Parental failure: fathers and sons

There's a passage in Plato's dialogue Protagoras, from about 319E through 320B or so, where Socrates argues that virtue can't be taught; and as evidence, he points to Pericles—the most successful and accomplished (i.e., "virtuous") politician in Athens at the time—whose sons were widely acknowledged to be worthless. If virtue could be taught, he says, then surely Pericles who was himself so virtuous would have seen to it that his sons learned everything he knew, so they could carry on the family fame into the next generation. But in fact he did nothing of the kind. Therefore virtue must not be teachable.

I assume we are supposed to laugh at this argument, at least a little bit. But part of the humor comes because Socrates's remarks are so believable. We are not so accustomed as Socrates was to the idea that the son of a cobbler will become a cobbler, or that the son of a pilot will become a pilot. But we can all think of men who are great successes, whose sons are failures—or (at the very least) whose sons would be failures if they had to compete with anyone else on a level playing field. Examples like that are all too easy to come by. 

Why is this so? There seems to be a natural drive on the part of sons to get away from their fathers, to distance themselves in some way. So if the father is shrewd and self-controlled (for example), there is a powerful pressure on his sons to be the reverse. In another sense, I'm pretty sure that one reason I married Wife was to use her as an obstacle between me and Father, to keep him somehow at bay. [I think I've written about this somewhere, but I can't find the post to link to it.]

My object all sublime ....

… I shall achieve in time —

To let the punishment fit the crime —

The punishment fit the crime;

And make each prisoner pent

Unwillingly represent

A source of innocent merriment!

Of innocent merriment!

I was talking with Mother today. She's concerned about a lot of the stuff she has accumulated over the years: in the house, stacked up in the garage, and in a storage unit. She was talking about how she might get it cleaned up some day. And then I asked her a question that has been on my mind for a while.

By the time Father died eight years ago, he had for many years been spending a lot of time each day on the computer. Doubtless a lot of this time was spent emailing with old Army buddies, or browsing random shit on the Internet the way I do. But I also know that over the years he wrote a lot. He used to write funny shows every year for his local Rotary club: probably those scripts are still on his computer somewhere. What else might he have written? Did he crank out the Great American Novel before he died? I asked Mother if she had looked through his files … or even, more basically, whether she had the password to open his computer?

Echoes of Kimberly

You've all heard too much about how I've "written a book" under my real name about the stuff that I used to do professionally, but it's still sitting on my hard drive because I can't figure out how to publish it. Almost six months ago, I asked Kimberly Steele to consult her Ogham, to tell me what I ought to do about it. She told me that it is very important that I publish it—"one of your major tests in your life"—"but you have to be very flexible and open to multiple ways of publishing and promoting it: eBook, website, podcast, audiobook, even self-publishing... Nothing should be off the table."

Today I was traveling back home from spending the Thanksgiving holiday with relatives. Brother was driving. And out of the blue, he started talking about my book.

Thanksgiving Day

As I write this, I sit here feeling so full, the way people feel when they say they will never eat again. I'm back at my aunt and uncle's house. The food has been put away, the trash has been taken out, and the dishes have all been washed. The two of them are sitting on different sofas in a dark living room. My uncle is on his phone; my aunt is on her tablet. You remember that I've said they can be quiet.

The big family dinner was at my Other Aunt's house. (I've mentioned her only sporadically; once I called her "Aunt C.") Her long-term boyfriend died of old age a year or two ago; now she's in this big house by herself, with her dog. (That's for half the year. The other half, she has another house in another town.) But the house is great for parties like this one, where we had twenty people spanning three generations all under one roof. 

The party went well. My cousins all acted glad to see me, though at times I wasn't sure quite why. At this point they all live in the same town. They are all part of each other's lives. I swoop in once a year for Thanksgiving and then go away again. What do I bring to the table?

This year I didn't even bring food, because I was scarcely back from Paris before it was time to come here. I didn't have time to plan or make anything. Or at any rate I didn't do it. (Opinions might differ on whether I had the time.)

