’ve always loved the look of these cars.

Soon we were off with our assigned tour guides (in three separate groups) wearing funny little fluorescent orange highway safety vests, and headsets that would allow us to hear Bertrand (our group of 10’s guide-there were two other groups with two other guides) over the din of 139 Kawasaki robots and numerous humans.--like so many elves, assembling Jaguars.

“We call it the ‘lift and shift system’” announced Bertrand, speaking of the robots lifting parts and swinging them into position over other parts. Since the robots do all the heavy lifting, this allows females equal employment opportunities. In fac,t this particular plant has 25 female employees. (But don’t ask me how many total, because Bertrand didn’t say.)

60% of the automobiles made here come to the US. One distinction between the US and UK models are that the UK’s are naked—in a sense: They don’t get the hood ornament. Now, with that British accent, it’s entirely possible that Bertrand said that “cars don’t get the Leopard in the UK”, but what I’m almost certain I heard was that they don’t get the “Leaper”. Apparently a miss-hap caused a law to be passed against them. (Perhaps this miss-hap involved the Leopard becoming a Leaper.)

A barcode on the front bumper dictates what features the car gets (sunroof v. fixed roof, driver on right v. on left, long wheel base v. short)—all cars are pre-paid and custom built. Unique job numbers are etched into the metal frames.

There is one employee in every cell, and each cell has its own song that chimes when an employee needs assistance. Which brings me to one of the many moments that make me wonder if Mom (passed away in 2003) is popping in now and then with wonderful ways to remind me of her. I refer to the song that chimed from a cell as we passed; “Danny Boy”. If you haven’t known me a long time, you may not know that my Mom loved to sing, and any time she did in public, praise was heaped upon her (think of a mature and stronger Charlotte Church and you’ll be close). Even as she got older she never lost the quality of her voice. One expects a good strong voice when, at the end of the opera, the fat lady sings, but I think it astonished people throughout her life that such resonance and unstrained volume could be produced by this rather trim almost frail looking lady. “Danny Boy” was always her first choice whenever friends or relatives would ask her to sing.

OK, finishing up on the Jaguars…Bertrand was clearly fond of showing his audiences the part where the robot puts a thin line of sealer all around the frame of the door; veery quickly, very precisely. It was quite impressive.

In the paint area: cars were picked up by what Bertrand called “a skillet”. We learned that there are 8 phosphate stations. Bertrand called out the name of each paint color as we came upon a car wearing it--“Liquid Silver” (silver), “Zircon” (blue), “Indigo” (deep blue), “Sea Frost” (pastel green), “Winter Gold” (pastel gold), “Red Radiance” (burgundy) “Quartz gray” (gray), and “Slate gray”(dark gray). Then the more basic names, “White”, “Black” “Midnight” (black with a tinge of blue) and Racing Green (Kelly green).

We were shown CATS-- Computerized Animated Technology Suspension and axles; power trains and saddle fuel tanks (over the transmission) and numerous other assemblages. I think it was the axle area where Bertrand told us how they “jig up the car, an arm comes up, and a person goes in and fits the appropriate gauge shim in.” We waited for a demonstration of this but apparently someone was on a break.

Near the end of the assembly process, Bertrand pointed out the luxury appointments: seats with perforated leather for hot climates; electronic pedal adjustments for height differences between drivers; seats that move back and forth and up and down; & a voice activated control you can tell to turn on, say, the music, or the air, and the like. “You can even have your car bomb-proofed with special treatment, like we did for Tony Blair.”

As had been done by the group assigned to each of the previous businesses, at the end of the tour Don’s group presented Bertrand and a couple of Jaguar administrators with a small token of appreciation (I’m afraid I don’t recall what it was) from the IBS professors and students for our gracious host’s time and attentions, and in appreciation of the wonderful opportunity to have an inside peek at how the company operated.

The highlight of the return trip was Burger King, inside what I’d have to describe as a very miniature indoor food mall. We enjoyed hamburgers, and Don innocently bought a couple of “Enquirer”- sized newspapers. Once he got outside with them and opened them up, he was shocked (and I suspect a little delighted) to discover somewhat racy, all-be-it only black and white, illustrations.

