Showing posts with label Paris. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Paris. Show all posts

Monday, February 10, 2020

We Missed our Train

As we sprinted up the last of several consecutive escalators moving travelers from the subterranean interchange between the Gare Montparnasse Train Station and the Paris Metro system to the elevated train platforms serving all points west of Paris, I quickly scanned the large digital schedule boards.  My rapid glance had the goal of, at best, discovering at which track our Rennes-bound high-speed train was waiting or, at a minimum, gaining an update on the time.  Upon acquiring the bare minimum of knowledge sought, 7:55, my heart rate slowed a little and we were able to downshift from a sprint to a run.  “We are not going to miss our train,” I confidently announced. 

The first time the remote possibility that we might miss our train began gnawing at the back of my mind was as we were pleasantly strolling along Rue Mouffetard, vainly trying to take in all that the oldest and most sumptuous street in Paris was offering up that sun-soaked July morning.  As the search for our metro station become more prolonged than expected, I realized I wasn’t exactly sure how long the trip from Place Monge to Montparnasse-Bienvenue, with its corresponding line changes, would actually take.  I started to wonder whether we might actually begin the first day of our honeymoon in Paris by missing the train to Mont Saint-Michel, the one part of our trip which my Bachelor of Science in Marine Biology-holding wife was in the highest anticipation. 

After switching from line 7 to the touristy line 6, my panic become both visible and urgent enough that I informed my wife I was worried we might miss our train, a train for which I’d bought non-transferable tickets months in advance, so as to save a couple hundred euro.  The bewildering disappointment which immediately crossed her face was painful to observe, knowing it was my nonchalant approach to our morning commute which had placed us in this stressful situation.  The nonchalance transformed into desperate intensity as we exited the subway and began pushing, spinning and dodging our way through what felt like a mile’s length of crowded, twisting underground corridors which would eventually spill out at the above mentioned escalators. 

It’s important to note that I’d never missed a train.  Not during the year of living in Paris nor the semester of taking college students all around Europe.  I’d been close, for sure, often too close for comfort.  The closest was that day in Budapest in which our group was scheduled to end the day of sightseeing by sleeping on an overnight train to Sighisoara, Romania.  For some reason, likely because we’d caught a different train at a similar time, I’d had it in my mind we were supposed to board that train at 9 PM.  As we were casually riding on the metro to another site, all of our luggage safely stored at our hostel, my conscious thought drug from my memory the realization that our overnight train was actually scheduled to leave not at 9 PM but rather 7 PM..  Fortunately, we still had plenty of time to board that train.  Unfortunately, the two of our group members who weren’t with us were still operating under the 9 PM time schedule and were unreachable due to our spotty cell service.  Fortunately, we never had to implement the plan in which the rest of the group went ahead as scheduled while I stayed behind with remaining two students, taking the next day’s night train, because they had both randomly checked messages in a wifi-equiped cafĂ©, prompting them to return to the hostel with enough time to board the train with the rest of the group.  Other than Dawson throwing up on our luggage in the middle of the night, the rest of our train ride to Romania was uneventful.  Now the bedbugs we picked up while in Romania certainly created some uncomfortable complications.  That’s, however, a whole different story…

While you could argue I lucked out that day in Budapest, as we were sprinting up the Gare Montparnasse escalator, I was still the owner of an unblemished train-catching record.  Upon seeing we still had five minutes before our train left the station, I breathed a sigh of relief and wondered whether this story would top the Budapest story in the list of train near-misses.  As the title of this blog entry foreshadows, this day would end by topping the short-list of train actual-misses. 
Those five minutes remaining before our train’s scheduled departure were sufficient for locating and arriving at the correct track.  The surprise kick-in-the-gut, however occurred when the SNCF employee stationed at the track’s entrance explained to us, while simultaneously closing the gate, that the high-speed TGV trains close their doors to passengers two minutes before their scheduled departure.  She then directed us toward the ticketing office where we could, at a premium price, purchase tickets for the next TGV train which would take us to Rennes, where we could hop on a shuttle to Mont Saint-Michel.   





