Top: Miller answers the phone. Bottom: Robert multi-tasks.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
05-29-07
The hotel staff is starting to warm up to us a little bit. There is still an awkward confusion in their faces, as if they simply have no idea why we would all get separate rooms and choose to pay the extra room rate when we could simply split the very small double rooms. Each day it seems like they are more welcoming. As I was taking photos of our rooms—just to prove that we’re not exaggerating—one of the clerks became very interested in the photos. Through a series of pantomime gesture and broken English he suggested that I should pose behind the front desk while he takes a picture. It was a successful cultural exchange—and funny—so he guided Robert to the desk (pictures to follow).
This is a proud country with a proud people, as most people are of their own country. At least once each trip someone has said to me something along the following lines, “Bush no good. America good.” Without guessing at the reasons for the first statement (although the guessing would not be so difficult), it is at least a little bit reassuring that people from disparate backgrounds can still get along. In 2005 it was a taxi driver who expressed “no good/good” sentiment to me. I tried to give the impression that we had a positive view of Syria. This year the hotel clerk recited the standard phrase. There is really no good way to answer but to reassure the person that we like the people we meet here. It would be inadvisable and unproductive to open a dialog about the importance of a multi-level universalistic electoral government based on the concept of limited terms. Maybe next time I will pose that issue to whoever says “Bush no good. America good.” Maybe not.
This evening a few of us planned to take an evening drink on a third-level terrace restaurant at one of the upscale hotels—not one of the expensive diplomatic style hotels, but still one better than our little hovel. When we arrived the terrace was closed, but one of the hotel staff directed us to the ninth floor terrace, which was open. The view was great. We watched as fireworks exploded in various quarters of the city, usually far lower than safety standards would allow at home. Many of the fireworks were lower than our terrace (photos courtesy of Robert to follow).
This is a proud country with a proud people, as most people are of their own country. At least once each trip someone has said to me something along the following lines, “Bush no good. America good.” Without guessing at the reasons for the first statement (although the guessing would not be so difficult), it is at least a little bit reassuring that people from disparate backgrounds can still get along. In 2005 it was a taxi driver who expressed “no good/good” sentiment to me. I tried to give the impression that we had a positive view of Syria. This year the hotel clerk recited the standard phrase. There is really no good way to answer but to reassure the person that we like the people we meet here. It would be inadvisable and unproductive to open a dialog about the importance of a multi-level universalistic electoral government based on the concept of limited terms. Maybe next time I will pose that issue to whoever says “Bush no good. America good.” Maybe not.
This evening a few of us planned to take an evening drink on a third-level terrace restaurant at one of the upscale hotels—not one of the expensive diplomatic style hotels, but still one better than our little hovel. When we arrived the terrace was closed, but one of the hotel staff directed us to the ninth floor terrace, which was open. The view was great. We watched as fireworks exploded in various quarters of the city, usually far lower than safety standards would allow at home. Many of the fireworks were lower than our terrace (photos courtesy of Robert to follow).
05-28-07 To Work
Greetings again from Damascus! Today is our first real day of work in the museum. Everyone is anxious to begin their projects. I’m here to photograph as many tablets as possible. This year there are six of us working in the museum. The tablets and other objects that we are studying are stored in a reserve room in the basement of the museum. We each begin our day by retrieving a tray of tablets and returning to the work room. The day always slips through our fingers quickly, with 9 a.m. turning to 3 p.m. in an instant. I spend my day hunched over a digital camera, while most of the others members squint at their tablets through magnification visors.
Now that work has begun, I’m afraid my posts will be much shorter. I will try to continue posting photos and the highlights from our daily adventures.
Now that work has begun, I’m afraid my posts will be much shorter. I will try to continue posting photos and the highlights from our daily adventures.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
More photos of election stuff
Top: Dennis and Carol walk under election banners. Bottom: guards in their official dress uniforms in the doorway, and what is the deal with the guy in the leather jacket who just walked into frame? Sir, it's 90 degrees outside!
The city is buzzing with election excitement.
Top: the president draped over an office building. Bottom: the top of the Sham hotel. This is NOT our hotel. This is one of the upscale hotels.
