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.

Aging

I have the distinct pleasure of volunteering with a very “young” woman who is approaching the age of ninety-three. We have worked together for the past several years at Select Seconds, the hospital thrift shop. About once a month, Ann puts me to shame. She has more energy bottled up in her tiny little body than most of the teenage boys in my high school foreign language classes.

I remember one Saturday when we were working, Ann asked if she could leave a bit early. She needed to finish mowing her lawn. Mowing her lawn! Now mind you, it was a Saturday in June and it was at least ninety degrees outside. Mow her lawn! I was thinking about going home and lying in the shade with a big glass of iced tea. This mowing stuff from a woman who was literally twice my age!

So, I came home from the thrift shop only to find my neighbor, Mrs. Frye, out working in her vegetable garden! Now if Mrs. Frye is not yet ninety, she’s terribly close. Mrs. Frye’s yard is immaculate, on a bad day. Her vegetable garden would put any master gardener to shame. And there she was in the heat out working in her yard.

I pulled in my driveway, laden with guilt. There would be neither shade nor iced tea that afternoon. As I sat in the car, I wondered what I would be like at ninety…or if I would even make it to ninety. I smiled as I realized I would very much like to be like Mrs. Frye or like Ann. I wanted to be an active “young” elderly woman, and I had excellent role models.

I also thought about trends in our society; the trend to appear as young as possible, to somehow extend youth. We’re bombarded with advertisements for gels and creams that will make our lines of aging “disappear.” Ads for plastic surgery and energizing drugs and drink mixes. Why are we so afraid of aging?

In other cultures, there is much respect for and admiration of the elderly. In France, the elderly are allowed to take the best spots in line. People in other cultures look up to the elderly as the wise ones. They admire those wrinkles of experience. We want to erase them.

“Age is a state of mind.” I’ve heard that phrase many times, especially from older folks who jog around the tennis courts or who are in training for a marathon. My husband recently commented on an actress who was at least in her late fifties and had clearly succumbed to the surgery trend. “Her face doesn’t even look real,” he said. And I was reminded of the Velveteen Rabbit and the Skin Horse who explained to him, “Real isn’t how you are made. It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but really loves you, then you become Real.”

Maybe we needn’t worry so about maintaining our youth…maybe we just need to focus a little more on being real. Ann and Mrs. Frye are so real that I when I grow up, I want to be just like they are! Real “young.”

Snow Days

While being snowed in for the past two days with the area's Blizzard of 2010, I have been reflecting on snow days gone by. Snow days in our household were always festive occasions. The kids would sit up the night before a school day intently watching weather forecasts. The next morning upon hearing cancellation lists on the local radio station, I would tiptoe into their bedrooms and tell them the news they had been hoping for. No school!

They would sleep in and I would head to the kitchen to begin breakfast preparations. Mickey Mouse pancakes or pooh bear waffles with sausage or bacon. The sleepy heads would stumble down the stairs and we'd all sit at the table and make plans for the day while we ate. Then it was off to watch cartoons or news coverage of the snow storm. We'd sip hot chocolate while we watched the television.

Then it was time for the outdoor activities. Everyone would dress in hats and gloves and snow pants and coats. We'd waddle out the front door, all toastie in our winter wear. The saucers and sleds would come out of the garage and we'd head to the back field to slid down the hill. The dogs too would tag along and run and jump in the white fluffy stuff that had fallen the night before.

After awhile, I would head inside to begin making preparations for break time. I'd put on a pot of water for hot chocolate mix, then I'd start the fire in the fireplace. If lunch time were approaching, I'd be sure to put a pot of soup on the stove to warm. And then I would wait in the quiet for the storm of sledders to burst through the door.

Snow boots and pants would be tossed by the door and slippers would be placed on cold feet. The kids would run to sit in front of the fire and I would start filling mugs with hot chocolate. This was usually about the time that my husband would grab the shovel to begin clearing the driveway for the inevitable end to our being snowed in.

