I graduated from high school in 1975. Several of my teachers, primarily in the Social Science department, were veterans of the protest movement of the 1960's. One relayed her experiences at the 1968 Grant Park demonstrations during that years Democratic Convention. She could also tell us, down to what she was wearing that day, of Kennedy's assasination and her emotions at the time. They had been "shit disturbers" in their youth. They were still "shit disturbers" during my high school years, but now they were "shit disturbers" with professions, property, decent incomes and a secure retirement. They were determined that, if it were possible, their students would not be afflicted with suburban isolation and myopia. They were determined not only to teach facts, but to guide and illuminate.
We were taught civics by participation in a mock government. We drafted laws and formed strategies to get them passed. We were made to understand the difference between socialism, communism and capitalism and the positive and negative impacts of each system through lectures followed by group discussions. They were determined to teach us to think, something sadly lacking in today's more structured "to the test" style of education.
The towns that the school's student body hailed from epitomized suburban sprawl. Initially built to hold 1500 students the rapid growth of the area had swelled the population to 3000. At this time, despite the overcrowding, the education received there was of a very high quality. The wealthier families would send their children to the public schools as there was very little difference between public and private schools in the education received. Also, the only private schools at that time were parochial.
At the lower end of the economic scale were the kids like me. We were, not poor, just solid middle class. My family lived in a ranch style tract home built in the late 1950s. The garage to our home was on the left. The floor plan to the house next door was flipped over so that the garage sat on the right. Next door to that home the garage again sat on the left. This continued throughout the subdivision making each home virtually indistinquishable from the next. The area was marketed as Treehaven. So named due to the two trees, planted in precisely the same two spots, in each front yard. There were no sidewalks making walking anywhere somewhat problematic.
The homes of the wealthier students, located in a neighboring suburb, were more varied in appearance, although still primarily mass produced. Many had, however, custom finishes in their interiors. Some had, this being California, in ground swimming pools. One exceptionally wealthy student's home sported not only a pool but also a tennis court. Their fathers were doctors, lawyers or high level executives in corporate offices in San Francisco.
At one point, the socially conscious teachers decided to expose us to alternative lifestyles. This was accomplished through the use of guest speakers. These included members of communes, members of religious orders and even the president of the prostitutes union, COYOTE, which is an acronym for something but I can't remember what. I, years later, discovered that a friend of mine as also a friend of hers. had, in fact, had lunch with her to break in her American Express card, when her fame and fortune, due to speaking and writing about her experiences as president, had afforded her the opportunity to obtain one.
These speakers were to initially include members of the gay community. The school administration, at the last minute, refused permission for the gay speakers to come on campus. Apparently, it was more appropriate for prostitutes to speak to students than gay people. At this time, in some quarters, it was felt that one could be "recruited" into homosexuality. A group of us were eventually able to speak with them by bringing them in quietly during lunch period one afternoon.
During this period, San Francisco was occasionally referred to as "The Gay Mecca", due to it's tolerant and permissive atmosphere. Several teachers, although, none of them openly, were gay. These included my Drama teacher, who later, after graduation, became a friend and mentor, also a couple of the English and Art teachers. There was one extremely handsome and muscular history teacher, fond of the gay uniform of the day of jeans and polo shirts, which showed off his large chest and biceps. I once saw him being dropped off at school by an equally handsome and muscular man in an equally handsome sports car. It was not until sometime later I realized that it must have been his partner. He and I argued frequently due to his conservative world view, except, it would, seem when it came to his sexuality.
One of the "shit disturbing" teachers had finally decided that he had had enough. One day, tape recorder running, he came out to his class. He said, "The administration refused to let gay speakers on campus. I am here to tell you that for the past 10 years you have been taught by a gay man. "
The reaction was amazing to watch. The teacher had consulted a lawyer and knew he could not be touched. Still, the gay teachers ran from this admission keeping it, and the teacher at arms length.
During this period I was singled out, admittedly due in part to my unique and colorful sense of personal style, to bear the brunt of the anti gay feelings going on in the school as well as the community. I heard the term fag often. Rocks were once thrown at me from across a street as this slur was being shouted. Another time, a hot drink was thrown at me as I was walking across campus as this slur was used. These attacks came up for discussion in a class I was in. Several people said things such as "Well I know this person and...". After being referred to several times as "this person" , I finally stated "O.K. everyone, we all know we are talking about me." What I find bothersome to this day is that the school administration never took any sort of action about the harassment.