PART XIV: From Westminster Abbey to Soho, Thursday, January 12, 2006

Click HERE to view the rest of Set XIV Images

The coach (bus) that took us to the Jaguar plant deposited us back at the Mayfair Millennium Hotel with little time to spare for our next escapade. We dropped our notebooks off in the hotel room, and without so much as taking five minutes to change coats for the cold evening we dashed back out. We caught the “London Tube” to Westminster Abbey, in hopes of catching the evensong service described to us by one of the professors’ wives (multiple professors, not wives).

This night would be our only chance to catch it.

The Tube is the London equivalent of the Paris Metro. Somehow I expected it to be just like the Metro, so was startled to find myself, rather than jogging down flights of stairs, riding an escalator to London’s Subterranea. It took a couple of disgruntled commuters grumbling “excuse me” before Don and I learned escalator etiquette: when not self-propelled, please be so kind as to keep to the right so that those with lives to get to can move past on your left.

The train ride itself was very much the same, except, joyfully, I could easily guess at the spellings of the station names. At the exit, when the gate resisted my push, I turned to try another, but was stopped by an attendant who instructed me that my ticket was required. Anxious about holding up any pedestrians behind me, I hurriedly reached for my ticket from the travel wallet dangling from my neck (Yep, still sporting the black nylon, high-fashion wallet. What can I say? I’m a Pisces and a Librarian, both of whom have reputations for sensible shoes—so extrapolate to sensible wallet) ; found a slot to feed my ticket to, and “Voila! Released!”

Surfacing at street level, we aimed ourselves toward the building we thought the tour guide had said was Westminster Abbey. Following the lead of other pedestrians we stepped off the curb and crossed the street, paced a walk watching for others or some sign of where to enter, and found one—a sign that is—and an entrance. Sorry, no time for pictures.

Even more than in the Notre Dame Cathedral, the presence of history, majesty, humanity, and God was palpable. The high ceilings and ceremonial ornamentation tempered by the somber quiet of the many attendants already seated were both intimidating and enthralling. We found ourselves walking down an aisle, on either side of which were already assembled a full congregation in high-riser type rows of seats. Following the directions of a robed gentleman pointing to our right, we ascended to seats 11 and 12 at the very top. In this back row the chairs felt like thrones with high dark wood backs and sides that extended out as far as arm rests, concealing each occupant from his neighbor. I welcomed this sense of seclusion, as my throat, nose and eyes were already responding to a welling of reverence and awe…and I only had one tissue.

Once seated I looked for distractions, in hopes of gaining my composure, and seized upon what turned out to be the service guide. Composure not found. The written words of love for God, church, and country merely fed the tide, and I hastily replaced the guide in it’s slot. After several deep breaths I managed to lapse into curiosity about the many faces of those seated across the aisle. Relief was short-lived. Everything began leaking again as the rich range of pitches from the all male choir filled the cathedral. The white robed choir flowed along the aisle as they sang, parting down the middle like Moses’ sea, to ascend on either side-filing into the rows beneath us and in equal number across the aisle—all the while touching hearts with their song like light on so many diamonds.

Fortunately the mechanics of coordinating with our neighbors in the sitting, kneeling, and responding rituals riveted my attention, at least until the choir sang again.

When the service had come to an end my single tissue had dissolved.

Rows began rising and filing out. Don feared that our row was waiting for him to rise and descend, so he did….where-upon, I did. No one else in our row followed. In fact as I reached the central aisle, I noticed that the top row on the side opposite from ours was still seated and only the lower rows were filing out. Oops.

Once outside I snatched a few shots of Big Ben before chasing Don back down to the Tube.

I’d always wanted to see Big Ben and Westminster Abbey in person, and found myself feeling frustrated that my night shots would be poor representations. This and the combination of being ill-dressed for the cold evening; probably at least a little under the influence of jet-lag --- shaken, not stirred, with Eurotrain-lag; and having had a particularly early morning; all began tugging at my already kinetic emotions, so that I’m afraid I can not say I made the best touring companion for the remainder of the evening. Still, I managed to get a few shots of a bustling London, (all-be-it, at night), and Don still loves me!

