11. The Things We Carried With Us...

I'm standing in the baggage claim at Berlin-Schoenefeld airport in, like, Berlin and stuff. Snatches of conversation in different languages blow by like wind-driven sheets of rain. I had 30 euros in my pocket this morning, but had to spend more than half of that on train tickets from Petit Bateau to Orly airport (most of that being the tickets from the RER to the airport itself. 16 euros for a 5-minute train ride.) in Paris. Then I spent too much of the rest of that on a bottle of water.

As we waited to board in Orly a quartet of soldiers meandered through the crowd.

This, but in an airport.

10. The War with Monsieur LeClub: Part I

Monsieur LeClub is a scurvy dog, swabbies. I've mentioned before that he likes the bad techno, and he likes it loud and late. 

Remember me?

What you may not know is that my partner in crime, the Skipper to my Gilligan, the Geena Davis to my Matthew Modine in Cutthroat Island, does not suffer such things lightly. I would recommend you click that link and watch that trailer, for not only is it a sterling example of the "no idea what the plot is about just explosions and kissing" school of thought regarding trailers, but it's also how I want you to envision the coming tale. 

First off, she's got difficulties sleeping, and not only is the bass-thump coming through Monsieur's walls impossible for her to tune out, but the mental cringing that accompanies waiting, wondering if the thump will start will keep her awake.

Two, she don't take shit. Monsieur LeClub, however, has quite the sense of entitlement and a lack of...something involving empathy and decency. With both of our vessels plying the close-quartered waters of our floor, rigging-scraping is inevitable and full-out broadside cannonades are possible.

Come with me after the break(ers) to watch the hot naval action unfold.

9. Scarves, beer, and other essentials

Dudes and dudettes. The most awesome thing just happened. Let me tell you about it. But first, let's talk about laundry and the weather.

It's getting cold in France. It's not freezing, there's no rain or snow or sleet. It's not even very windy. But it's cold, and this is- according to all signs, tales, and portents- merely a harbinger of the winter to come.

When we first got here it was hot. Only around 80 degrees (Farenheit, of course; I still haven't gotten the mental switch to understanding what, for instance, 20 degrees Celsius is supposed to feel like), but the humidity, the lack of air conditioning (except in grocery stores which is more the refrigerated section leaking out) and the overall citiness of it made it feel like more.

But even so, people wore jackets. They wore a sweater or a scarf wrapped around their neck. It's like a racial trait or geographical adaptation; Nordic people have pale skin and hair, African folks have dark skin and hair, French people have a tail that sprouts from their neck and only appears to be made of patterned wool or silk. It's that common.

8. Metro update: now with more Brute Squad!

Metro Update: Oh. My. God. If you ever go on the Metro, HOLD ON TO YOUR TICKET. They do not tell you this. Only in a couple of stations do you need your ticket after the initial entry; in most cases, once you pass through the little entry machine it is just a worthless slip of paper. But keep it, O My Dear Ones. Listen to this cautionary tale.

7. A Tale of More Castles (Tours, part II)

If you haven't read the first part of our trip to Tours, I would recommend doing so here: http://111stepstoparis.blogspot.com/2011/10/soim-currently-working-on-tale-ofour.html

It explains where we are, who we're staying with, and why we're riding around in a stranger's minivan.  I should also mention that this one runs a little long. Last week I had implied that I would try not to do this (by asking you if you thought they were too long), but there were pictures and stories and such, and I didn't want to make this thing a three part tale. So it's long. But, I hope, enjoyable. 


When last we left...um, us, we had just quit Le Chateau Chenonceau on the river Cher, a place where Catherine de Medici worked part of her much-gentler-than-you-might-expect revenge upon her dead husband's mistress.

The five of us- me, Megan and the three Japanese ladies- were waiting in the parking lot when Pascal returned. He said he had needed to get gas, but does it take an hour and half to get gas? It might, come to think of it. Gas stations are not the bright shining oases of pumps and lights and hot dog rollers and soda coolers that they are in the US. Usually a parking garage will have pumps, but the only indication is a little icon that means gas. And there're no minimarts or convenience stores added on. My guess is that the selling of gas is a nationalized deal here, so there's no need to advertise. People need gas, so they'll find it.

We pile into the van and head off to the Clos Luce. There's supposed to be an accent aigu ( / like that but small and over the e, makes it say -ay) on the end of Luce (Klo Loosay), but I'm not going to start trying to fit them all in. French is peppered with all sorts of accents, and the US keyboards are not set up to make them with any ease. I am lazy, so I am not going to do it. Forgiveness, please.