One day the teacher that had come out stopped me in the hallway. He suggested that I think about my orientation. I was upset and angry. I was straight! I was not gay!
It was then I began to think and question. As I stated, these teachers were determined to illuminate. This man opened a door I had kept locked and pushed me through it. I will always be grateful to him. On the other side of the door the lights were on.
Unless you experience this revelation first hand you cannot imagine what it is like. Feelings I had for years, suppressed or rationalized as something, anything else suddenly made sense. I felt free and unburdened from the weight of my own denial.
I moved, at 19, as soon as I was economically able, to North Oakland and later to San Francisco where I could live my life as an out gay man without fear of reprisal.
Several months ago, while sharing the laundry room with a young straight man who lives in our building with his wife, he referred to my partner, completely naturally, as my husband. It dawned on me then how far we have come from my high school days. However, when I hear of teens taking their own lives due to the bullying they receive over their sexuality, I realize how far we still have to go.
"
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
What Are You Wearing?
I was recently laid off and so have been doing the job search thing. During an interview for a position with a well known luxury watch retailer the interviewer mentioned that their product started at $3,000 on the low end and $380,000 on the high end. I kept my composure and got through the remainder of the interview even though thoughts began bouncing about inside my head colliding together like billiard balls.
$380,000 for a watch! Does it come with a person that walks beside you to tell you what time it is? What does it look like? If I were to lay out that kind of money for a watch I'm not sure I would want it to be so elegant, restrained and tasteful that it would disappear on my arm! If I'm spending that much on a watch it needs to elicit comments such as "What a lovely timepiece" or, said quietly, whispered behind a hand "Did you see that garish thing? I can't believe she's wearing that!"
Which brings me to the wedding of Prince Charles to Camilla, who will one day, along with Marie Antoinette, take her place among the great royal whores in history. To begin with, why would Charles have an affair with the horse faced Camilla when he had the lovely, elegant Diana in the royal bed at home in the palace. But I digress.
According to English protocol, all women attending the wedding were required to wear hats. In true blueblood fashion, they spent a great deal of time, effort and expense to "one up" each other regarding their headgear. As the guests arrived at the Abbey, recall this was televised the world over, it became a parade of the most ridiculous array of ladies chapeaus that history has ever seen.
Some of the hats looked as if they were straining the neck muscles of those wearing them. Others seemed to defy the laws of gravity. While still others appeared to have sprung from the imagination of Dr. Seuss.
Finally, we were treated to a close up of the gentleman, himself a queen though not of royal blood, responsible for the design of many of the hats on display. As the camera closed in on him the look on his face seemed to say, "Oh my god. That was a joke! I can't believe she's actually wore that!"
$380,000 for a watch! Does it come with a person that walks beside you to tell you what time it is? What does it look like? If I were to lay out that kind of money for a watch I'm not sure I would want it to be so elegant, restrained and tasteful that it would disappear on my arm! If I'm spending that much on a watch it needs to elicit comments such as "What a lovely timepiece" or, said quietly, whispered behind a hand "Did you see that garish thing? I can't believe she's wearing that!"
Which brings me to the wedding of Prince Charles to Camilla, who will one day, along with Marie Antoinette, take her place among the great royal whores in history. To begin with, why would Charles have an affair with the horse faced Camilla when he had the lovely, elegant Diana in the royal bed at home in the palace. But I digress.
According to English protocol, all women attending the wedding were required to wear hats. In true blueblood fashion, they spent a great deal of time, effort and expense to "one up" each other regarding their headgear. As the guests arrived at the Abbey, recall this was televised the world over, it became a parade of the most ridiculous array of ladies chapeaus that history has ever seen.
Some of the hats looked as if they were straining the neck muscles of those wearing them. Others seemed to defy the laws of gravity. While still others appeared to have sprung from the imagination of Dr. Seuss.
Finally, we were treated to a close up of the gentleman, himself a queen though not of royal blood, responsible for the design of many of the hats on display. As the camera closed in on him the look on his face seemed to say, "Oh my god. That was a joke! I can't believe she's actually wore that!"
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Two More Glitches Before We Get Home
We rise before the sun and enjoy the rich breakfast buffet provided by the hotel. We get the first shuttle to the airport to catch our morning flight.