05-27-07 Betwixt Hotels and Baggage
My morning began with a shower in the basement of the al-Haramain hotel. There are three public showers and luckily I was the only person there at the time. My only company was the mosquitoes buzzing around during my shower. The hotel offers the standard breakfast of flat bread, apricot preserves, hummus, green and black olives, and a hard-boiled egg, which we take in the courtyard. It seems that 8 a.m. is too early for the rest of the hotel’s guests as they only slowly begin to move by the time we finish our breakfast.
After breakfast we stop by the new hotel (Al-Zafiran) to drop off our bags and check-in to our new rooms. The morning clerk is just as confused as the other clerk as to why we would think to rent a room at a hotel. But, they have three rooms grouped together in one hallway, so we drop our things and head to the museum to say hello to the staff and make our arrangements for our work. I can’t say too much about the meetings at the museum for fear of giving the wrong impression. We met most of the people who we needed to meet, but were essentially “stood-up” by others. We can understand the general distraction here because today seems like a national holiday, and the museum is a-buzz with activity.
Lunch at al-Shamiat. And who can complain? It’s cool and the food is good. The plat du jour is rice with chicken served with a side of plain white yoghurt which goes very well when mixed together.
The task of the afternoon is to go to the airport and retrieve our luggage, if it’s there. We approach the hotel clerk to collect our passports—they like to hold them for at least a day while they copy down names and information for their records. The clerk is insistent that he cannot yet return the passports. He suggests that if anyone at the airport needs to reference the passports, then they can call the hotel. He gives us the information card for the hotel. R&C and I head off to the bus station to take the afternoon bus to the airport. It’s a short walk from our new hotel. While waiting on the curb outside the ticket office in the bus station we nearly become engulfed in some sort of argument among a group of 10 or 15 men. Some sort of injustice had been perceived between two groups of men working at the bus station and voices were raised. We slowly crept away from the growing argument. Cooler heads prevailed and the two primary disputants were led in separate directions.
At the airport, the lost and found window instructs Robert to go to the security office where they will bring him around to the luggage. Carole and I must wait in the airport’s main lobby. Robert disappears into the security office only to return in five minutes without the bags. It seems that the security office is standing firm that without passports, one cannot retrieve one’s luggage. They suggest coming back tomorrow. We opt instead to hire a taxi for a three-way trip: (1) airport to hotel to get the passports, (2) hotel to airport to get the bags, and (3) airport back to hotel. We’re able to find a taxi who will make the trip for 1500 pounds, about $30. When we return to the hotel there is a different clerk, one who we are more easily able to sway into returning our passports briefly. Back at the airport R&C head in to try again with the security office while I hold the taxi. In no time at all they are back with all of our missing bags. It turns out the security office only needed to see Robert’s passport, as he was the contact person on the missing luggage report. All is well. Proper showers are taken. Clean clothes are donned
After breakfast we stop by the new hotel (Al-Zafiran) to drop off our bags and check-in to our new rooms. The morning clerk is just as confused as the other clerk as to why we would think to rent a room at a hotel. But, they have three rooms grouped together in one hallway, so we drop our things and head to the museum to say hello to the staff and make our arrangements for our work. I can’t say too much about the meetings at the museum for fear of giving the wrong impression. We met most of the people who we needed to meet, but were essentially “stood-up” by others. We can understand the general distraction here because today seems like a national holiday, and the museum is a-buzz with activity.
Lunch at al-Shamiat. And who can complain? It’s cool and the food is good. The plat du jour is rice with chicken served with a side of plain white yoghurt which goes very well when mixed together.
The task of the afternoon is to go to the airport and retrieve our luggage, if it’s there. We approach the hotel clerk to collect our passports—they like to hold them for at least a day while they copy down names and information for their records. The clerk is insistent that he cannot yet return the passports. He suggests that if anyone at the airport needs to reference the passports, then they can call the hotel. He gives us the information card for the hotel. R&C and I head off to the bus station to take the afternoon bus to the airport. It’s a short walk from our new hotel. While waiting on the curb outside the ticket office in the bus station we nearly become engulfed in some sort of argument among a group of 10 or 15 men. Some sort of injustice had been perceived between two groups of men working at the bus station and voices were raised. We slowly crept away from the growing argument. Cooler heads prevailed and the two primary disputants were led in separate directions.