In the afternoon, we'd typically gather around the kitchen counter to begin work on some type of cookie. Usually chocolate chip. Then the kids would head into the family room to watch a movie or some cartoons. Dad would return from the shoveling and we'd all sit together and laugh at whatever was on the television.

One particular winter storm brought a lengthy power outage. We gathered in the basement near the wood stove and played games and read books. In the evening we got out the sleeping bags and all cuddled by the warm stove. It was like a camp out.

I always thought snow days were a special gift from God. It's like his way of saying "take some time off. Have some good quality time together." We no longer have the kids at home to spend snow days with, but during this storm my husband and I have reverted to some well loved traditions. We've had the fire in the fireplace. I've baked some cookies and we have even had a few outdoor adventures. No sledding or saucers, but we've had some fun in the snow.

Dating my true love

During the first year of our marriage, my husband and I celebrated our monthly anniversaries with a special dinner out. Now mind you, we were both very recent college graduates and funds were in short supply. In the first few months of our marriage, the only work I was doing was volunteering. But the benefits of Tim’s military career helped us many times to be able to swing a nice dinner out.

In that first year of married life, my husband was in the training program for naval aviators. This meant that we were not in one location for an extended period of time. Our first stop was Naval Air Station Whiting Field. When we arrived in Milton, FL, we were greeted by members of the local Welcome Wagon. The Welcome Wagon was a national organization with local branches whose mission was to welcome newcomers to an area and help them find their way around.

Ladies from the group arrived at our apartment with a basket full of local products, maps, information on local attractions and coupons for area services and restaurants. The restaurant coupons were mostly for buy one meal and get the second one free. So for our first two monthly anniversaries, we dined at establishments in the Milton/Pensacola area that were well represented in the Welcome Wagon basket.

With the next phase of training, we relocated to Corpus Christi, Texas. Once again the ladies of the local Welcome Wagon came ringing our doorbell. The coupons in this basket enabled us to have our monthly dinners during our entire six month stay in Texas. We experienced a few restaurants that specialized in Mexican cuisine. I tried my first sopapillas with a buy one meal get one meal free coupon. We also tried Texas barbecue at a western style restaurant. We even had a meal in a restaurant where our seats overlooked the water. How romantic! And low cost at the same time!

By the time we had been married for eight months, we were on our third move. In August of that year, we found ourselves in San Jose, California. No Welcome Wagon was there to greet us, so we ended up having most of our remaining monthly anniversary dinners at the Officers’ Club on base. Sometimes we had to select evenings when they were running specials, but dine out on our date, we did! Somehow throughout the course of our first year of marriage, we managed to have a special anniversary dinner each month.

Our dinner dates have continued for the past twenty-eight years. We no longer head to a restaurant to celebrate our monthly anniversaries, but we do continue to enjoy our dinner dates. Sometimes we’ll dress elegantly for a fine dining experience. Other times we’ll be casual and have dinner in one of our favorite local diners. On occasion, our dinner date is calling out for pizza and eating by candlelight in our own dining room. But the dinner dates continue.

While the locations have changed, as well as the fare, the one constant about our dinners out is the face that looks back at me from across the table. It is still the face of the most handsome man I have ever met. And wherever we go, there’s still that bit of romance that makes dating my husband something I plan to do for a long time to come.

Breathtaking!

When my daughter was attending American University she decided to spend a semester of her junior year abroad. In January of 2004, she headed off to London to study dramatic arts at the British American Drama Academy. I thought spring break of that year would provide a wonderful opportunity for the entire family to visit Great Britain.

After we arrived and met my daughter at the school, we piled into the rental car to begin our excursion. Our itinerary was full! I had planned a route to the north that allowed for a visit to Hadrian’s Wall and would take us through the scenery of Scotland before we arrived in Edinburgh. Then we would head south again towards Stonehenge to round out our five day trip.