We bought the tickets.  We arrived only an hour later than the original plan.  We had a great day walking around the beach and the medieval abbey.  My wife didn’t hold my lack of thoughtful preparation against me.  Sarah also experienced her first encounter with the reason one always leaves margin for the unexpected in their schedule and budget when travelling internationally; the unexpected is guaranteed to occur in one form or another.  Missing a train scheduled three months in advance, though is something I never thought would actually happen to me.  I had worked too long to organize our trip and I am too savvy of an international traveler to make such an obvious mistake.

I’ve been mulling over this blog entry for months, stuck on how to seamlessly morph the above story into the larger point of this post.  Since I still haven’t been able to land the transition I’m going to have to make do with [insert choppy transition here].

As is quite well documented on this blog, several years ago I experienced something I never thought would happen to me, a divorce resulting from the death of a marriage.  Sarah has experienced the same thing as well.  Though this likely doesn’t make us unique among those who have gone through a divorce, neither of us had any thought that our first marriages would end by any means other than death.  That is, after all, the vow we both made and the commitment which our families have modeled for us.  I’m not completely sure how much of a role the mindset of “this could never happen to us” actually played in our respective divorces but I’m confident it was a contributing factor.  Similar to how the first tiny and almost insignificant moment of pre-panic, “we might not make our train” entered my mind while walking along Rue Mouffetard that first morning of our honeymoon, there was a similar moment during my previous marriage in which the wildly fearful thought of “we might not make it” first burrowed into the back of my mind.  I’m not sure whether the eventually divorce could’ve been avoided by that point but I’m confident I should’ve given stronger consideration to the fear which was likely trying to prevent shipwreck of a marriage which had entered some dangerous waters. 

As is also quite well documented on this blog, I’ve survived that unexpected life event and have come out much stronger on the other side.  I’m finally a few months away from fulfilling a goal I’ve had for the better part of a decade (more on that in a different post).  A little over a year after abruptly mashing them together into a new blended family, our kids are demonstrating the comfort, acceptance and significance that comes from the (relatively) healthy family unit Sarah and I have worked incredibly hard to foster.  Last, and possibly the opposite of least, Sarah and I are experiencing a unity and satisfaction in our marriage that neither of us dared  dream was even a possibility just a few years ago.  It’s in no way an oversell to share that I’ve never been in as good of a place in my life as I am right now.  Neither is it an overstatement to claim that I’ve done a LOT of work to get to this place.  On the flip side, admitting that I might have lucked into snagging an incredible life partner who is a tad bit out of my league could surely be deemed an understatement.

For this reason, it’s easy to understand why I’m committed to never again missing the train.  The false confidence of “it could never happen to us” will be thoroughly unwelcome in our marriage.  Experience has provided some painful lessons regarding what’s worth fighting about having fair but passionate debates about and what needs to be immediately dropped.  Our previous marriages have revealed the heart-wrenching reality of where a relationship could find itself if foundational aspects of what makes a marriage work are ignored or taken for granted.  We are currently experiencing the relational ride of our lives but we are painfully aware of the need to diligently stay on schedule because we’ve missed the train in the past.

In order to ride this metaphor to the end of the line, I’ll wrap up this post by reluctantly detailing how the day-trip to Mont Saint Michel which kicked off our honeymoon ended.  Due to my misreading of the shuttle schedule, we missed our return train to Paris.  So yeah, I was two for two in missing trains that day.  While the second mistake didn’t cost us as much money as the morning’s mishap, thanks in part to a friendly family from Minnesota who gave us two unused shuttle tickets, we did end up returning to Paris a couple hours later than planned, causing us to postpone the planned boat ride on the Seine to a different evening.  Apparently, it’s just as dangerous to assume it could never happen in the first place as to assume it could never happen a second time.  By now, I think those of you following along at home can make your own metaphorical connection.  I think you can also understand why, for the rest of the trip, my wife had me double-check and, occasionally triple-check, our remaining train schedule and flight schedule and cabaret show time and photo-shoot schedule and….  Fortunately, we were on time for everything else during the remainder of our honeymoon.  Hopefully, the rest of our honeymoon established a life-long trend.