I was pleased that there were no moments like the one a few years ago (see "Uninvited parenting") where I lurched unasked into parental-style behavior. The kids were energetic, and their play involved a lot of running around and squealing. But I didn't see anyone do anything dangerous. In particular, Stan—the little savage whom I wanted to bend over my knee a few years ago—seems to have learned a better mode of behavior. I don't know what he is like the other 364 days of the year, but then I really don't need to know.

In the end I got to talk for a bit with each of my cousins in turn. They asked after Son 1 and Son 2 and I told them what I know. (That is, respectively, that Son 1 is providing a home for Wife, and that Son 2 is living with Beryl and going to graduate school. I also explained that I don't hear much from them, but why would I expect to?) I told them that Marie and I just got back from Paris, and it was delightful. I asked about their lives and work, and I think I found something intelligent to say to each of them. (I hope!) So I'm not unhappy with the day. 

But somehow I feel a little disconnected from everyone here. I wish I understood why. 

Seeds of doubt

As I noted yesterday, I'm staying with my aunt and uncle for the Thanksgiving holiday. And this morning I found myself briefly discussing the politics of COVID-19 with my aunt.

For years my aunt has identified herself as a "yellow-dog Democrat": one who would vote for any Democrat over any Republican, no matter what. And in general her political positions have been reliably those of the Democratic Party. But she remarked this morning that she had asked herself more than once, "If Donald Trump had won re-election in 2020, would she have trusted the COVID-19 vaccine that came out in 2021?" 

Of course, politically speaking in the USA, Democrats have tended to support the COVID-19 vaccines, and hesitancy or distrust has been expressed mostly by Republicans. But my aunt seemed to recognize that this alignment was in some ways peculiar: "Why  did those of us who believed what our government told us about the disease actually believe it, when we know that our government has lied to us before?"

This is a question I have heard many times from Republicans, when they want to accuse Democrats of hypocrisy on the issue of COVID-19. But I think that hypocrisy might be too simple an accusation. Certainly my aunt realizes that there is some kind of inconsistency here, and it bothers her. In retrospect I wonder if she was trying to elicit a firm statement from me one way or the other, to find out where I stand. If that was her aim, then I hope I evaded her. But I did suggest that it may have been no more than a historical accident that the parties aligned the way they did around the vaccines, and not the opposite way.

It's not a red pill yet, but the conversation did expose seeds of doubt. I think those are healthy, and I'm glad to see them.

__________

P.S.: My own position on the vaccines is ill-formed. I do not have strong opinions pro or con, and the information that I hear is too confusing for me to make sense of. I am intrigued by (and sympathetic to) John Michael Greer's hypothesis, but I don't commit to any specific explanation or account.

          

Silence

I'm spending the week with my aunt and uncle, for the Thanksgiving holiday. Mother, Brother, and SIL are all staying with the other aunt. Both these households are in the same town, as are the households of all my cousins and their kids … basically everyone in the extended family except for me, Mother, Brother+SIL, Son 1, Son 2+Beryl, … and I guess Wife if you still count her. (In other words, this means everyone except those of us named "Tanatu.") But we're here this week: not the boys, that is, and not Wife. The rest of us.

What's remarkable to me is how quiet it is here. My aunt and uncle aren't unsociable. But for the most part they don't chatter needlessly. I talked with my aunt about public affairs for a little while over breakfast this morning. And when we all get together for dinner this evening I'm sure they'll both be part of those conversations too. But in between times, it seems like mostly they talk if there's something that has to be said. Right now my aunt is making a pecan pie in the kitchen while my uncle is cleaning up stuff she no longer needs. She just remarked, "I'll probably need that spatula." I think those were the first words spoken in the last five minutes. Before that I told her to let me know if I could help in any way, and she said "OK." Before that, the two of them coordinated briefly on tonight's dinner. But there hasn't been a lot of conversation.