PART XV: Lloyd's of London, Friday, January 13, 2006

Click HERE for the rest of the set XV images.

Friday was the IBS grand finale, with two tours and a 6:00pm wrap-up session.

One blemish on an otherwise perfect complexion was bound to erupt eventually (No! Not me! I meant figuratively), and “eventually” struck Friday morning: Expecting the hotel restaurant to be open as early as it had been the previous day, we jauntily approached the hostess desk, only to be told it would not open for another 30 minutes. Pouts on our faces, we turned for the door when the concierge stopped us, having reconsidered. He instructed the hostess to usher us to a table and closed the door behind us to bar the entry of anyone else. Well, that was a nice recovery we thought. But then the hostess struck. Despite the same buffet that we’d had yesterday decking the serving tables, she brought us menus. Surprised that the breakfast that was free yesterday was not today, we chose items with lower price tags than the full course buffet would be. Don’s toast arrived late, burnt and cold. But we managed to eat enough to keep us sustained for the morning. When the restaurant officially opened and the rest of the group arrived we were finishing up. The hostess/waitress brought our check, marked with prices higher than the menu had indicated. If she could overcharge us (and bring cold burnt toast) she could also be mistaken that we had to pay at all. Not wanting to find ourselves bemoaning our lack of assertiveness later when we’d likely find out we were the only two in the IBS group who paid, we decided to address it, hoping that it wouldn’t cause too much stress for the well-meaning but apparently inept waitress. Besides, we’d already tipped her well, based on the price she’d made our check out for (I’ve never been one for punishing bad service with a bad tip. I prefer to think a good tip will inspire the server to be worthy of it for the next guest). The concierge checked the list at the hostess station and, “Yes,” he apologized, “your breakfast is supposed to be ‘comped.’” (I think that’s service talk for “complimentary,” a misnomer unless you are willing to pretend that the privilege hadn’t been paid for in the package plan of the tour). So, in the end, we left for our Friday business tours with satisfied pockets, if not stomachs.

Professor John White is a fabulously interesting person and I’m sorry I can’t recommend his lectures to you without your incurring quite a bit of debt for the effort (travel expenses and lodging). He came to our hotel to escort us to King’s College. He was so enthused with all he wanted to tell us that he began before half of us were aware of it. Professor Baker interrupted him so that we could perform our roll-call ritual and then Professor White re-commenced introducing us to the Eagle Memorial in the courtyard outside our hotel.

After leading us on foot and by subway to a classroom in King’s College he proceeded to express his views on the history and state of England and its’ relations with France, and America—All good at this point in time, from his perspective. Oh yes, there are people now and in the past that he is or was outraged by, and yet, I don’t think he spoke of anything or anyone without pointing out what good had come from them, despite their deficiencies. Our professors referred to John as “a Conservative” in his political views, and while, on the whole I recognized what I consider Conservative views, I did come away wondering if anyone in Europe would be “Conservative” in the same way American Conservatives are. But then, are all American Conservatives alike? Political Science was never my forte’ though so you’d probably be best advised not to listen to me. Too bad you can’t listen to Professor White though. I think you’d have found him interesting no matter what your views.

Next on the agenda: getting to the vicinity of Lloyd’s of London, and then grabbing a bite to eat before beginning our tour.

Don and I chose to lunch at a nearby Starbucks for the sake of convenience. We shared a tasty “Tuna & Mayonnaise” sandwich and a “Lemon-Poppy Muffin”. Upon his entrance, we spotted Professor Vegsor who had led us over from King’s College. Having already claimed the only empty table, we invited him to bring his sandwich and coffee and join us. The staff found a third chair for our table and actually brought us our food. Our coffee was served in ceramic mugs rather than paper cups and Don was so enchanted with the huge size of his that he bought the cup.

