Bonne Année

Happy New Year folks, friends and all eight of my beautiful followers! I hope the start of 2011 has you feeling rested, rejuvenated and ready to tackle your resolutions. I originally resolved not make any this year. Not because I’m perfect and feel there’s nothing I could do to change, but because I find it hard to stick to something once I’ve decided to do it. Like when you buy a gym membership then never go back. But after a little escapade that followed a somewhat “challenging” trip to Paris (yes, I used the words challenging and Paris in the same sentence) I realized there was a virtue I could resolve to focus on this year. Appreciation! Here’s what led to the epiphany…

In case you’re wondering, Bonne Année means “Happy New Year” in French. I learned that last weekend when Josh and I took an impromptu trip to Paris. We didn’t quite make it in time to ring in 2011; in fact, we almost didn’t make it at all. With two days to go before the Big Countdown, we booked tickets to Paris on the last train of 2010. A nagging part of my brain babbled about the extravagance of it all. We’d only just returned from our trip to Edinburgh. Who did we think we were, the Hiltons? I listened earnestly, and then told that little nag to sit down and shut up! Paris is Paris and if your husband calls and says, “Hey, wanna go to Paris for the weekend?” you say, “Yes, yes I do!”

Tickled with glee I did everything I could to prepare. I packed, cleaned the fridge, emptied the trash, washed and folded two loads of laundry, dusted and rotated the coach cushions. You’d think I was awaiting the arrival of the Queen. Before I left I did the usual check: wallet, keys, money, phone. I even brought the laptop fully charged and two DVDs, along with a Madeleine Wickham novel and my Iphone updated with three new CDs. All this for a two-and-a-half-hour train ride and two-night stay. I had everything I needed and more… save for one, teensy, tiny, minute belonging—my passport!

I didn’t realize I’d forgotten my little blue book until we were going through bag check 15 minutes before the train was scheduled to depart. I panicked and pleaded with security, tumbling all of my personal information onto the counter top—my license, social security card, credit cards. Not only was I willing to offer myself for a full cavity search, but I was also prepared to make a sizable donation to his personal bank account. Blah, blah, blah, French police, blah, blah, blah, out of our hands, blah, blah, blah, always bring your passport when traveling to another country. Long and short, he was not letting me on that train.

The gentleman at the ticket counter took mercy on our sad souls and my welling eyes and switched our tickets for the following morning. So we went home, popped a bottle of Veuve and watched the Thames fireworks from our flat. All in all, it wasn’t a bad New Years Eve. I actually would’ve been perfectly content had I not completely blown our chance of ringing in 2011 beside the Eiffel Tower in my new blue dress. C'est la vie.

Big Ben at Midnight (via the TV)

Fireworks from our Flat

We went to bed excited that the trip was still upon us. To be extra safe we both set our Iphones for a 5:30am wake-up call. We wouldn’t want to miss another train. Haha! Famous last words! Let’s just say I wasn’t laughing when I lazily rolled over to check the time and saw that it was 6:47am. I thought I was in the Twilight Zone. What time is it? What day is it? Don’t we have to be somewhere in 15 minutes? Didn’t we both set alarms? With realization came one of those Home Alone moments, where we jumped out of bed, raised our hands in the air and said, “We slept in”. Leave it to the Apple Iphone to be a pioneer of digital technology, but to have an annual New Year’s Day alarm clock glitch.

Surprisingly, we made it to the station in the nick of time. Sloppy hair, unshaven, unshowered, with rolling suitcases and shoes in a plastic bag, I’m sure we looked more like vagrants than world travelers. But the important thing was that we made it on the train and arrived in Paris.

Chocolates at the Christmas Market

We had a lovely afternoon moseying along the Champs-Élysées, underneath the Eiffel Tower and past the Christmas Market. It was the sweetest reward one could ask for. We stopped for lunch at a quaint bistro, sharing a croque-madame and meat-and-cheese platter while the bartender poured us a friendly house red. Our lack of plans allowed us to linger and talk, and watch the rowdy group of French-folk at the neighboring table slosh their champagne and merrily sing about something I couldn’t understand.

Eiffel Tower

Trying to get a pic in front of the Eiffel Tower

Croque-Madame 

Meat-and-Cheese Platter

French Waiter

The evening proved to be just as magical as we strolled by the Moulin Rouge and over to Montmartre. We walked as the rain sprinkled our heads and cold nipped at our feet, pointing out the adorable cafes and artfully shaped breads, wrought-iron balconies set against cream-colored buildings and sparkling views of the city. 

The Square at Montmartre

Moulin Rouge

Eventually we ended up at a little corner restaurant. Its façade, decorated with a tangle of green vines, looked like something out of a fairly tale. It was all going so well and we were finally able to put the past debacles aside with a laugh. That is until Josh’s thin esophagus decided to act up. No, that’s not a typo, Josh has a thin esophagus, which means it’s exactly as it sounds—it’s thinner than it should be. When he eats too fast or eats foods that are too rich, the aforementioned food painfully gets stuck in the esophageal pipe. It’s usually nothing more than a glitch in his system, so to speak. Like the Iphone, it quickly fixes itself and goes back to normal. But in this case, also like the Iphone, it wasn’t going away without causing a scene.

After about 20 minutes of looking into Josh’s crimson face, I came to the conclusion that we might be taking our first trip to a Parisian emergency room. Worried, I asked what I could do to help. I offered to kick him in the duodenum to force his stomach open, but aside from making him laugh it really didn’t prove to be a viable solution. Several times the wait staff popped by to make sure Josh was okay and didn’t need a Heimlich expert. I’m sure they were dying for us to leave, as we were probably scaring the customers. On the way out, I thought about telling the girl next to me to stay away from the filet. Just a little esophagus joke!

Without help from the paramedics, the food eventually unclogged and we left the restaurant. Josh hadn’t really eaten much and I didn’t have a French pastry, but before an anvil fell on our heads or a meteorite dropped from the sky, we thought it best that we go back to the hotel. Josh curled into bed and passed out. I, still raring to go, settled in with a bag of peanut M&M’s and a mini-bar bottle of red wine.

Our Hotel

As I lay in bed with my novel and my nightcap, I realized that with everything that had gone wrong, there was still nowhere in the world I’d rather be. Even though the trip wasn’t a total success—and I complained and cursed and cried at times—we managed to have our moments of fun. We’re getting out there and seeing the world, and that’s what’s important. While our experiences may not always be perfect, they’re still experiences. I feel blessed to even have this opportunity. And as I think about all that’s happened and changed since January 2010—graduating from the Natural Gourmet, changing my career, moving to London, exploring Europe—I can honestly say that life, in and of itself, is something to appreciate. So in closing I offer these resolutions: appreciate life, live each day to the fullest and don’t forget your passport!