Watching my aunts split a bill

Last night a bunch of us went out to dinner. This means both my aunts plus my uncle; Mother, Brother and SIL, me, and some of my cousins. The place we chose was cheap and fun. And my aunts made sure to split the bill between them.

I've seen them do this before—come to think of it, this is normal pretty much whenever the family goes out together. If anything the odd part this time was that only my aunts were involved in the split, instead of all the adults (or all the heads of households).

But it puzzles me, just a bit. I know that one aunt is worth millions—by which I mean somewhere over ten million dollars. The other aunt might be worth less, but the house she shares with my uncle is pretty nice and I don't see her economizing on simple things whenever I stay with her. So one way or another they are comfortable. The dinner bill for ten or twelve people (all relatives) was maybe a couple hundred dollars total. Why go to the trouble of splitting it?

Of course the decision is out of my hands: I don't live in the same town, so I'm just a visitor; also, even though I'm over sixty years old, in this company I'm one of the kids because there is a full generation ahead of me (Mother and her siblings). But if I were part of the process, would I play along? Or would I just say, "This is silly; I'll pay it and have done"?

I would want to do the latter. I also know that if I did it too often, I'd start to feel like people were taking advantage of me. I don't know how to make sense of this. It's a puzzle.

Maybe now that I've made a note about it here, that will prompt me to think more about it and come to an answer.  

          

What books did you need?

Just one more of the post-Paris ideas to discuss, and this should be a short one. We're in the home stretch! [Yes, in the real world it is still late in the evening of December 28, 2023.]

After we'd spent a long time over dinner on Day 12, wringing and worrying the topic of "privilege," Marie abruptly asked me, "What books were really important to you when you were a kid? What books did you need to read?"

Was this a non-sequitur? 

Why do we travel, 3

[I'm writing this late in the evening of December 28, but back-dating it to shortly after my and Marie's return from Paris. I hope this won't be too confusing. I also hope that I can finally wrap up this string of post-Paris essays before the New Year … and maybe tonight!]

The morning of Day 4, Marie started musing as we woke up. Why do we travel? She suggested that there is a natural desire to share with others. (As an aside, she added that this is why we condemn misers.) But when it comes to travel, in particular, this means we have a natural desire to meet other people and to interact with them.

So, for example, her memory of the Lady and the Unicorn tapestries from our outing on Day 3 will always be enhanced by her memory of the school group there, and of the teacher gently asking them questions for an hour. (And in fact, by the end of Day 4 I'd had a similar idea about having shared with her the tour of the Clos Montmartre Vineyards.)

Privilege

[I'm writing this on December 27, but back-dating it to shortly after my and Marie's return from Paris. I hope this won't be too confusing. I also hope that I can finally wrap up this string of post-Paris essays before the New Year … and maybe tonight!] 

The evening of Day 12, while Marie and I were having dinner at the Brasserie Balzar, we started talking about boarding school. I no longer remember why. I explained why I think boarding school is a good idea. (As I referenced in the post for that day, see for example this post and maybe this one.) And then Marie told me that my children were very "privileged."

Can I be forgiven for interpreting this word as an attack? Later on Marie said she didn't mean it that way (not as an apology, to be clear, but as a dismissal that everything I'd said for the last half hour was beside the point!). But it feels to me like people use this word a lot these days, and the subtext is always that that privilege is something to feel guilty about, that privilege more or less automatically entails oppression of others. Also, I find that when I discuss boarding schools with anyone, the attitude I face is always that boarding schools are for "rich people"—this means people richer than the person I am talking to (regardless how rich that person might be). No one ever imagines that boarding school might be an option for their children. It is somehow only for Those Others. Of course, by this point in my life I have discovered any number of topics that other me, that make the person I am talking to regard me as fundamentally alien. But few of them—I mean, few of the topics I am still willing to discuss at all—work faster than a discussion of boarding school.