After a lovely chat with Professor Vegsor, we returned to Lloyd’s of London for the grand tour and an explanation of just what Lloyd’s of London is. Fascinating! The building alone; its’ unique architectural design (by Richard Rogers) best known for all of the utilities being on the outside of the building—including the many glass “lifts” (elevators) connecting to the main building via a catwalk, and history of how Lloyds of London came to be, is worth it’s own book; let alone all of the activity that currently takes place inside.

The building consists of 3 main towers and 3 service towers around a central, rectangular space. Its focal point is the gigantic Underwriting Room on the ground floor, which houses the famous Lutine Bell. The Underwriting Room (often simply known as 'the Room') is overlooked by galleries, forming a 60-metre (200-foot)-high atrium lit naturally through a huge barrel-vaulted glass roof. The first four galleries open onto the atrium space, and are connected by escalators through the middle of the structure. (The higher floors are glassed-in, and can only be reached via the outside lifts.)

___Wikipedia http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lloyd. See also http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lloyd .

As Don commented later, our two gentlemen hosts, both in appearance and character, had to have come right out of central casting. The first, a debonair gray haired gentleman (there’s a {blurry} picture or two of him), reminded me of a warmly welcoming, yet proper butler—not the Jody & Buffie’s ‘Mr. French’ stuffy variety, nor even Magnum’s “Higgins”----No. More along the lines of Batman’s “Alfred” but better looking (No offense to Mr. Napier). At the entrance we were provided with clearance badges, and then led via a lift to the conference room where half of the group stayed to learn about the business, and the rest of us were led on a tour of the building. Our guide elaborately described all the building’s features, workspaces, art, business, history, and a bit of the culture—such as, “This being Friday it may be less active at this hour, as some folks have taken a ‘poet’s day’ (Push Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday).”

The second character was reminiscent of an unyielding intimidating judge—a bit reminiscent of Scrooge, but with kindly undertones. A white haired wizened fellow with a bit of a hunch, he sat at the head of the long black boardroom table in the large conference room, and after introducing us to the company via a video, explained the intricacies of being the center, very much like a stock exchange, of insurance brokering. Lloyd’s is not a company or a corporation. It is a meeting place of it’s many members; a-hum with hopeful bidders for the chance to insure….Bette Davis’ $28,000.00 waistline? Jimmy Durante’s 50,000 nose ? Fred Astaire’ 75,000.00 legs? Betty Grable’s “Million Dollar Legs”? OK, no. Those folks were happy with their deals and are no longer taking bids, but you can bet the members of Lloyds of London would love to meet up with Jennifer Aniston or her Friends! (We’ll leave the other Jennifer, rumored to have insured her derriere out of this.)

At 6:00 p.m. we found ourselves back at King’s College with our three IBS professors for a wind-up session, reminding students of how to present and deliver their 10 page papers on the tour they were assigned to, or of their choice, and the 2 page papers on the other tours. A few suggestions were provided with what we might like to do with our free Saturday and instructions were given on when and where to meet the “coach’ for the trip to the airport on Sunday.

After a nice dinner at our favorite London restaurant this exhausted couple retired to television British style.

PART XVI: London Tower, Saturday, January 14, 2006

Click HERE to view the rest of Don & Tracie's set XVI images.

Hi! Tired of this yet? Well then you’ll be happy to hear this is our last day in London.

Probably you would expect us to be anxious to see as many of the popular London sites as we could on our one free day here. We were. But we were also curious about how similar or dissimilar to ours, daily ol’ mundane life is in London. We had our last hotel breakfast and started Saturday out with a trip to London’s version of Home Depot; “B & Q.” We rode one of those famous two-level red busses out of our chic Mayfair district of London to what appeared to be the modest outskirts.

So alike is B and Q to Home Depot; from the warehouse design, right down to the signage, that I had to look Home Depot up in Hoovers Online before I was convinced there was no relation. On the return bus trip to the hotel, I realized too late that we were passing the Sherlock Holmes Museum. Oh well. Another time (shades of Robert Frost). Our plans were already set that we would visit “The Tower of London” (used for a variety of purposes, primarily a prison for royalty) and “The London Eye” (very ambitiously sized Ferris Wheel appointed with enclosed gondolas rather than open air seats—see wikipedia’s The London Eye).