At the airport, the lost and found window instructs Robert to go to the security office where they will bring him around to the luggage. Carole and I must wait in the airport’s main lobby. Robert disappears into the security office only to return in five minutes without the bags. It seems that the security office is standing firm that without passports, one cannot retrieve one’s luggage. They suggest coming back tomorrow. We opt instead to hire a taxi for a three-way trip: (1) airport to hotel to get the passports, (2) hotel to airport to get the bags, and (3) airport back to hotel. We’re able to find a taxi who will make the trip for 1500 pounds, about $30. When we return to the hotel there is a different clerk, one who we are more easily able to sway into returning our passports briefly. Back at the airport R&C head in to try again with the security office while I hold the taxi. In no time at all they are back with all of our missing bags. It turns out the security office only needed to see Robert’s passport, as he was the contact person on the missing luggage report. All is well. Proper showers are taken. Clean clothes are donned
05-26-07 From Paris to Vienna to Damascus
The days run together when you’re suffering jet lag and expected to rouse at the godless hour of 3:30 a.m. (local Paris time). But there are many miles to go before we reach our destination. Our day will take us from Charles De Gaulle airport, through an hour layover in Vienna, to our eventual stop in Damascus. We arrived very early at CDG, which turned in our favor as Air Austria had oversold the flight by 50 seats! As per the standard operating procedure at CDG, one is asked to clear security, walk to one’s gate, descend a staircase onto the tarmac, then board a bus. Inevitably, the bus driver knows the long way and wants to take it. One gets the impression that his goal is to cause all the passengers to tumble over onto the ground by making sudden stops while giving an unguided tour of the perimeter of the entire airport. It is no surprise, then, that the final bus is late in arriving at the plane and we are forced to delay our departure. With only an hour layover in Vienna, we are in great danger of missing our connection. Thankfully, we arrive in Vienna only 10 minutes after our scheduled departure. We are able to rush to our next plane, which has been delayed 40 minutes.
The flight from Vienna to Damascus passes uneventfully, at least for me because I was asleep for the three hour leg. As we make our way to the passport control center in Damascus, I realize why it is never a good idea to fall asleep on a plane bound for Syria. Once again I did not receive the appropriate disembarkation documentation. This happened to me in 2005 also, but in that year I hadn’t realized it until two weeks into the trip, and there was some concern about the logistics of my leaving the country. All turned out well in that year. By recognizing the lack of disembarkation documentation while still in the airport this year, I was able to locate the appropriate card in the terminal and fill it out before reaching passport control. With that potential crisis averted, we passed blindly ahead to the next looming crisis. More of a hiccup than a true crisis, it turns out the quick exchange in Vienna was only possible for the human element of our entourage and not for the luggage. We would have to return to the airport tomorrow to retrieve (hopefully) our luggage.
In a situation of lost luggage one desires a serious, task-oriented airport clerk. Our clerk, while hopefully capable of completing the requisite reports, instead presented the air of someone whose true aspirations could be best fulfilled somewhere in the comedy night-club circuit. As it turns out, he had spent two years in Massachusetts and was keen to exhibit his English language skills to us. In the end, Robert and I are scheduled to return to the airport tomorrow to check on the luggage.
On the taxi ride from the airport to our hotel, we observe that the current elections have giving rise to an even more ubiquitous series of political billboards in favor of the current administration. The images range from the serious, introspective, yet caring portraits to the more humanistic portrayals of the incumbent working a hoe in the field. I’m sorry I cannot report to you on the various contenders in this political race because I’m not sure that there are any contenders other than the incumbent.
Hotel arrangements here are notoriously difficult to make from afar. The hotels are loath to reserve rooms in advance, preferring that arrangements be made in person. Our usual neighborhood hotel was unavailable, but fortunately arrangements were made for us at the hotel just down the same street, hotel al-Haramain. In my two previous visits, this hotel has struck me as more of a youth hostel for young Europeans. However, once inside we find that it is also arranged on the traditional open courtyard plan, with four rooms on the ground floor and more on the upper levels. Rooms are also scarce at this hotel. Dennis and I share a double on the ground floor, while R&C (Robert and Carole) find their double somewhere on one of the upper levels. With the exception of nearly blowing my electrical surge protector, we settle in without incident.
This is my third year traveling to Syria. With each year the internet café improves slightly. This year it seems to have improved greatly. Both Dennis and I had the impressions that the connection speed was nearly that of what we are used to at home. As such, I am cautiously optimistic about uploading photos of our daily activities.