So yes, I took it as an accusation that Wife and I were rich snobs. I know that Marie feels very conflicted about having turned her back on a lucrative career, now that she's involved with me. (Mostly I haven't written about this, but consider for example this post here. Also, I'm pretty sure that her former career would have paid her better than mine ever paid, for what it is worth.) And I could have sworn that I heard echoes of that conflict and that resentment in her choice of the word "privileged."

Political failure (conversation in Paris)

[I'm writing this on December 20 and 21, but back-dating it to shortly after my and Marie's return from Paris. I hope this won't be too confusing. But I assume that in reality nobody is reading this blog anyway, so why not?]

Here was another of our rare discussions of politics. Like this one back in January (which might have been the most recent one before this), it was fueled by alcohol. After exploring the heart of Paris during Day 3, Marie and I had dinner in an Italian restaurant near our hotel and split a bottle of wine. Actually we split a bottle of wine most evenings, but somehow this time I let it get the better of me.

[I should add that my notes for the day were jotted down briefly just before we went to bed, so they are rather scattered. I will do my best to draw them into a coherent narrative, but please be charitable.]

Touching (Themes from Paris but not only ....)

Whenever I'm with Marie, there's a whole dynamic about touching. I haven't written about it before because I don't spend a lot of time thinking about it. But it must have been on my mind when I made a list of "ongoing themes from Paris," because I wrote it down. So maybe I can talk about it now.

In an email a week and a half after we got back, in relation to something else altogether, Marie wrote:

Don't remember if I've ever told you, I really like it that you are physically as well as verbally affectionate with me (independent of fucking, for which I KNOW I've expressed appreciation!) But it makes me feel very cherished, when you take my hand or are ready to steady me.

And sure. Naturally I'll put out a hand to steady her on a stairway, or along an uneven road. Naturally I'll take her hand when we are finding our way through crowds, so we don't get separated. (That's just how Debbie and I held hands when we were in Glasgow … well, more or less.) And naturally Marie and I touch from time to time when we are out in public, the way lovers do. The way spouses do. It's a normal part of being together.

But.

Bedbugs (Themes from Paris)

Early in October, almost a month before we were scheduled to leave for Paris, I sent Marie the following information in email:

News reports tell me that Paris is experiencing a surge of bedbugs reported. I'm not quite sure if I want to email our hotel to ask about it—seems like that might start our visit on the wrong foot, somehow. But I did start googling what to do about them. The first two articles I found were these:

Bedbugs and travel: A simple thing to do when you get to your hotel room. (slate.com)

Paris Bed Bugs: Everything You Need to Know | Condé Nast Traveler (cntraveler.com)

Five hours later (the same day) she replied:

Stairs (Themes from Paris)

[I'm writing this on the evening of December 18, but back-dating it to just after our return from Paris. I hope this won't be too confusing. But I assume that in reality nobody is reading this blog anyway, so why not?]

Several times in my travelogue from Paris, I alluded to topics that I promised to cover later. So now, squeezed into the few days between our return and my trip to visit family for Thanksgiving, let me say a few words about some of those topics.

Day 14: Departure

Our alarm went off at 5:15. We picked that time to get us to the airport in time for my flight. (Ironically, it turned out that my flight was delayed, so in retrospect we could have slept a little later.) Since we had packed the day before, our morning was simple: shower, dress, settle the bill, and leave. We walked five minutes or so to a station where we could catch the RER-B to the airport. Even that early, the train was surprisingly full; though, in fairness, most of the other riders looked like they were headed towards very working-class jobs, and got off before we did.

I carried Marie's suitcase and she carried mine, because—like Debbie in Scotland*—Marie had packed significantly more than I had, so her suitcase was significantly heavier.   #chivalry 

Day 13: At ease, the Quartier Latin with books

Finally, a day with nothing on the agenda. So we spent it at leisure.