The Tower Bridge, so named because of its’ close proximity to “The Tower of London”, has a lift that goes up one 213’ tower, a couple of footbridges that cross to the other 213’ tower, where the bridge’s biographical video may be viewed, before descending again via another lift. On our way out we ran into a few classmates, conversed briefly about our touring experiences and plans, and went our separate ways. The sky was quite gray this day so photographs were a bit flat/lifeless, but that didn’t stop me from taking too many: “Well, if you don’t like this angle, how about this angle? Here’s one with some water in it, here’s one with some sky. Did I take one of that boat yet? How about one of the second footbridge? Oh, I wonder if I got this angle of that boat—let’s take another. And another. I’m almost done. O.K.. Well. No. Wait Don. I need another picture of that skyline. Ok. No! Wait! Look. This window OPENS! Let me take some with the window open so there’s no glass reflection. OK. One of the boat; one of the tower; one of the river; one of the sky; one of that building that looks like coins stacked up on each other. Oh---and one of the construction going on above the one that looks like coins stacked on each other. Uh-oh. Where’d Don go?”

We also found the Tower Bridge Engine Room where we got to see the mechanics of what used to make the two bascules lift for river traffic. They still lift but the water hydraulics have given way to oil and electronics (—see wikipedia’s Tower Bridge)

For lunch we found a nearby snack shop, and as we sat down to eat the food we’d pulled from the refrigerators (and paid for) I realized that I recognized the music coming through the speakers. In many ways London was less “foreign” than I’d expected it would be. Yes, I realize many of the roots of America are in England, but I still thought that contemporary England was more removed from contemporary America than it seemed to be. Any time we passed through an area with music playing, I recognized it. And, the news: I was surprised at how what seemed like just local news had lengthy spots on American politics. I knew more about what our President was doing when I was there than I do when I’m home. It reminded me of my surprise, while at one of Don’s Chicago conferences, with a young Canadian woman telling us about life in Canada immediately after September 11^th 2001. I’d wondered then if the attack had been on Canada, would I have been as involved with their pain and fear as she and her country had been with ours. Maybe.

Anyway, we strolled over to the Tower of London (see wikipedia’s Tower of London) and after Don got some great camcorder footage of the wonderfully theatrical tour guide surrounded by a throng of tourists, we rented headsets and a tape recorder for our own private and leisurely tour. We later caught up to his tour again just in time to hear of the unfortunate fate of Anne Boleyn.

I only got yelled at once for taking pictures, and that was in the building that held the Crown Jewels. I honestly had not seen a sign instructing ‘no photographs’ and was relieved that the guard barking at me did not demand that I erase what I’d done. The photo I was taking was quite blurred, since, even if I could hold it still under normal circumstances (which we’ve already established that I can’t) there were people behind us causing me to impatience with the time delay. So I seriously doubt that I could do with the image, whatever she feared I would—whether that was sell post cards or plan a heist.

It wasn’t long before the cobbled walkways wore down our endurance and we were longing for dear room 783. It was dark when we returned. We’d not made it to “The Eye”, so that too is on the “next time” list.

We closed this exciting day with a farewell dinner at “our” restaurant, where we had “our” waitress who pointed out the fun coincidence that even though she’d changed “stations” (waitress talk for the group of tables she was serving) each night, we’d been in her station each night. She’d given us a survey to fill out of our impression of the restaurant on our first evening and I’d used the same words I used earlier here in my answer to the ambiance question, “Quaint English Charm”. Well, silly me, turns out they were probably disappointed with that description as they must have been going for “Quaint French Charm,” what with the French name and our French accented waitress. I hadn’t realized at the time that the word on the teacup I was photographing was the name of the restaurant until just last week when we were mailed our reward for having filled out the survey, a 10% discount card for any of the 4 London locations of Richoux. Anyone going to London and planning to visit Richoux, let us know—but hurry, it’s a limited time offer—we may figure out how to get back and use it ourselves!

PART XVII: Daniel Stowe Botanical Garden, January 15-17, 2006

Click HERE for the rest of Don and Tracie's set XVII images.