Arriving the two hours early suggested for international travel, we learn our flight is delayed two hours. Glitch number one. Finally it is time for us to board. As we go through a second security check a steak knife, which we have been using for cheese and rolls during the trip , is discovered in my partner's carry on. Glitch number two. I had noticed when packing the suitcases in Paris that it was missing but assumed he had put it somewhere in the luggage and in my diminished physical capacity due to my illness I had overlooked it. How it got though the first security check is still a mystery, not to mention a little disturbing. The knife was the last one remaining from a set that had been a wedding gift to his parents and so had some sentimental value. I was carrying a piece of luggage with various odds and ends, most of it was taken up by my jacket which I would not need until we touched down in Chicago. We packed it in that and checked it at the gate. We then boarded the plane without further problems.
After the seven hour flight and another hour and a half on Chicago's public transit we walked in our door filled with many rich memories of the places we saw and the experiences we had which we will carry with us for the rest of our lives. It is trips like this one that make me feel especially lucky.
Arriving the two hours early suggested for international travel, we learn our flight is delayed two hours. Glitch number one. Finally it is time for us to board. As we go through a second security check a steak knife, which we have been using for cheese and rolls during the trip , is discovered in my partner's carry on. Glitch number two. I had noticed when packing the suitcases in Paris that it was missing but assumed he had put it somewhere in the luggage and in my diminished physical capacity due to my illness I had overlooked it. How it got though the first security check is still a mystery, not to mention a little disturbing. The knife was the last one remaining from a set that had been a wedding gift to his parents and so had some sentimental value. I was carrying a piece of luggage with various odds and ends, most of it was taken up by my jacket which I would not need until we touched down in Chicago. We packed it in that and checked it at the gate. We then boarded the plane without further problems.
After the seven hour flight and another hour and a half on Chicago's public transit we walked in our door filled with many rich memories of the places we saw and the experiences we had which we will carry with us for the rest of our lives. It is trips like this one that make me feel especially lucky.
Paris - A Final Thought
We realized that our short time in Paris allowed us to only scratch the surface of that beautiful, history filled city. We have often discussed a return visit, obtaining museum passes to more fully experience it's artistic treasures. If we return we hope there are no strikes and the Metro is up and running so we can also more fully enjoy it's extraordinary streetscapes. We also hope that I'm not sick!
Our Return to Amsterdam-An Exercise in Chaos
We return to the hotel planning to grab a cab and catch our train to Amsterdam. The young man at the desk tries to call several different cab services, all in vain. The masses of people in town for the rugby games, plus a still partially crippled public transit system due to the strike, have made cabs extremely scarce. I am still somewhat fatigued from my illness so he suggests that, while I wait in the lobby with the luggage, my partner go to the main street a half block away and attempt to flag one down. After a wait of several minutes he is successful and he and the taxi arrive at the door of the hotel.
As I wait I chat with the pleasant, not unattractive, but decidedly hetero, young man. He tells me that France is "fini". He recites a litany of problems, the strike, the loss of the rugby game and the breaking news that morning that the President of France is divorcing his wife to marry his mistress.
The streets to the train station are choked with taxis, cars, bikes and pedestrians. The scene outside the station itself is akin to an unruly mob. Hordes of people crowd the sidewalk. Rugby balls are being thrown about in a seemingly random fashion. A good quarter of the people appear to be intoxicated. I mention to my partner that perhaps we should auction off our cab to the highest bidder. As we exit the cab several members of the mob on the sidewalk attempt to enter it. The driver explains to them in French that this is the drop off zone and he is not allowed to pick up passengers here. So much for my auction idea.
Inside the station the scene is not much better. Trains out of the country are packed to capacity, still feeling the disruption of the strike. Our train leaves late, so we arrive late in Brussels, where we are to change trains for our final leg to Amsterdam. We race through the station, luggage in tow. My partner asks if I know where we are going. Panting, I reply, "I think so" and continue, almost by instinct, to the correct platform.
We make our connection with just minutes to spare and manage to snare two of the last remaining seats. Many passengers are forced to stand. A group of women in jahibs crowd in the aisle beside us. As we near Amsterdam groups of young kids, dressed for a Saturday night of clubbing, board the train. Their various bright shades of hair and clothing add more color to an already colorful stew of humanity. We arrive in Amsterdam, catch the shuttle to our hotel, get to our room and flop into bed, completely wrung out from the day.
As I wait I chat with the pleasant, not unattractive, but decidedly hetero, young man. He tells me that France is "fini". He recites a litany of problems, the strike, the loss of the rugby game and the breaking news that morning that the President of France is divorcing his wife to marry his mistress.