We strolled down to Shakespeare & Co., the famous English-language bookstore. We browsed, and bought some books. When we were done it threatened rain, so we took our books back to the hotel to keep them dry. While we were there, we checked into our flights for the next day. For a few brief moments, while we were safely inside, it rained very heavily.

Day 12: Père Lachaise and a lot more rain

The tomb of Abelard and Heloise.

By this point we had seen most of the sights on our "Must-Visit" list. But there were a couple more places that we wanted to visit, if we could. One of these was the Cimetière du Père-Lachaise. Now, neither of us was desperate to visit the grave of Jim Morrison. But Marie wanted to make a point of it, because I had mentioned once upon a time that cemeteries can be a peaceful place to while away a spare hour—so she wanted to "watch me in a cemetery." Also her guidebook recommended the #69 bus route as particularly scenic, and that route stops right next to the cemetery.

So we took the Metro (actually the RER-C) out to the Champ de Mars, to pick up the #69 at its origin. We had a fairly long wait, but since we had nowhere else to be instead that wasn't a problem. The morning was foggy, and we watched the Eiffel Tower vanish into the fog and periodically reappear. When the bus arrived, we rode it across town to the cemetery.

The rain was intermittent all day, but it started up once we got inside the cemetery. Also it turns out that the Cimetière du Père-Lachaise is the size of a small city.* So we rapidly gave up the fancy of visiting the graves of prominent people. We found the tomb of Abelard and Heloise (pictured), because it was near to the entrance. We walked past the tombs of a lot of ordinary people, and tried to guess at the family situations that their grave sites hinted at. I climbed some stairs that Marie didn't feel like daring, to see a particularly gaudy tomb that turned out to belong to Elisabeth Alexandrovna Stroganoff.** And shortly after that we agreed we were getting soaked, and maybe it was time to do something else. 

Day 11: Versailles

This was our last long day (unless you count the flight home). But I'm not sure how much there is to tell. We took the train out to the town of Versailles, and walked through the palace. We saw the royal apartments, the Chapel, the Hall of Mirrors—all that stuff. If you've been, you know what it was like. And if you haven't, you can find enough information online to give you a really good idea. I guarantee you can find better photos than any of mine.

Before we went, I warned Marie that there would be a lot of walking. For starters, I said, the train station is more than a kilometer from the palace, as shown on on the map. Then I added, But don't worry. It won't look that far. The Palace and Grounds are so big that the kilometer you are walking in to get there looks like no more than a driveway.

Day 10: Maison Poincaré and lots of rain

Today, the next day, was a lot easier. (We had only one more intense day but this was not it. That was tomorrow.)

We woke up tired. (No surprise.) After breakfast, we walked to the Maison Poincaré, a brand-new museum that had opened only about a month before, under the auspices of the Institut Henri Poincaré. Since the Institut is part of the Sorbonne and our hotel was in the Quartier Latin, it was in walking distance.

Day 9: Day trip to Mont Saint-Michel and nearby towns

The next day we got up early, and left the hotel before breakfast. In fact we triggered some kind of alarm, and the man at the desk asked if we were checking out. Non, and non. But we had to leave early to catch a train. [This was a long day, so I'll put the jump break right up here at the beginning.]

Day 8: Le Marais

This is another day briefly told. We wandered through the Le Marais district, stopping for a while at the very pleasant Place des Vosges. We found lunch in one of several restaurants in the Marché des Enfants Rouges. Then we spent the afternoon in the Centre Pompidou, looking at work that was solemnly alleged to be "art." (For the most part, I was not impressed by the work on display in the Pompidou.) We got back "home" earlier than we had the day before, so we had about an hour in the Jardin du Luxembourg before closing time.

           

Day 7: Orsay, Rodin, Invalides

La Vérité, by Jules Joseph
Lefebvre, on display in the
Musée d'Orsay

We spent all morning at the Musée d'Orsay, looking at Classicist, Impressionist, and post-Impressionist paintings.