R&C generously spend the afternoon searching for a hotel that might have three rooms available instead of the two at al-Haramain. They not only come back with an option for a better hotel, but also with a shirt, towel, and bar of soap for each of us until we can retrieve our luggage. There is sort of a running joke about finding the funniest graphic T-shirt each summer. In 2005, my favorite shirt was printed with the following words: MORE HOT BUTTER. I man of about 20-25 years was wearing it, which added to the absurdity. I’m sure he didn’t know what it said. He just liked the graphic quality of the English T-shirt. Well, R&C were kind. They got us T-shirts with the Puma logo, albeit certainly an illegal reproduction. So far, the leader in the contest for funniest T-shirt is one I saw today: Log out, Shut down, Go run. I suppose it is supposed to be like the Nike motto, Just Do It, but this shirt was displayed on a mannequin in the window of what appeared to be a store for men’s dress clothes. “Yes, I’d like the tweed jacket, the khaki pants, and…oh yes, the Log out, Shut down, Go run T-shirt to finish the combo.”
In the late afternoon R&C take me to see the new hotel. It is not far from our current location, just across the main thoroughfare and around the square. It’s located on the third floor. The entrance from the street is difficult to find even when you know what you’re looking for. From a distance one can see a red neon arrow pointing to the hotel, but as you approach the entrance blends in with the surrounding shops. The lobby seems nice. The clerk seems somewhat confused about our plans. He seems surprised that someone wants a room in the hotel. We hope this is not a sign that the hotel is really a front for some sort of illegal activity. In the end it seems like we will be able to rent three rooms for our entire time here in Damascus.
All throughout the city people are setting up tents and chairs for what looks to be a series of block parties. The temporary tents are decorated in political posters, lights, streamers, and flags. As usual, each tent is equipped with its own sound system capable or producing high decibel noise resulting from the distorted music played at maximum volume. As night falls, the parties really begin. Around each corner one tent hosts a performance on men dancing in a large circle, while next hosts small children dancing and singing. The local elections are cause for celebration, not cause for personal introspection and political comparisons. Without knowing exactly the process at work in the elections, it strikes this observer that the election is more of a confirmation and re-installation of the beloved patron than a competition of political ideas. I don’t mean to suggest that one is better or even required. This seems to work here, whereas, in our society, we relish the opportunity to oust our leaders every few years.
The flight from Vienna to Damascus passes uneventfully, at least for me because I was asleep for the three hour leg. As we make our way to the passport control center in Damascus, I realize why it is never a good idea to fall asleep on a plane bound for Syria. Once again I did not receive the appropriate disembarkation documentation. This happened to me in 2005 also, but in that year I hadn’t realized it until two weeks into the trip, and there was some concern about the logistics of my leaving the country. All turned out well in that year. By recognizing the lack of disembarkation documentation while still in the airport this year, I was able to locate the appropriate card in the terminal and fill it out before reaching passport control. With that potential crisis averted, we passed blindly ahead to the next looming crisis. More of a hiccup than a true crisis, it turns out the quick exchange in Vienna was only possible for the human element of our entourage and not for the luggage. We would have to return to the airport tomorrow to retrieve (hopefully) our luggage.
In a situation of lost luggage one desires a serious, task-oriented airport clerk. Our clerk, while hopefully capable of completing the requisite reports, instead presented the air of someone whose true aspirations could be best fulfilled somewhere in the comedy night-club circuit. As it turns out, he had spent two years in Massachusetts and was keen to exhibit his English language skills to us. In the end, Robert and I are scheduled to return to the airport tomorrow to check on the luggage.
On the taxi ride from the airport to our hotel, we observe that the current elections have giving rise to an even more ubiquitous series of political billboards in favor of the current administration. The images range from the serious, introspective, yet caring portraits to the more humanistic portrayals of the incumbent working a hoe in the field. I’m sorry I cannot report to you on the various contenders in this political race because I’m not sure that there are any contenders other than the incumbent.
Hotel arrangements here are notoriously difficult to make from afar. The hotels are loath to reserve rooms in advance, preferring that arrangements be made in person. Our usual neighborhood hotel was unavailable, but fortunately arrangements were made for us at the hotel just down the same street, hotel al-Haramain. In my two previous visits, this hotel has struck me as more of a youth hostel for young Europeans. However, once inside we find that it is also arranged on the traditional open courtyard plan, with four rooms on the ground floor and more on the upper levels. Rooms are also scarce at this hotel. Dennis and I share a double on the ground floor, while R&C (Robert and Carole) find their double somewhere on one of the upper levels. With the exception of nearly blowing my electrical surge protector, we settle in without incident.