Friday, March 30, 2018

So I Try to Play the Piano

I took piano lessons from first grade up till it just fizzled out sometime during my junior year of high school.  My late piano teacher was also my Bible Quizzing coach (and pastor's wife) and she said I could be forgiven for letting piano slide since I was memorizing so many Bible verses.

So I had a rather prolonged break from piano, lasting from around 1994 till the summer of 2016, when I bought Dawson a keyboard so he could start his own lessons.  The first song of which I downloaded the sheet music was "Sur le fil" from the "Amelie" soundtrack, which might be the most amazing soundtrack in the known world.  Enjoy.  As a side note, one of my favorite things to do on this planet is to wander through the Northern arrondissements of Paris where "Amelie" was filmed while listening to the soundtrack, highlighted by a walk through the energetic and colorful  Gare du nord.  Paris, tu me manque, but I digress...

In case you're wondering... sitting down at a keyboard again, after 22 years, is a bit more complicated than remembering how to ride a bike.  I had to Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge and FACE for awhile, but it did eventually come back to me.  Now, it's one of the great pleasures in my life, challenging yet rewarding, difficult yet therapeutic.  Here are a few of the songs I've managed to record, along with some explanations and apologies.  It took me a couple of months to become even partly proficient at that "you've gotta be kidding me, that's fast" section toward the end.





The videos aren't quite embedding correctly, so I'll share the actual links, too.
Video

This next video really shows the top end, as well as the limits, of my piano playing ability.  I've never been one who can play a piece perfectly.  I guess I just lack the finger dexterity.  90% proficiency is usually the best I can manage.  While I simply can't avoid mistakes, I'm at least creative in finding new ones to make each time I play a song, the exact same song, mind you.  I also get a bit nervous playing for a camera, which is evident in this video.  I'm copying in some advice from a good friend who is both a concert pianist and a travelling ninja.  I've had moments in which I've played with the joyful abandon Denise describes below, but certainly never in front of a camera.

 "...Another thing I'd say is to just play, worry less about making mistakes :) Hard to do I know.  But sometimes if you just go with it, amazing things will happen. Remember, Robert Schumann said "When you play, never mind who listens to you." Beethoven said "to play a wrong note is insignificant. To play without passion is inexcusable." Of course, another interpretation is that "to play a wrong timidly is a mistake. To play a wrong note with authority is an interpretation." :) Don't remember who said that but I like it."




Video

"And now for something completely different."  Pop music

It's amazing how much more difficult it is to play pop music than classical music.

I'm slightly hesitant to share this one for several reasons.  First of all, it's not great, not at all.  I was able to get a few parts down but I could never get the timing right in certain sections, particularly on the bridge.  I eventually got tired of working on it, though and wanted to get it recorded so I could move on, which I did, actually throwing the sheet music in the recycling and washing my hands of the song.
Which leads to the other reason this song isn't great to share, it was meant to be a birthday present but it never got delivered to the intended recipient.  Just as an interaction with that Intended Recipient prompted me to do some writing on this blog, another brief interaction with said Intended Recipient prompted me to work on this song.  It's as if some emotions were working themselves from my heart, through my arms, out my fingers and eventually into the previously mentioned recycling bin.
I made the video, though, so I might as well share it.




Video

The good thing about the above video is that the little bit of singing I actually do in the video resides much more in my vocal sweet spot than the next video I'm going to share.  I'm going to share it anyway, though as it's one of my all-time favorite songs, even if it pushes (let's be honest, it exceeds) my vocal range.

The particular arrangement I'm going to play comes from the musical Moulin Rouge but the actual song predates that musical by several decades.  I don't know of any other song that captures the aching beauty one experiences while wandering Montmartre late at night.  Or maybe in a broader sense, it captures the maddening pleasure of a city that (to paraphrase another old French songwriter) is like a lover who tantalizes you while you're in her presence but forgets your face as soon as you leave.  But there I go again, missing Paris...

Maybe it's my voice cracking or the lack of an accordion but my playing of this song won't illicit anything near to the depth of feeling brought out by the original.  Nonetheless, I still greatly enjoyed learning this song as it's the first song I've been able to both play and sing. 

Also, I apologize if my introducing the song in French comes off as pretentious (is it ever possible to speak French and not come off as pretentious?), but I couldn't resist.



