Teacher Travel Troubles

I was recently winding up a ten day trip to Ireland, the UK and France with some of my students. We were a group of sixteen and were spending our last evening of the trip in Paris. We had ascended the Eiffel Tower, cruised the river Seine on a tour boat and were dining outside at a wonderful café in the Place de Tertre at Montmartre. We had just finished our crèpes with whipped cream and were sipping on diabolo fraise. It was a glorious night and my students were relishing the experience of the French café and outdoor dining. Our waiter was quite jovial and patient as my students used their broken French to order and to make polite conversation with him. It was indeed pleasant.

Eventually, I signaled to the waiter that we would like to pay the bill. We collected the necessary monies and left the café. As we stood in the square, my dear friend, one of the trip chaperones, said “Isn’t the last train back to the hotel at 12:45?” I looked at my watch which said 12:20 and then in a panicked tone yelled “Run!” Our descent down the hill was at lightning speed. In all my visits to Montmartre, I had never moved on those stairs that quickly. We ran down the street to the metro station. Fortunately, we all had previously purchased our train tickets, so we moved rapidly through the turn stalls. My entire group of sixteen jumped onto the first train to stop at the station. It was not long before we realized that we were heading in the wrong direction. “Off at the next stop,” I bellowed.

The next stop just happened to be the Gare du Nord, but it was already 12:50am, and I knew that we had missed our train. Trying not to let my students see the panic that was running through my brain, I calmly led them to the door of the station and out to a group of gendarmes who had gathered near a van in front of the train station. I explained to them that I had carelessly missed the last RER train to Noisy Le Grand and that I needed to get my students back to our hotel. The policemen conferred and then agreed that our best bet was the bus. They politely pointed me in the direction of the nearest bus stop and off we headed. It was now well after 1 a.m., and I was walking through the streets of Paris, in the dark, with my bewildered group. I played the “I have everything under control” role convincingly well…for awhile.

By the time we made it to the bus stop, our Tour Director had called from the hotel, concerned that we had not returned. He proceeded to tell me that the safest option for our return was to go back to the Gare du Nord and herd together four taxis. He estimated that the cost would be around fifty euros per car. I had not a centime on my person as I had spent the last of my cash at Montmartre. I turned sheepishly to my students and asked if they would be willing to pitch in whatever they had managed not to spend on the last night of our trip and that I would need to find an ATM to get the balance. Fortunately one of the students had plenty of cash remaining, so we rushed back to the train station to search for our cabs.

As luck would have it, there were four cabs parked directly in front of the train station. I proceeded to bargain with the cabbies for a price. We agreed on what I thought was an outrageous price but by this time it was already past 2am, and I was desperate. We piled into the vehicles, one adult and three students in each. And we were off.

The reality of the situation hit me hard once we were en route and I started to cry. The cabbie asked me what was wrong and why was I crying. I told him that I had let my students down and that I had put their safety in jeopardy and that I felt awful. He told me to stop crying, that he could not stand to see a woman cry. Then he proceeded to tell me that we were perfectly safe and on our way back to the hotel. To stress our safety, he continued by telling me not to worry because he had a gun. Now the entire conversation to that point had been in French, except the word “gun.” The students in the back seat of this particular vehicle were not my French students, but government students. And they did completely understand the word “gun.” Their gasps were audible. As the cabbie reached between the two front seats to retrieve said “gun,” I thought to myself, “Can this possibly get any worse?”

Hysterical does not begin to describe my laughter, and that of the students in the rear seat, when our dear French cabbie pulled up a bright yellow and blue “gun.” He showed it to me with a “no worries” grin across his face. Just then, we came to a red light and stopped. The second cab, carrying my dear friend and three other students, pulled up right next to us. With the windows down, the two cabbies began to converse. Then our cabbie raised his weapon and “shot” his colleague. The brightly colored gun was indeed a water gun. The roar of laughter shook both vehicles.

Then the cabbies started a chorus of “course, course.” I insisted that they not. “What are they saying?” my friend asked. “They want to race,” I replied. My friend gave a loud “Whoopee” just as the light changed. We were off! Racing through the streets of Paris at roughly 2:30 in the morning. The students were laughing hysterically. And so were the cabbies, my friend, and much to my surprise, myself. The streets of Paris were deserted. It was the pre-dawn hours of Bastille Day. And two wild cabbies were racing through the streets, making an American teacher and her students feel, well…safe. I had no doubt that these two crazy Frenchmen would deliver us to our hotel, safely…and it record time, I might add.