For lunch we went to Cinq Mars, a restaurant just a couple blocks from the museum. When we walked in, they asked if we had a reservation. No we didn't, but it was early enough in the lunch hour that they gave us a table anyway—and after that, there was never any pressure for us to hurry up and leave. The food was delicious. Also, everyone in the restaurant besides us conversed in French, so it was clearly not a place for tourists. Go there, if you get a chance. 

Then we walked to the Musée Rodin. We strolled through the gardens and the ground floor. I walked upstairs as well, but Marie did not join me.

Then we walked to the Invalides, where we visited the tomb of Napoleon. There was some kind of delegation of NATO brass visiting at the same time, and we tried to stay out of their way (while also checking all the international uniforms and trying to guess their provenance).

When we got back "home" to the Quartier Latin, we spent ten minutes in the Jardin du Luxembourg before closing time rolled around and the police pushed everyone out. So we walked up a random street about a block or so, to a bistro where we got drinks and then dinner. Once again, the food was wonderful; once again, the clientele spoke French and not English. (The waitress tried to speak English to us to be polite; but when I asked her to tell us about one of the desserts, she had to begin with "Vous parlez français?")  

          

Day 6: Orangerie and Louvre

Monday should have been easy, because we visited only two places … right? Hah! Those two places were the Orangerie and the Louvre, with a pleasant stroll through the Tuileries in-between. By dinner time we were exhausted and our feet hurt. But by golly we sure did see a lot of amazing art!

I'll post no photos for this day. All the photos I took have Marie in them (which would ruin my efforts at anonymization). And you can look up online a better image of the Mona Lisa than I got with my crappy phone-camera. (My picture shows Marie standing next to the painting, but the Mona Lisa itself is blurry.) 

Day 5: Eiffel Tower, Seine, rainstorms, and Bach

The Olympic clock, on the pier where we met our boat tour.

We planned Sunday as a light day. For breakfast we picked up croissants at La Maison d’Isabelle and coffee at the café next door. Then we tried to take the Metro to the Eiffel Tower, but that exit was blocked. We got off at the next exit, walked back, and found our way blocked by a marathon or relay race. We later learned that this was the Ekiden race, a relay marathon for people of multiple abilities. I'd had no idea there would be such a thing, so it was fun to discover and then pick our way around it.

Our next stop was the Eiffel Tower. We walked around the base and took some pictures, but neither of us was too interested in taking the elevator up high. So from there we walked down to the piers along the Seine, and picked up a boat tour up and down the river. The tour was fun, if a little cheesy. From there we strolled down the Champ de Mars. Our plan was to visit the Hôtel des Invalides, but a sudden downpour changed our minds., We ducked inside a convenience store to buy lunch, and then made our way back to the Quartier Latin in time for a performance of Bach by candlelight at the Église Saint-Éphrem-le-Syriaque. Marie cried during this performance, too. Afterwards we walked one block to a restaurant where we had dinner, and then another couple of blocks back to our hotel where we planned our itinerary for Monday.

            

Day 4: Montmartre—coffee and art, vineyards and wine

Our fourth day may take a little longer to describe, though again I will postpone any account of our conversations till later. Today we visited the neighborhood of Montmartre.

First stop was Café Lomi, a coffee shop one of us had read about in one of our travel books. We took the Metro to Montmartre, and then walked several blocks through some neighborhoods that looked very different from the ones we'd seen till now. All the restaurants advertised either that their food was halal, or else that it was African and Antillean. When we got to Café Lomi, we could tell right away that everyone there was young and cool … except us, of course. We ordered coffee and scones.

Next we made our way by subway and bus to Sacré-Cœur. There was a long line to get into the basilica, and it was raining. But this was the plan, so we stood in line. When we finally got in, services were in progress. We circumambulated the chapels around the perimeter as quietly as we could—just us and the million other tourists who had been let in at the same time—and then discussed whether to climb the steps to the top. There were 292 steps with no bannister; also we had an appointment in the early afternoon, and it was raining. Marie was plainly not about to chance it. (I'll write later about the role of stairs on this trip.) I did the math and decided there was no way to make the time work. So we passed on the steps to the top.

