SIMPLE OBSERVATIONS FROM SHARON:

I’ll leave the excellent travel logging to Ken and simply jot down some of the random travel thoughts that have emerged nightly to jog around the hamster wheel of my brain. (I‘ll ask Ken to decorate this section with some of his photos so it won‘t be too boring for you):

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WHERE ARE THE KIDS AND THE DOGS?
Since Normandy we’ve relished the backroads and winding lanes of France, avoiding when we can the motorways and toll roads. Punctuated with quaint villages and small towns (often ancient and all picturesque) with the requisite church, bakery, and veggie vendor, I realized that in addition to the charming stone buildings with shutters what all these places have in common is the lack of something…something major. Where are all the kids and the dogs? Nobody throwing a ball in the vacant parks and playfields. Nobody jogging or riding bikes (except some seniors in berets or support hose with baguettes in their baskets). No happy dogs headed home with tongues lolling lazily from the side of their mouths after a day of chasing cats. Hey! Where are the cats?! Something is definitely up.
Or ask this guy!

Ken says: I keep waiting to see a group of kids, all blonde blue eyed walking in twos, all dressed alike, all turn in unison as I zip by too quickly. Then the car will suddenly be under their control as I head for the tanker truck……….
Sharon back now: They probably just have them sequestered to learn the art of baguette-making or something less sinister than Ken’s ‘Village of the Damned’ theory I’m sure.

DOOR HOLDING:
What lovely Metro manners the Parisians have! No matter if the person following through a door is 20 feet behind, they will stop and hold the door open for them. It’s so gracious and civilized that I found myself sprinting to the doors, bags and hair flying, so they wouldn’t have to hold it too long. Who’d have thought that a person could get breathless and sweaty and wild-eyed responding to good breeding?



P.S. These folks simply cannot be related to the people behind the wheel of cars in Paris that cut their chunk of the road right out of the middle and race to the merges in a game of Citroen Chicken; a game, I must add, at which Ken excels, much to my dismay, in a car about the size of a QFC grocery cart. Note to self: There is no brake on the passenger side of the car, even in Europe.

The pedestrian does NOT have the right-of-way in France. Perhaps that explains the lack of children?

SCARF-TALENT:
It doesn’t matter if they’re out strolling the Champs Elysees or changing the oil filter in their Renault, a Parisienne will have an intricately twirled, knotted, twisted scarf chicly encircling her neck. There simply has to be some genetic predisposition to explain this scarf talent that didn‘t make it to the New World. Try as I may, my attempts to employ this art result in the unfortunate appearance of colorful neck braces or festive tourniquets.

DOGS:
Maybe it’s because we just left England, a country completely besotted with their doggy companions, that I’ve noticed the difference in the French attitude toward their dogs. They seem to just tolerate them, not really feel a great deal of affection or kinship, often dragging them past sniffing spots at which the English would have indulged little Buffy. Forget about the nice doggy poop clean up bag in France. Just watch where you walk. Now I know that’s a broad generalization, but while the English have taken dog walking to an art form, it seems the French might just cook their dogs (in as rich sauce) if they get too demanding. Okay, no more generalizations. There simply aren’t enough dogs to support this theory anyway. (See first paragraph).

SHOES:
In Paris one can expect to pay about $200 for a pair of ordinary shoes….not Paris Hilton shoes, just the kind of shoes you’d wear to work or the post office, nothing special. Because of this discovery, I found myself fascinated and fixated by woman’s footwear in Paris (not in a perverse deviant kind of way, just as a matter of curiosity). Most amazing to me were the legions of young women literally clip-clopping (they really make that noise) along on spindly high heels for miles on the concrete and cobblestones. The irony’s not lost on me that while watching these dainty, strappy expensive shoes clip-clop up the steps of the Metro, it was I who ended up face down on the concrete in my butt-ugly, flat-heeled, cushioned insole $30 (on sale) Aerosoles. This must be another genetic encoding thing (see Scarf-Talent)

FRENGLISH:
Ken’s fearless with his communication. While other, lesser travelers, might hold back from speaking a language they don’t know, he’ll just dive right in - a blend of English, French, hand gestures, pantomime, a big smile and hope. I admire that, and apparently so do the French. After 4 years of high school French classes 42 years ago I’m amazed at how much I can remember and how much the locals seem to appreciate any attempt at their language. I still mess up my pronouns and have about 6 verbs that I‘m limited to, but I prefer to think I’m now sounding very much like Catherine Deneuve, (while looking more and more like Gerard Depardieu.)



SHARON DRIVES
Sharon had her first attempt at driving in France today. A damned fine job she did too. She started driving with a shift stick so it didn’t take long for her to get back into the routine and started to enjoying it. Here she is on and after the drive to Chinon in our hotel. We’ll stay here 2 nights.