The streets to the train station are choked with taxis, cars, bikes and pedestrians. The scene outside the station itself is akin to an unruly mob. Hordes of people crowd the sidewalk. Rugby balls are being thrown about in a seemingly random fashion. A good quarter of the people appear to be intoxicated. I mention to my partner that perhaps we should auction off our cab to the highest bidder. As we exit the cab several members of the mob on the sidewalk attempt to enter it. The driver explains to them in French that this is the drop off zone and he is not allowed to pick up passengers here. So much for my auction idea.
Inside the station the scene is not much better. Trains out of the country are packed to capacity, still feeling the disruption of the strike. Our train leaves late, so we arrive late in Brussels, where we are to change trains for our final leg to Amsterdam. We race through the station, luggage in tow. My partner asks if I know where we are going. Panting, I reply, "I think so" and continue, almost by instinct, to the correct platform.
We make our connection with just minutes to spare and manage to snare two of the last remaining seats. Many passengers are forced to stand. A group of women in jahibs crowd in the aisle beside us. As we near Amsterdam groups of young kids, dressed for a Saturday night of clubbing, board the train. Their various bright shades of hair and clothing add more color to an already colorful stew of humanity. We arrive in Amsterdam, catch the shuttle to our hotel, get to our room and flop into bed, completely wrung out from the day.
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Paris - The Luxembourg Gardens and a Medieval Marvel
Leaving me in bed my partner goes out to get us something to eat. When he returns he describes the scene outside. As I mentioned, the French team is playing in the opening game of the World Rugby Finals being held in Paris that night. The sidewalks are packed. Anyplace that has a t.v. has an overflow crowd standing outside. People are walking through the streets carrying champange. He is able to secure sandwiches and a sweet pudding treat in lieu of cake and bring it back to the room. We watch the large, muscular Rugby players, in their sleeveless jerseys, their massive, powerful legs straining the seams of their extremely short shorts, play a game neither of us even remotely understand. Before I fall into a long, deep sleep France loses.
The night's rest has a healing effect and I awake the next morning feeling almost normal. We pack our luggage into the tiny elevator and stow it into an equally tiny baggage room off of the lobby. Many of the outrageously expensive apartments in Paris real estate ads are described as "cozy". During our time here we come to realize that this is code for miniscule.
We head towards the Luxembourg Gardens. Along the way we discover that a complex of ruined arches on a nearby corner, which had intrigued me since our arrival, are the remains of centuries old Roman Baths. We also see three drunken revelers, still out from the night before, hanging from a lamppost singing their hearts out. Perhaps they were rooting for the opposing team. We come upon the Museum of Medieval Art, housed in the finest example of non religious medieval architecture still extant in the city. We do not have time to visit the Museum but enjoy the buildings courtyard. A well stands in the center. Rainspouts fashioned as fantastic fantasy beasts hang from the eaves. A comical face peers over a dormer window of an upper floor, hands grasping the dormers roof. A display of busts can be seen through the windows of the first floor. A clock consisting of wrought iron hands and numbers keeps time on one wall.
We exit the courtyard and continue our trek to the gardens. Along the way we make one more stop. A small shop displaying low priced trendyish clothes in it's window beckons us in. It consists of two, again tiny, floors. We leave somewhat poorer, two shopping bags in tow. The bulky black sweater I purchase is made in Bangladesh, but I bought it in Paris so it still counts as being from there. No, really, it does.
Reaching the gardens we find them awash in brilliant fall colors. It is Saturday and parents are out with their children. We watch as a group of the children are starting a short ride around the park on ponies. One stubborn animal decides it doesn't want to go with the others no matter how the handlers coax it, a small boy astride it the whole while. Later, in a fountain know for this, a boy sets a miniature boat asail.
Exiting the garden we lunch at a restaurant across the street. The beautiful weather seems to have brought the entire population of the city outdoors. Our waiter has a unique sense of style. Masses of silver jewelry glints in the sun. A chain attached to the wallet in his back pocket hangs to a point below his knees before it ascends to where it is attached to his belt which sports an enormous buckle. The restaurant and it's locale seem elegant and slightly upscale. Then I visit the restroom. What I find is a hole in the ornate mosaic floor. Some traditions appear difficult to let go of. I decide to wait.
The night's rest has a healing effect and I awake the next morning feeling almost normal. We pack our luggage into the tiny elevator and stow it into an equally tiny baggage room off of the lobby. Many of the outrageously expensive apartments in Paris real estate ads are described as "cozy". During our time here we come to realize that this is code for miniscule.