Day 3: The heart of Paris

The next day is quickly told, though we had some long conversations that I'll take up again later, after finishing the travelogue. We started by visiting the Musée de Cluny-Musée National du Moyen Âge, which was only a couple of blocks from our hotel. Marie spent close to an hour in the room with The Lady and the Unicorn tapestries. A group of young students was visiting the exhibit at the same time, so partly Marie was listening to the teacher explain the tapestries: how they were made, and what they symbolized. Marie told me later that part of the time she was in tears, though she tried to hide it from me. She never said quite what it was that made her cry, but I believe part of it was that all her life she had read about these places and studied these artifacts—and now she was actually here, and the artifacts were actually there right in front of her.

Day 2: Avenue des Champs-Élysées

Our first full day in Paris, I had planned for us to stroll along the Champs-Élysées, but first Marie wanted to see something called a "Boomforest." From the maps it looked like there was something of the sort just a little farther on, so I routed us out on the Metro to Porte Maillot with the idea of coming into town from there. We wandered around for an hour, seeing lots of neighborhoods but nothing that looked like a forest. Finally Marie described in a little more detail what we were looking for, and we found it on an embankment of the Boulevard Péripherique. Marie admired the planting, and we decided to move in towards the heart of town.

We didn't get far before deciding it was time for lunch, so we ducked into a place on the main road that didn't look too touristy. It was a good choice, too: the rest of the clientele were clearly locals (many seemed to be construction workers) and the food was very good. (In general we ate well on this trip.) What's more, there was a television on inside the restaurant which told us about the weather. We had already noticed strong winds while walking around; what we learned from the television report is that we were experiencing the fringe edges of Tempête Ciarán, which was at that moment devastating spots along the Atlantic Coast. 

Day 1: Arrival

Where do I start? In some ways the run-up to this trip was very similar to the run-up to my trip to Scotland earlier this year. I spent a lot of time making lists and buying supplies. Also—unlike the trip to Scotland—I spent time planning our schedule and buying tickets in advance for all the sights we wanted to see. Many of these venues now require not only a ticket but a reservation for a specific date and time. So I worked out a schedule with Marie, and then spent several hours booking us into one after another.

On the other hand, when the day of my departing flight came (October 31), I don't remember anything like the levels of anxiety that I felt before my flight to Glasgow. Maybe that's because I had just finished an international trip a few months before, while my last international trip before Scotland was in 2019. Maybe it's because Scotland was brand-new to me, while this was my fourth trip to Paris. Whatever the reason, I got myself to the airport without too much tsuris, and clambered aboard my flight. It was a nonstop to Paris, so I didn't even have to worry about changing planes.

Marie and I had scheduled our flights so that they landed within half an hour of each other, and they were allocated to the same terminal. We figured this would make it easy to meet up. But Terminal 2 at Charles de Gaulle Airport is enormous, and the gates are widely separated. What's more, my flight was allocated to the international gates since I was flying directly from the United States. Marie had to change planes in Amsterdam, so her flight was treated as somehow more like a domestic flight. We collected our bags and cleared Customs, and were still in different places. Fortunately we were in touch by cell phone, and realized this. Marie asked at an Information desk how to find me, and I made sure to stand still so that she wasn't hunting a moving target. After a little while we found each other. The next step was to buy Navigo passes so that we could hop on and off busses and subways; this meant standing in line for well over an hour, but it was an essential step. And then finally we could take the train into town, to the Quartier Latin.

From there, in a sense, the day was remarkable only for how well it went according to plan. We got off the train at our stop, found our hotel, and checked in. We walked around the neighborhood for a little while, then got some dinner and went to bed. Even so, Marie was pinching herself every so often to remind herself, "I'm really in Paris!" It was sweet.