On our way north, we stopped at a nice little hotel along the way. We enjoyed a leisurely dinner and had a good night sleep. I should have seen it as the calm before the storm. In the morning, we were up bright and early for our siteseeing adventure. The first stop at the historic Roman site was a fabulous history lesson for us. We visited a Roman encampment and walked along the wall itself. Then the drive through the hills of Scotland was breathtaking. We stopped for lots of photos and I enjoyed immensely visiting with the sheep and the lambs who roamed the hillsides. The problem with the scenic ride was that it was taking much more time than we had allotted.

Our itinerary for that day also included a visit to the Edinburgh castle. The guidebook told me that the last tickets sold for visits to the castle was at 5:15pm. The castle itself did not close until 6:30, but there was no admission after 5:15. As we spent more and more time on the winding roads, my husband’s grim prediction was that we would not make it to the castle in time. Our late arrival would throw off the rest of the trip itinerary. “Just go a little faster,” I said from my seat at the right—my navigator’s seat. “We only have about that much farther,” I said as I held up my fingers to show the half inch distance that remained on the map. “I’ll do my best,” he said. That’s always his response if he doesn’t want to let me down. I married a man who has a very difficult time telling me no.

He did do his best and we arrived at the castle parking garage at 5:05pm. We had plenty of time. So we casually got out of the car to look for direction signs for the entrance to the castle. When we had exited the garage itself, we noticed that the castle was essentially directly above us. It was a straight walk up hill! “Run,” I yelled, “or we’ll never make it.” My family instantly took off in an upward direction. In my advanced age, I too set out at a rapid pace.

It wasn’t long before the thought crossed my mind that I was going to die trying to reach the Edinburgh castle. This would be the end of my life. News agencies would be reporting the death of an extremely out of shape crazy tourist woman who tried to run up the hill to the castle. I heaved and heaved as I watched my family inch closer to the historic site. My son was out in the lead, closely followed by my husband and my daughter. Would they enter the castle, visit and just worry about my dead body later? I could only guess.

Somehow, by some miracle, I made it to the top of that great hill. There stood my family proudly waving tickets for admission to the castle. I glanced at my watch. It was 5:15 exactly. We made it! And I was still alive!

On the road

Why is it that we Americans think multi-tasking is the great way? In Europe, they stick to one thing at a time. For example, driving. In Italy, they drive a bit more wildly than we do here in the U.S., but when they drive, they are focused on driving. Italian drivers tend to look up when they drive. So while their driving skills might not be as focused, their drivers are much more so. In Europe, the car is for driving.

The other day on my way home from work, a Honda CRV pulled onto the highway behind me. I glanced in my rearview window to check safe following distance. The driver, a young woman - probably about nineteen years old - was looking down. Not up at the road, but down...at her cell phone. The driver was clearly in the midst of a texting conversation. When I checked my rearview mirror again, she was right on my tail - not a safe following distance, so I sped up a bit. When I checked again, she was way behind me and riding on the shoulder of the road. She was obviously quite engrossed in her conversation as she was still looking down, not up at the road.

The traffic in front of me began to slow, and I tapped my brakes gently. I checked my mirror to see where my otherwise occupied driving counterpart was. Her vehicle was once again right on my tail. I became a bit panicked thinking that if I had to suddenly hit the brakes because of the traffic situation that she would be in my backseat. The traffic obviously didn't phase her. She was concentrating on her phone.
I noticed a State University banner sticker across her rearview window. She was probably a student at that college. Then I thought about her parents. I wondered if they knew the risk their daughter was taking. Not only with her own life, but with all the lives of the people sitting in that traffic. I wondered if she had seen the recent television ads where young people were dying in the accidents because of preoccupation with texting.

For the next ten minutes or so I was continually checking my back window for the safety of myself and this young woman. Then the next thing I knew, she was in an exit lane. And then she was gone.

I hope she made it home safely. When I got home, I turned on the news and watched the segment about automakers putting touch screen computers in the dashboards of cars. And I shuddered.