We head towards the Luxembourg Gardens. Along the way we discover that a complex of ruined arches on a nearby corner, which had intrigued me since our arrival, are the remains of centuries old Roman Baths. We also see three drunken revelers, still out from the night before, hanging from a lamppost singing their hearts out. Perhaps they were rooting for the opposing team. We come upon the Museum of Medieval Art, housed in the finest example of non religious medieval architecture still extant in the city. We do not have time to visit the Museum but enjoy the buildings courtyard. A well stands in the center. Rainspouts fashioned as fantastic fantasy beasts hang from the eaves. A comical face peers over a dormer window of an upper floor, hands grasping the dormers roof. A display of busts can be seen through the windows of the first floor. A clock consisting of wrought iron hands and numbers keeps time on one wall.
We exit the courtyard and continue our trek to the gardens. Along the way we make one more stop. A small shop displaying low priced trendyish clothes in it's window beckons us in. It consists of two, again tiny, floors. We leave somewhat poorer, two shopping bags in tow. The bulky black sweater I purchase is made in Bangladesh, but I bought it in Paris so it still counts as being from there. No, really, it does.
Reaching the gardens we find them awash in brilliant fall colors. It is Saturday and parents are out with their children. We watch as a group of the children are starting a short ride around the park on ponies. One stubborn animal decides it doesn't want to go with the others no matter how the handlers coax it, a small boy astride it the whole while. Later, in a fountain know for this, a boy sets a miniature boat asail.
Exiting the garden we lunch at a restaurant across the street. The beautiful weather seems to have brought the entire population of the city outdoors. Our waiter has a unique sense of style. Masses of silver jewelry glints in the sun. A chain attached to the wallet in his back pocket hangs to a point below his knees before it ascends to where it is attached to his belt which sports an enormous buckle. The restaurant and it's locale seem elegant and slightly upscale. Then I visit the restroom. What I find is a hole in the ornate mosaic floor. Some traditions appear difficult to let go of. I decide to wait.
Thursday, April 19, 2012
The Louvre, The Arch de Triumph, The Flu - Happy Birthday to Me
It is the morning of my 50th birthday. I awake still not feeling my best. Tried, watery eyes, raw throat, but I go to the bathroom to pull myself together and try to make the best of things. After my shower I come out to find that my partner had swiftly festooned the room with crepe paper streamers exclaiming Happy Birthday. He then presents me with my gifts, a small stuffed dog that barks when you press his sides and the receipts to seats at a Chicago performance of La Ballet Trockadero de Monte Carlo taking place the following January. He decided, wisely, not to bring the actual tickets on the trip. Descending in the tiny elevator my partner rhetorically asks why they have installed such a high wattage lightbulb in it. I dryly suggest that when it is not being used to transport guests between floors it lives a second life as a tanning booth.
During breakfast at a local bakery I spot a woman who is unmistakably American. Over coiffed, over polished when she speaks to her daughter her accent removes all doubt as to her nationality. The women we encountered in Paris are nicely dressed but practical. The streets are a sea of attractive, well cared for "wash and wear' hair. The women carry an air of having more pressing concerns than spending time with a curling iron.
Arriving at the Louvre we find a line, beginning at the glass pyramid entrance and snaking through the courtyard. Due to the previous days strike the world famous museum's opening is delayed. Once the doors open the line moves quickly and we are soon inside surrounded by some of the world's greatest art treasures.
The Mona Lisa is sanctioned off to keep people a certain distance from it. It is surrounded by loud Japanese tourists snapping pictures of it. This does serve to remove some of the romance of viewing this glorious work. The Winged Victory and Venus de Milo are more accessible and their locales less crowded. The Apollo Gallery, with it's painted and gilded panels covering the walls and ceiling almost overshadows the jewels on display. Due to the lingering effects of the strike the Flemish galleries are closed. As we had spent a good deal of time in Amsterdam just days earlier coming into contact with some of the finest of this genre this was only a minor disappointment. Instead, we took in the Napoleon Apartments, which, although overwhelmingly opulent, looked as if they could use a good feather dusting. Going up a short flight of stairs we saw an area half hidden by folding work screens where ancient statuary was being crated prior to being shipped on loan to other institutions, or perhaps shipped back to their usual homes after a special exhibition at the Louvre.
After lunch at the museum diner and shopping at the museum store,we purchased a charming but quite heavy Christmas ornament. A cherub head with wings sprouting from her back rendered in plaster, we exited the museum.