Video

Finally, please allow me to be a braggy dad for a minute.  My son is quite the piano player, when I can actually get him to practice.  He has a musical ear that I simply don't have.  Not only can he play a song by ear after just a few tries, he even composes his own short songs.  Of course, that's no surprise, as his biological uncle is a recording artist and his biological grandma is herself a piano teacher.  Dawson fights me on piano but he's too talented for me to let him quit when he's this young.  As the parents of my above mentioned concert pianist friend would tell her as a child, "no adult regrets being made to learn piano as a child."



Video



Video

Opening Day 2018

There's a buzz in the air, the fountains are flowing blue, the Truman Sports Complex parking is full of tailgaters and hardly anyone in the city is working this afternoon because we're all celebrating the return of our Boys in Blue.
Sad, minor side note:  The season couldn't have started much worse, with a 44 degree day bringing a 14-7 loss and news of Salvy going on the 6 week DL.

There are two things to get excited about for this upcoming season:
1) I  will still get chills when I see the World Championship banner flying in the outfield
2) The team will be so bad this year that I'll be able to find $5 tickets by July

Today is the perfect day to remind everyone of Terence's line in Field of Dreams:
"The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball.  America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers.  It's been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt, and erased again.  But baseball has marked the time.  This field, this game, is a part of our past, Ray.  It reminds us of all that once was good, and that could be again.  Oh people will come, Ray. People will most definitely come."

And if you would rather hear the actual voice of James Earl Jones, rather than just hear it in your head (as I do), then you can click here.

I've heard it said that as men get older, their interest in football wanes and their interest in baseball grows.  I don't know whether that's true of all male sports fans, but that's definitely been true of me.  I didn't even follow baseball till my first summer in KC, the summer after my sophomore year, when I finally began to understand the everyday enjoyment of the sport which includes the pleasure of having the play-by-play in the background on a beautiful summer evening and how the pop of the ball hitting the catcher's glove on an AM radio is the perfect soundtrack to summer.  By the pennant race of 2003, I was being sucked in but I wasn't fully hooked, however till I began to understand the numbers of baseball.  I owe my fairly recent appreciation of the nerdy side of baseball to Rany Jazayerli and his no longer active blog, Rany on the Royals.  With the exception of the postseason, baseball is a game of consistency and patience while football is a game of short and intense bursts of emotion.

My last  year of playing baseball was the summer before the first fall in which I was old enough to play middle school tackle football.  I was never coordinated enough to be good at baseball but I was just strong enough to earn a small football scholarship to a small university.  I think that I needed to put my horrible little league career behind me before I could fully embrace the sport as an adult fan.  To put it another way, I had to make peace with being a sucky baseball player as a kid before I could become a serious baseball fan as an adult.

To reference another idea I've heard but whose source I can't recall, sports exist to create a natural and easy bonding between father and son.  Of course, the most likely reason sports exist is for gambling on the outcomes, but I digress...  I can certainly attest to that in my own life.  I've been able to bond with both my dad and my son over Hawkeye and Royals games.  Though more over Hawk games with my dad and more over Royals games with my son, who once told me, "Dad, I was born in KC,  you were born in Iowa, so I'm a Royals fan, not a Hawkeye fan."  I believe that idea could be expanded however, to include bonding between friends.  Some of my best memories and most profound conversations have occurred during game watch parties, pre-game tailgates and (most importantly) road trips to sporting venues across the country.  In fact, several years ago, a high school friend sent me a note thanking me for sharing Christ with him during our sophomore year.  That conversation happened, naturally, on the drive home from an Iowa basketball game (a miserable loss to Northwestern, if I remember correctly, which I likely do). 

Of course, that's the main theme of Field of Dreams, the relationship (or lack thereof) between a father and son.  I'm glad that my relationship with my dad and my son doesn't revolve completely around sports, but I'm glad a shared love of sports has enhanced our respective relationships. I can honestly say, though that without a shared love of sports, I'm not as close to some of my closest friends as I actually am.

With that in mind, I'm going to share some of my favorite  Opening Day memories along with my favorite baseball pictures.