This is my third year traveling to Syria. With each year the internet café improves slightly. This year it seems to have improved greatly. Both Dennis and I had the impressions that the connection speed was nearly that of what we are used to at home. As such, I am cautiously optimistic about uploading photos of our daily activities.
R&C generously spend the afternoon searching for a hotel that might have three rooms available instead of the two at al-Haramain. They not only come back with an option for a better hotel, but also with a shirt, towel, and bar of soap for each of us until we can retrieve our luggage. There is sort of a running joke about finding the funniest graphic T-shirt each summer. In 2005, my favorite shirt was printed with the following words: MORE HOT BUTTER. I man of about 20-25 years was wearing it, which added to the absurdity. I’m sure he didn’t know what it said. He just liked the graphic quality of the English T-shirt. Well, R&C were kind. They got us T-shirts with the Puma logo, albeit certainly an illegal reproduction. So far, the leader in the contest for funniest T-shirt is one I saw today: Log out, Shut down, Go run. I suppose it is supposed to be like the Nike motto, Just Do It, but this shirt was displayed on a mannequin in the window of what appeared to be a store for men’s dress clothes. “Yes, I’d like the tweed jacket, the khaki pants, and…oh yes, the Log out, Shut down, Go run T-shirt to finish the combo.”
In the late afternoon R&C take me to see the new hotel. It is not far from our current location, just across the main thoroughfare and around the square. It’s located on the third floor. The entrance from the street is difficult to find even when you know what you’re looking for. From a distance one can see a red neon arrow pointing to the hotel, but as you approach the entrance blends in with the surrounding shops. The lobby seems nice. The clerk seems somewhat confused about our plans. He seems surprised that someone wants a room in the hotel. We hope this is not a sign that the hotel is really a front for some sort of illegal activity. In the end it seems like we will be able to rent three rooms for our entire time here in Damascus.
All throughout the city people are setting up tents and chairs for what looks to be a series of block parties. The temporary tents are decorated in political posters, lights, streamers, and flags. As usual, each tent is equipped with its own sound system capable or producing high decibel noise resulting from the distorted music played at maximum volume. As night falls, the parties really begin. Around each corner one tent hosts a performance on men dancing in a large circle, while next hosts small children dancing and singing. The local elections are cause for celebration, not cause for personal introspection and political comparisons. Without knowing exactly the process at work in the elections, it strikes this observer that the election is more of a confirmation and re-installation of the beloved patron than a competition of political ideas. I don’t mean to suggest that one is better or even required. This seems to work here, whereas, in our society, we relish the opportunity to oust our leaders every few years.
05-25-07 Saying Hello on the Blog but Goodbye in Chicago
Hello friends and family! Welcome to the blog and thanks for visiting. Throughout the next thirty days I am going to try to keep the blog up-to-date with posts about the trip. If I'm lucky, I may even be able to convince some of the other members of our motley bunch to post blog entries.
I will apologize in advance if the blog is unevenly weighted to my own sleep-deprived and rambling thoughts. I'll try to be coherent. Let’s get this blog started after all we have already begun to tread the globe.
To begin at the beginning I can say a few words about the flight and the waiting for the flight. First, as I was sitting in the C19 waiting area at O’Hare, an ebullient older man approached me and asked if I was from France. I explained that no, I was from Chicago on my way to Paris. He took my rather mechanical response as an invitation to sit down next to me. As indicated by the official-looking patch sewn onto his tan colored cap—not to mention also by his general age range—he was a WWII veteran. As we—mostly he—sat and chatted, he described his very first trip to Paris, which was under considerably more dangerous circumstances. As he as his fellow soldiers toured Paris in their army Jeep, they kept their eyes open for German tanks. He described one incident when he and his mates were crossing one of the famous bridges of Paris in a Jeep when they spotted a German tank on the other side of the river behind an embankment. He attributes their survival and the tank’s lack of aggressive maneuvering to the fact that the tank driver likely recognized that his time in Paris was coming to a close. As the gentleman explained, this was D-day and Paris was soon to be liberated.