We were back to the hotel well before three in the morning. Our Tour Director was waiting outside the hotel for us when the mad cabbies turned the corner into the hotel drive. Photos were taken with our new friends and we said our good-byes. I turned to apologize to my students for the disaster I had caused because I had carelessly lost track of time.

“That was the most awesome cab ride,” they exclaimed! “What a great way to end our trip.” And they were off to their rooms, giggling and recounting the event, without hearing my apology. Pam, my dear friend, turned to me and said, “I know you were upset and that you were worried, but that was the best damned cab ride!”

And so, in twenty years, when my students recall with fondness their trip to Europe in 2009 with Mrs. Jarman, my guess is that all they will remember is the cab ride…and all the laughter.

Beyond Bars

Today I had the pleasure of being the guest at a Girl Scout meeting. This meeting was not your typical Girl Scout event, nor was it a typical Girl Scout troop. The troop meets twice a month at the Maryland Correctional Institute for Women. The program is called Girls Beyond Bars and was created to allow incarcerated moms to spend some quality time with their daughters.

I recieved the invitation to be a guest a few months ago. I had been told by the director of the program that the girls had been reading some of the books in my Medieval Maidens series. She asked if I would come to speak to the girls about the books and to give a special lesson in medieval history. I very willingly agreed and was to soon find out that I would be the one benefitting most from the visit.

Early this morning, I packed up my baskets, loaded with craft supplies, quills and ink, dress-up hats and visual aids for out talk about life in a castle. I had emailed my packing list to the director a few weeks prior. The list had to be approved by prison officials. I was told to wear minimum jewelry and bring only my photo ID and bare essentials in terms of personal items. I made sure that the clothes I selected had very little metal, a button shirt and slip on leather shoes.

I arrived at the prison about forty-five minutes early. The front desk officials checked the list to see that I was on as an approved visitor, and then I proceeded through the security check and full body search. Then I was directed to a waiting area until my escort to the meeting location arrived.

While I was seated in the waiting area, I watched as family members came and went. Everyone was searched by a member of the K-9 unit and his well-trained dog. Small children squealed and giggled as the dog's cold nose rubbed against their arms. "I wanna see Mommy," I heard one boy whisper to the women who was holding him on her lap. Young and old waited until their names were called. Then they stood and waited for the door to the prison area to be unlocked. I thought about the happy greetings that might have been exchanged just a few feet from that visitor waiting area.

Finally my escort and members of the troop arrived. We greeted each other and then took our turn at the door waiting for the latch to open. As I walked through the fenced walkway and looked up at the looming wires, I began to have doubts about my decision to come. What kind of women would be waiting for us in the prison gymnasium?

When we reached the correct building, the girls were the leaders, knowing their moms were not far away. We signed in at the front door and were once again checked for security reasons. The girls then turned down a corridor and we adults followed. There were a few windows in the hallway and I heard some girls shout out, "there's my mommy!" Mommy. That's who these women were, mommy. Some little girls' mommy and the Girl Scouts were about to give the gift of joy.

When the doors to the gym opened, moms and daughters hurried to each other. There were hugs and kisses and huge grins. Moms stroked their little girls' hair and the girls looked lovingly at their mothers. It was as simple as that. No judgments, no fear, no abnormal behavior. What I witnessed I could have seen anywhere in this country--at church, at a school, at the mall--anywhere.

And then we began our activities. Moms helped their daughters with crafts, putting ribbons in the right place, finding the right color crayon. Daughters laughed and smiled. We sang and danced. Then we had something to eat and drink and all of a sudden, it was time to clean up.

Clean-up was followed by the really tough part-the goodbyes. Little girls of thirteen and fourteen were holding on until the very last minute. Hugs. And more hugs. There were a few tears, and then it was time to go. The girls back to grandmothers and other care givers, the women, back to prison.

But the meeting, that sense of normalcy. It gave me hope. Hope that these women will become better people, better citizens and better mothers when they left those fences and daunting wires. And hope that those beautiful girls would not return to that place in their adult lives. And I was thankful, thankful for the angels who work under the name of Girls Scouts of America.