This French Country Travel Life Camera Caper is like the course of true love.It isn’t always smooth. Especially on the road of foreign travel. As your experience has no doubt confirmed. But don’t you find when those unexpected clouds of disaster (and aren’t they the worst kind?) do blacken your sky, they’re always worse when you’re abroad?
For the obvious reason: You’re in foreign territory. You don’t know the rules and regs. What button to push. Which color ink to use. Who to call. And when you do call your embassy’s 24 “emergency” line, you get a recording. Which says: “If this is a real honest ta gosh life threatening emergency, call this number. Which you do. And get..(you’re ahead of me already, aren’t you?)…yes,…no answer.
DA BG feels your pain. Because he’s been there, done that and has many tee-shirts to prove it. This is one such black cloud disaster movie:
I’m filming happily in a bucolic middle of nowhere, when my camcorder craps out. Cleverly realizing that the middle of nowhere “instant-photos-be-us” will be of no help, I high tail it for the big smoke. Paris. There in the New York of France I will surely receive an enthusiatic “customer service welcome.”
And, dear reader, I do. The only problem is, that my unit’s manufacturer’s idea of a “European Service Center” is one that simply distributes brochures extolling the virtues of it’s many products. (Reliability, bien sur, being one of them.)
My Homlesian powers of deduction and reason propel me to the logical conclusion in scant micro-seconds: It’s gotta go back home for repairs.
So it does. And I? What to do in Paris for the (at least) two weeks repairs will take? Happily, a friend has a vacant apartment in the heart of the 16th arrondissement. The “Beverly Hills” of Paris. Here live the folks who do not ask the price. They just buy.
I, on the other hand, just look.(And do my shopping at Monoprix – the discount supermart – where, I’m happy to report I did score great bottles of wine for under 3 euros more than once.)
As you might imagine (and perhaps even know?) the 16th is a “pleasant” place. With a capital “P.” A small (laid back expensive) village vibe. Resulting in a proliferation of sidewalk cafes and other ambulatory diversions.
On the leafy green side o’ things, the 16th has a small park – “Le Jardin du Poet” (“The Poet’s Garden) in which I spent many relaxing (brain turned off) hours. The Bois du Bologne, the major Paris park, is also relatively nearby. (Relative to your mode of transport.)
Part Two – Next Time.
THROW ME A BONE HERE,PEOPLE!
What are ya thinkin’?