We were late pushing back from the gate, not due to weather in Chicago, but due to delayed flights arriving from elsewhere. As the pilot explained, we could afford to wait for the additional passengers because the scheduled trip was going to take less time than normally allotted. We finally pushed back from the gate at 6:29 p.m. and were airborne by 6:48 p.m.
Airline food is widely joked about, but this food was ridiculous! I can hardly stand to recall the overcooked tortellini in congealed Alfredo (?) sauce. Shudder. I can usually eat just about anything, descriptions of which will likely follow as the month progresses, but this food was not meant to be eaten. This fact was made all the worse when we encountered some of the worst turbulence I have even flown through in a major aircraft. Sure, the little puddle-jumpers that take commuters from Cleveland to Kenosha may bounce up and down like a fisherman’s bobber, but one hopes for more stability in a trans-Atlantic flight. I could describe the leg from Newfoundland past the southern tip of Greenland as a roller coaster ride, but I must be clear. Not like the all-steel, sturdy, new roller coasters that pass over their tracks with great confidence. More like the all wooden roller coasters that avert disaster with every creak and rumble, the kind of roller coaster that makes you wonder, “Does this single safety bar across my lap truly provide the level of security needed to keep me from being hurled from the car and landing somewhere between the Belgian Waffle Hut and the man who guesses your weight?” Our flight eventually passed through the turbulence and we arrived safely in Paris.
After a morning of sending emails and running a few errands, Carole swept us off to her apartment where we could freshen up before dinner. After a wonderful dinner of duck and Belgian endives in a light sauce with raisins we arranged our temporary beds for another painfully short night. Our taxi was scheduled to arrive at 4 a.m.
I will apologize in advance if the blog is unevenly weighted to my own sleep-deprived and rambling thoughts. I'll try to be coherent. Let’s get this blog started after all we have already begun to tread the globe.
To begin at the beginning I can say a few words about the flight and the waiting for the flight. First, as I was sitting in the C19 waiting area at O’Hare, an ebullient older man approached me and asked if I was from France. I explained that no, I was from Chicago on my way to Paris. He took my rather mechanical response as an invitation to sit down next to me. As indicated by the official-looking patch sewn onto his tan colored cap—not to mention also by his general age range—he was a WWII veteran. As we—mostly he—sat and chatted, he described his very first trip to Paris, which was under considerably more dangerous circumstances. As he as his fellow soldiers toured Paris in their army Jeep, they kept their eyes open for German tanks. He described one incident when he and his mates were crossing one of the famous bridges of Paris in a Jeep when they spotted a German tank on the other side of the river behind an embankment. He attributes their survival and the tank’s lack of aggressive maneuvering to the fact that the tank driver likely recognized that his time in Paris was coming to a close. As the gentleman explained, this was D-day and Paris was soon to be liberated.
We were late pushing back from the gate, not due to weather in Chicago, but due to delayed flights arriving from elsewhere. As the pilot explained, we could afford to wait for the additional passengers because the scheduled trip was going to take less time than normally allotted. We finally pushed back from the gate at 6:29 p.m. and were airborne by 6:48 p.m.
Airline food is widely joked about, but this food was ridiculous! I can hardly stand to recall the overcooked tortellini in congealed Alfredo (?) sauce. Shudder. I can usually eat just about anything, descriptions of which will likely follow as the month progresses, but this food was not meant to be eaten. This fact was made all the worse when we encountered some of the worst turbulence I have even flown through in a major aircraft. Sure, the little puddle-jumpers that take commuters from Cleveland to Kenosha may bounce up and down like a fisherman’s bobber, but one hopes for more stability in a trans-Atlantic flight. I could describe the leg from Newfoundland past the southern tip of Greenland as a roller coaster ride, but I must be clear. Not like the all-steel, sturdy, new roller coasters that pass over their tracks with great confidence. More like the all wooden roller coasters that avert disaster with every creak and rumble, the kind of roller coaster that makes you wonder, “Does this single safety bar across my lap truly provide the level of security needed to keep me from being hurled from the car and landing somewhere between the Belgian Waffle Hut and the man who guesses your weight?” Our flight eventually passed through the turbulence and we arrived safely in Paris.
After a morning of sending emails and running a few errands, Carole swept us off to her apartment where we could freshen up before dinner. After a wonderful dinner of duck and Belgian endives in a light sauce with raisins we arranged our temporary beds for another painfully short night. Our taxi was scheduled to arrive at 4 a.m.
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