2004:  Despite having standing room only tickets, the day started and ended perfectly.  A group of close friends used my portable grill for tailgating before the game and convinced me to not leave in the 8th inning, when the Royals were down 8-1 to the Sox.  A miracle rally, which was capped off by a walk-off homerun, resulted in us jumping around hysterically in the concourse behind the 1st base line.  I jumped so hysterically, in fact, that I gave myself a deep bone bruise on my knee, making it hard to bend said knee for about two months.  I'd never been so glad to be a Fed Ex driver, rather than a UPS driver, as UPS trucks are sticks and FedEx trucks are automatic.

2009:  I was offered an Opening Day ticket by a dear man in the church I was pastoring at the time, for whom I had recently preached his wife's funeral.  The day was cold and the Royals were spanked by the Yankees, but it was a wonderful time of helping a dear friend through his grief while not actually mentioning his unmentionably sudden loss.  I believe there was a lot of grace passing between us that day.

2014:  This Opening Day I decided to embrace what most Parisians could tell just by glancing at me, no matter how hard I tried to mask it by sporting a man purse and scarves, that I'm an unfashionable American who feels most comfortable wearing jeans and a sports t-shirt.  This was actually the first day of the two weeks my parents came to visit us and as I was leading them into Saint Chapelle, a fellow KC native saw my shirt and called out, "Go Royals." I'll never forget that one, how the buzz of Opening Day can extend even to another country, at least among American tourists.

The formatting on this blog site is so complicated that I'm not even gonna try to put this in chronological order.



"Celebrating" the extra inning, WS clinching win against the Mets in November, 2015

Celebrating the World Title with hundreds of thousands of other Kansas Citians

Godbrothers at The K

Kids Day at The K, May 2015

Dad and enjoying a game on Father's Day, 2016
A great night in the Southside of Chicago
Dawson's first trip to The K, June 2011.  I felt kinda guilty trying to teach him to like a team as bad as the Royals, circa 2011

Royals at White Sox, June 2016


Catching a game where the Royals had clinched the WS the previous year.  Notice Dawson has on the WS Champs shirt while I decided to stick with the much safer, Hawkeye shirt, as we'd attended a Hawkeye game at Rutgers earlier in the day.

Enjoying the divisional race, June 2017

A baseball camp with Royals HOFer, Frank White

Hanging with my childhood hero, The Wizard of Oz

Royals at Cardinals, August 2017

Quite possibly the best weekend ever, June 2012

Watching the MLB internet stream of the hearbreak that was game 7 of the 14 WS the morning after it actually happened, Busingen, Germany.  My yells when Gordon tied it up scared Dawson and I might've cried two tears when Perez fouled out to end the game.

San Francisco, May 2013 with the biggest baseball nerds and one of the best people I know

Royals at Twins, June 2015

June 2017


July 14, catching a game during our time between France and Germany

One of my all-time favorite pics


When your close friend of several decades visits from CA, you have to go to The K with him and his boys

































Tuesday, November 28, 2017

Paris, encore et encore





 I once spent a year in Paris. It was awesome. It was also hell-on-earth.

I often summarize the year by stating, "it was simultaneously the best year of my life and the worst year of my life." I wrote all about that year on this blog, so I won't go into detail about that year. Other than to tell this story.

It was a beautiful spring day. The day before, Erin and I made plans to take Dawson to school together and then take the train into the city, spending the day together in Paris. In what was a common refrain that year, well intentioned plans fell apart.  Neither of us handled this change of plans very well, leading to yet another intense fight. This fight was different than the others, though.

Somehow we moved from the Hotel de Ville till we were standing in the middle of one of the city's medieval bridges spanning the Seine River. What happened next will forever be seared in my memory. In the middle of a raging argument, time seemed to slow down and I became intensely aware of my surroundings; the feel on my skin of the warm sun combined with the chill in the air, the tourists passing us by and the cold, grey stone which composed the bridge. What struck me most, though was the beauty of the sun's rays dancing on the waves of the Seine. The bridges over the Seine, linking the two sides of Paris, quite possibly one of the most romantic sites in the entire world.