You’ll probably find this part anticlimactic—no more London or Paris pictures.

But there ARE a few botanical garden pics—however flowerless they may be in mid January…..

Did I say we had our last hotel breakfast Saturday? Sorry. I lied. Sunday morning (January 15^th) we had breakfast in the hotel and were packed and ready to board the bus to the Gatwick airport by 7:45 a.m.. There were only 7 of us, all from the IBS group, taking this hour and fifteen minute ride through the countryside in one of the large tour busses (the other students were headed to a different airport).

Customs was painless. Well, accept for the consternation over having still not gotten it right after I changed the dollar amount on that silly declaration card 3 times—with ink. After the third time, when it occurred to me I’d forgotten to include the Dan Brown 5.99 paperback, “Angels and Demons” and the 6.99 “Royalty of England” I hoped leaving well enough alone didn’t constitute some kind of criminal action. It wouldn’t be legible if I changed it again. We were early at the airport and passing through security had taken very little time so we parked ourselves on some chairs and took turns exploring the airport mall.

Once on board the plane the pilot delivered the delightful prediction that the trip would be shorter than scheduled. We were fed chicken, pasta, carrots, fruit and a cookie. I skipped the beverages in hopes I wouldn’t have to clamber over sleepers in order to get to the facilities, although … conveniently, this time there was a little closet for this purpose (how does anyone over 150 pounds use one of those things at all?!) mid-plane that was quite close to our seats.

Our video players worked great this time. So I watched “Wedding Crashers” which I’d never seen, something on London Travel, something on the Versace family, and a captivating National Geographic piece on a three person foot race (no, not a three legged foot race) of many days duration through the Australian desert. The race was undertaken by a German, an American (Californian to be exact), and a native Australian Villager. They each had a strength the others didn’t and took separate routes. The Villager knew the climate, flora, fauna, and terrain. The Californian had all the greatest high tech gear but only a little training and experience. I think the German was the oldest but his strength was endurance and extensive hiking experience. The Californian and the German nearly quit because of debilitating blisters that developed on their feet. The Australian local had counted too highly on knowing the land and didn’t bring water, expecting to find it, but couldn’t. The first person to sight the finish line, overwhelmed with relief and joy for having made it alive, awaited the arrival of the others who weren’t too very far behind and were equally ecstatic to have survived. The three of them crossed the finish line arm in arm, and having doubtless bonded over this shared ordeal, are probably friends for life. Get tissues. (O.K., I have to explain this remark even though it probably speaks for itself.—When Don and I came out of the Reese Witherspoon movie, “Man in the Moon,” a woman on her way IN to the movie took one look at me {I was headed for the nearest napkin supply} and urgently commanded her husband to, “GET TISSUES!” so now every time there is a potentially evoking moment in something we’re viewing Don turns to me to check for moist eyes and says, “get tissues.” He’s got the prediction down pretty well, but not every show that attempts to be emotional actually succeeds, and quite frequently the ones that don’t, do.)

OK enough with the airplane entertainment.

I do think I tolerated this flight a little better than the one that brought us to Paris. I guess knowing what to expect (or more accurately, what not to expect) helped.

A few more movies and shows saw me through the rest of the trip and, as promised by the pilot, we arrived early, by about 40 minutes. (Total flight time? About 9 hours.)

The customs line was a little long but it moved fast. It was just a matter of someone stamping our declaration cards and asking if we’d brought back alcohol, food, or tobacco. I’m not sure what the procedure would have been if we had, but we hadn’t so we were free to locate Don’s Mom, whom he’d called from the plane when we landed.

Joan and Jean and Jean’s 9 year old granddaughter, Madeleine, were waiting for us near the exit. On the ride back to Jean and Joan’s, Madeleine showed me something she’d created about Benjamin Franklin with multiple generations of photo-copying (a new art form?), and surprised me with what I considered to be a knowledgeable inquiry as to whether we’d heard lots of people speaking with a Cockney accent (I told her I thought the bus driver to the Birmingham Jaguar dealer qualified).