Continuing to feel the effects of my flu, I rallied my internal resources and we headed to that portion of the Metro that was back in operation to make our way to the Arch de Triumph. This was our first of two encounters with extremely nasty French transit workers. Trying to ask a quite innocent question she immediately started screaming at me, gesticulating wildly, because I was not able to ask the question in French, I think. Attempting to ask another question of a different transit worker a short time later she also began screaming at us. Feeling quite ill by this time I had a complete melt down on the sidewalk across the street from the Arch. We both came to realize that things were still such a mess from the strike that we would have to head to the train station to ensure we had tickets back to Amsterdam the next day to catch our return flight.
The Metro ride to the station was like nothing I had ever experienced before. As only a portion of the system was operating the train was packed well above capacity. At each station people were standing shoulder to shoulder literally 5 deep waiting to board the reduced number of trains that were running. The scene at the train station was only slightly less chaotic. It took over an hour and a half for us to purchase two of the dwindling number of tickets out of the city the next afternoon. Matters were made worse due to the opening games of the World Rugby finals being played in Paris that evening with the French team in the game. The only thing that made the situation tolerable, ill as I was, was the firm, rounded, taut buttocks encased in well fitting track pants possessed by the young man standing ahead of us in line.
At this point I was almost staggering, completely spent by my illness. Upon reaching the room I knew the birthday dinner we had planned would not be happening and I would be spending the evening of my 50th birthday lying sick in a tiny Paris hotel room overlooking an airshaft watching the opening game of the World Rugby finals on French t.v.
During breakfast at a local bakery I spot a woman who is unmistakably American. Over coiffed, over polished when she speaks to her daughter her accent removes all doubt as to her nationality. The women we encountered in Paris are nicely dressed but practical. The streets are a sea of attractive, well cared for "wash and wear' hair. The women carry an air of having more pressing concerns than spending time with a curling iron.
Arriving at the Louvre we find a line, beginning at the glass pyramid entrance and snaking through the courtyard. Due to the previous days strike the world famous museum's opening is delayed. Once the doors open the line moves quickly and we are soon inside surrounded by some of the world's greatest art treasures.
The Mona Lisa is sanctioned off to keep people a certain distance from it. It is surrounded by loud Japanese tourists snapping pictures of it. This does serve to remove some of the romance of viewing this glorious work. The Winged Victory and Venus de Milo are more accessible and their locales less crowded. The Apollo Gallery, with it's painted and gilded panels covering the walls and ceiling almost overshadows the jewels on display. Due to the lingering effects of the strike the Flemish galleries are closed. As we had spent a good deal of time in Amsterdam just days earlier coming into contact with some of the finest of this genre this was only a minor disappointment. Instead, we took in the Napoleon Apartments, which, although overwhelmingly opulent, looked as if they could use a good feather dusting. Going up a short flight of stairs we saw an area half hidden by folding work screens where ancient statuary was being crated prior to being shipped on loan to other institutions, or perhaps shipped back to their usual homes after a special exhibition at the Louvre.
After lunch at the museum diner and shopping at the museum store,we purchased a charming but quite heavy Christmas ornament. A cherub head with wings sprouting from her back rendered in plaster, we exited the museum.
Continuing to feel the effects of my flu, I rallied my internal resources and we headed to that portion of the Metro that was back in operation to make our way to the Arch de Triumph. This was our first of two encounters with extremely nasty French transit workers. Trying to ask a quite innocent question she immediately started screaming at me, gesticulating wildly, because I was not able to ask the question in French, I think. Attempting to ask another question of a different transit worker a short time later she also began screaming at us. Feeling quite ill by this time I had a complete melt down on the sidewalk across the street from the Arch. We both came to realize that things were still such a mess from the strike that we would have to head to the train station to ensure we had tickets back to Amsterdam the next day to catch our return flight.
The Metro ride to the station was like nothing I had ever experienced before. As only a portion of the system was operating the train was packed well above capacity. At each station people were standing shoulder to shoulder literally 5 deep waiting to board the reduced number of trains that were running. The scene at the train station was only slightly less chaotic. It took over an hour and a half for us to purchase two of the dwindling number of tickets out of the city the next afternoon. Matters were made worse due to the opening games of the World Rugby finals being played in Paris that evening with the French team in the game. The only thing that made the situation tolerable, ill as I was, was the firm, rounded, taut buttocks encased in well fitting track pants possessed by the young man standing ahead of us in line.
At this point I was almost staggering, completely spent by my illness. Upon reaching the room I knew the birthday dinner we had planned would not be happening and I would be spending the evening of my 50th birthday lying sick in a tiny Paris hotel room overlooking an airshaft watching the opening game of the World Rugby finals on French t.v.
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