I don't remember the words but I can feel the intense anger.  I can also still hear my own voice inside my head, "well, this is it. Our marriage is going to die right here, standing on a bridge over the Seine in the 'City of Love.'" Maybe it didn't end right then but it was a serious nail in the coffin.

As I wrote in the first entry in this series, the death of our marriage (an inevitable event?) was sped up during our year in Paris. And yet, as you would notice were you to read a few entries from the blog I linked to above, I thoroughly enjoyed the year in Paris. As someone in our church remarked, "Every street in Paris is an outdoor museum." And I explored as many of those museum-streets as possible. I also tried to take Dawson to every park in the city. We often spent weekends exploring parks in every arrondisement of the city.

I lead so many groups and individuals around the city, both during that year and later with a collegiate study-abroad program that I finally tried to follow the advice of all those people who told me I should be a Paris tour-guide. Last year, I tried to put together a guided tour of Paris. A lot of people expressed interest and in the midst of receiving all that interest, N decided to join me on the trip. Well, none of those people who said they wanted to go ended up joining the trip, so it ended up being just the two of us; N had her own private tour guide.

It was an amazing week. We visited the touristy stuff sure but I was also able to show her some of the more hidden gems of that city. To her credit, N convinced me to try some places I hadn't visited during that entire year in the city. We even got to share a meal with some of the people from the church where I'd served as a volunteer pastor.



Some Parisian "joi de vivre"

The Versailles Church building

The Thursday afternoon in June meal























I was able to share the many aspects I loved about that city with an amazing travel companion.  Our last night was spent walking along the Seine, observing the various ways Parisians experienced their joi de vivre in a city full of sensual delights.  N turned to me and said, "I wasn't completely sold on Paris the first few days, but now I understand why you love this city so much."

That statement made my trip.  It was wonderful to experience the joys of that city with her.

As I wrote earlier, I broke up with her a few weeks later.

In response to that emotional decision, I decided to take another trip to Paris.  I did so in late September/early October.  While my trip with N was about exploring the light and beautiful parts of Paris, the solo trip ended up being about exploring the emotional darkness of the city where my marriage fell apart and about facing and reuniting with the congregation we tried to serve while we were there.

Back in October of 14, when leading the group of college students around Paris, we had the chance to spend a Sunday afternoon in the Versailles Gardens with some close friends.  While walking around the basin, feeding ducks and swans, the husband made an off-hand comment about how he can't understand why people can get a divorce.
That was a comment that I shamefully carried with me for years.

What I'm about to share, though won't be a surprise if you've been reading this blog...
When that couple found out about the divorce, they made a point to tell me that I'm still loved and a part of the church family.  I got to spend a wonderful afternoon with that family, an afternoon filled with quiche, wine, good conversation, laughs and grace.

The church even had a post-worship meal together, welcoming me back.  It's hard to put into words how wonderful that felt.

I also had the chance to spend hours talking with the missionary whom I worked with/for while there.  We talked about so much yet I can hardly remember the details.  I do know, however that the conversation will likely be remembered as one of the more significant post-divorce healing moments.

Making the conversation more significant was where Brian met me.  He met me at the park outside the apartment where we'd lived.  I told him I'd be spending some time there that morning, sitting on a bench, looking at the apartment where Erin first said she wanted a divorce and I eventually came to agree with that decision.

I had to feel that pain.  I had to retrace my steps, immerse myself back into the dark pain caused  by  the death of my marriage.  I had to face that apartment on Rue Parc d'Ardenay.  I had to face the congregation I was trying to serve while simultaneously knowing Erin and I weren't going to make it.  I had to have an honest conversation with the missionary I'd tried to help for a year while also trying to hide from him just how miserable my life was.

And I did.  I faced it all.  The apartment lost its power over me.  The church welcomed me with open arms.  The missionary helped set me free from some false guilt and unwarranted regrets.

I did sit on my seat on the plane for the flight home, but I think I might've been able to fly back across the Atlantic with my own wings.  The absence of that emotional weight was physically noticeable.

I still love Paris.  I can't wait to go back. Again and again...


I just love wandering the streets of Paris
Paris at night, in the rain - a beautiful sight
After our Sunday meal
"Les esclaliers de la butte..."
Brian Ketchum, AKA "The Missionary"