The atmosphere was animated when we dined that evening with Dan, Brandi, Emma and Joan. In fact, I found I was having difficulty keeping quiet. Being that it was Don’s family, I felt I should let him do the telling of our experiences, but I kept interrupting him so that by the end of the evening I felt like quite the schmuck, having butted in much too frequently every time I feared Don was leaving something significant out of the tale. I hadn’t realized until then how excited I’d been about the entire experience. Images, scents, tastes and all the other sensations must have been effervescing through my pores, so thrilled was I at having made Paris and London our new friends.

Sleep was a little stand-offish that night, although we did use Fred’s King size bed rather than the guest bed this time. Not a terribly deep sleeper these days anyway, I awoke at 3:00 a.m. (12:00 p.m. London time), took about 30 minutes to get back to sleep and awoke again at 4:00 a.m.. I continued to make a concerted effort at sub/un?-consciousness until Don arose at 6:30 a.m., where upon I gave up and set about making coffee while he helped Behr via his computer. Joan arrived about 8:30 and I chatted at her until Don reached a point where he could take a break.

For breakfast Joan took us to “The Cracker Barrel”, a cozily decorated restaurant/country-store that would fit in perfectly in Old Towne (sic) Orange (CA) with it’s many antiques. In fact during this visit Don couldn’t resist procuring another 5 pounds for his luggage in the form of an iron and glass dragonfly candle-holder. Sounds like something I’d have done doesn’t it? But no. I swear, it was all Don. (But probably only because I hadn’t seen it!) I had some fabulous well made pancakes (meaning they didn’t dissolve with the first dousing of syrup) and half of Don’s sausage patty---also fabulous! So next time (or would that be “the first time…”?) you’re in Concord North Carolina, you’ll have to visit “The Cracker Barrel”. (Concord, NC I-85 , Exit# 49 / I-85 & Speedway Blvd /7809 Lyles Lane NW / Concord, NC 28027-7193 / Located off I-85 & Speedway Blvd. / * Bus & RV Parking Available / (704) 979-0404)

Don had to get back to work, so we dropped Joan off at her house and returned to Fred’s where I caught up on my journal and Don typed and clicked a few more hours.

When we returned to Joan’s later in the day she drove us to our rendezvous with Dan, Brandi, and Emma at the Daniel Stowe Botanical Garden. (Another member of Don’s and Tracie’s recommended NC destinations”--Daniel Stowe Botanical Garden, 6500 South New Hope Rd., Belmont, NC 28012) Being Winter, there wasn’t much color but we took pictures and had fun anyway.

(Breath) After the garden rendezvous, Joan agreed to take Don and I exploring –--which lead to our getting lost---which lead to reading a sign proclaiming we were now in SOUTH Carolina---which lead to our attempt to return to someplace familiar—which lead to our discovery of a fabulous family owned nursery, unrelated to the botanical garden but also named Daniel Stowe—so we knew we were close to where we’d started at least—which lead to Joan spotting an irresistible addition for her own garden (a pretty shrub)—and to our getting directions to Concord (i.e.; Joan's house). (I doubt I have to advise you this time, but just in case---Breath!)

Jean and Joan treated us to that great buffet dinner again before we spent our last night in Fred’s comfy little house.

Sunday Jean and Joan delivered us to the airport with plenty of time to spare -- they were a little anxious about that because it was a little less than the 2 hours early we’d all aimed for. At LAX, or even at Orange County’s John Wayne Airport, two hours early is probably a good idea. In Concord NC it’s over-kill. At least in mid January it is.

Fred picked us up at John Wayne in Don’s Camry, which he’d been keeping in running order for us in our absence, and returned us to a tidier house than we’d left.

The dogs, who’d warmed up fine to him, much to our relief, were happy to see us and Archimedes (cat) was content, thanks to Fred’s special attentions in getting medicine down his throat for a urinary infection he’d developed just days before we’d left.

Ok. Well. I guess that’s it…..well, I mean that’s the end of our vacation….not “THE END” the end. Just, the end.

Thanks again for reading.

Tracie & Don's European Adventure

Tracie and Don's European Vacation: From Begining to End