Chalfont St. Peter

John met us at Gerrard's Cross and took us back to his house. I am now sitting in his lovely conservatory and Miguel is looking through the Telegraph. He talked a lot of politics with Mike -- well, Mike talked and Miguel made appropriate noises -- but he is interested. John took us into Amersham, where I worked in a hospital when I was seventten, and showed us the new town centre -- very old, and different from anything else Miguel has seen. Lots of half-timbered cottages. John has gone to fetch Jill from the doctors, and we've been sitting on Grandpa's bench, which is in the back garden here. In the morning we're going back home...

Regent's Park
London

Miguel has gone to see the Sherlock Holmes museum, I'm sitting in the park, surrounded by dog-walkers and ducks. We're going to catch a train to Gerrard's Cross this afternoon to go to John's, but we're decompressing at the moment. We've been sitting here discussing how I'd like to live in England again, but Miguel finds it claustrophobic and isn't sure he could bear it for very long.

I told him it's ok, and it's just how I always feel when I'm here. We had a good time at Jackie's in Sheffield, we went to Chatsworth and Miguel met the Duchess, wandered around the grounds and wondered how it would have felt to be born into money. Yesterday we went out for lunch at the Olde Cheshire Cheese in Castleton, I took the opportunity to have plaice. We walked up to Peveril Castle and inspected the fortifications. Miguel felt guilty, he said, because Ian would love it so much, so we bought the coloured book to take home to him. Then we went to Iyam, a plague village, and walked round a bit, saw the Celtic Cross which, I think, is the oldest "in place" thing we've seen yet -- 8th century. Then on to Bakewill but not for long, because Mike was cold and couldn't get warm. We actually had a beer in a pub, White Rabbit beer, very nice.

Got to sit with Grannie lots, although most of her conversation revolves around things that happened many eyars ago. She was very tired on Wednesday, hadn't slept well, and a couple of times she asked me if I remembered things that could only have been Mum -- putting violets on her father's coffin -- when I gently said that I didn't remember, she said, "Oh, no, you wouldn't, you would have been quite little, Jan was little." Considering Jan is my mother's older sister... She told me about Auntie Jess dying, and Uncle Harry, and said that she wishes she could just stop with all the medications and let nature take its course. Jackie got annoyed at her line of conversation and wanted her to talk about something else, but Grannie's pretty stubborn still and managed to steer the conversation to Auntie Nora, and how she died.

This morning we hopped a train back to London, and sleepily rode into town again. A few minutes from Marylebone and the train to John's, but first we need to feed Miguel.

We went to Montmartre. Miguel says when we retire he wants to go and sell paintings to tourists, in the square outside Sacre Coeur. It was a beautiful day and the view from up there was amazing, hazy Paris spread out to the horizon. And a minstel in a box on the terrace, playing a piece of music I recognized as one they often had on CBC when I was pregnant with Kirsten. Everyone up there jsut sitting quietly and listening, arms around each other.

Later, the Champs Elysee and the Arc de Triomphe at 11 pm, wavering flame on the tomb of the unknown soldier, cars honking around and around, as we sat out of the wind. We talked about how seeing it in person put everything in place, gave surroundings to all the often-seen pictures.

When we finally returned to the hotel, we found that we only had one (wet) towel -- and not any of the three we had been entrusted with. As we checked out, Miguel told them, as we didn't want to be charged, and the woman at the front desk proceeded to yell at the chambermaid...

Hotel Mauberge
Rue de Mauberge, Paris

It's a little old hotel, about 7 storeys high, only a block or so from the Gare du Nord. High windows and light wood floors, breakfast not included. Yesterday afternoon we set out to walk to Notre Dame, with the rest of the masses. Walked through an interested district -- all wig and hair extension shops, and black people speaking Caribbean-accented French.

Down at Notre Dame we lit a candle for Miguel's grandma at the shrine to Sainte-Jeanne-D'Arc. Then the Latin Quarter for dinner, including onion soup and escargots and very tasty red wine. Behind the bar a happy fellow who sang along to the music and tried out different languages on the patrons. Wandered to the Palais de Luxembourg and sat by the Medici fountain, then got kicked out later by the whistle-blowing gendarmes. "Fermeture, fermeture". So then, still pretty full of red wine, we decide to find the Eiffel Tower, and walk down by the river. When we reached the tower it was lit up magnificently, but we didn't go up, as although Miguel has not been travel-sick he felt the ride sideways up the legs, in the elevator might be too much.

Back across the river, to the Metro. We discuss strategy to get back to Gare du Nord and our hotel, and come up with changing at Strasbourg St-Denis. The machine refuses to take Miguel's visa card, so we scrabble through pockets, wondering if we will have to walk our weary feet all the way back to rue de Mauberge (and when we get there, will the front door be locked) when suddenly a little woman appears in the kiosk next to the machine and everyone who has been standing around doing the same as us rushes her to buy tickets. Miguel manages the transaction: Deux personnes s'il vous plait.

This morning we were slow to start. Pere Lachaise is mentioned, to see Jim Morrison's grave, but dismissed. So, the Louvre. Seasoned now, we take the Metro. 18th and 19th C paintings by French folk turn out to be closed onSundays. This, being our driving force for the visit, invokes no small amount of gloom. La Giaconda, the ubiquitous Mona Lisa, in her new home, is surrounded by bickering Americans. Miguel wonders why I don't want my picture taken in front of her, to prove I was there. I say, "If we've got you, (which we did) I was with you so that that would prove it. And anyway, who would I be telling who wouldn't believe me?"

My favourite bit is 17th C Italian memento mori cartoons -- "Le mort surprise une jeune femme a sa toilette" Death is holding an hourglass, the young woman is primping in a mirror. We take a picture of one cartoon, and then notice the sign saying that picture taking is forbidden in this room (everyone was happily snapping the Mona Lisa, so apparently not everywhere) so we scurry off. Contemplate visiting the Egyptians, but opt for lunch. Chevre sandwich and donair, then a little church where a choir is singing.

We've been trying out our French on people. Some respond in English, but a lot have humoured us, and the waiter at dinner last night told us that the coffee Miguel likes, espresso and hot water, is called "cafe allonge". I just ask for cafe au lait, and I get what I want every time... This afternoon we sat outside at a street cafe and managed to order our respective coffes, then sat in the sun and drank them with some smugness. A wonderful way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

Miguel is napping, now, but in a bit we're off to see Sacre Coeur and Montmartre. Tomorrow is back to London and on to Sheffield.

There are homeless people here, sleeping over heating grates, and fleets of young Eastern European-looking girls begging, hands outstretched and beseeching noises, outside the stations and cafes.

When we were sitting eating our lunch, outside the little church in the Latin Quarter, we attracted a flock of pigeons. I was telling them to go away, but they weren't listening. A small boy, who had been in the church with his parents, came around the corner, saw the pigeons and set to -- running wildly through the flock and kicking, saying 'waa, waa' and they all flew away.