Bon Jour!

HELLO! I’m still floating after a romantic trip to Gay Pah-ree with My Guy over spring break. His aunt and uncle have an apartment there and have lived half of each year in Paris for the last 20 years. His uncle teaches a landscape design course every fall semester in a study abroad program. Nice. They were gracious enough to give us the apartment for a week as long as we took our trip before the end of March.  Of course, we said yes. Oui, bien sur.

So off we went, our little French phrases practiced and sight seeing itinerary planned. We get there without a hitch, even making time and arriving early. Although tired we are able to figure out how to get a taxi to the apartment, not brave enough to venture into the subway just yet. The taxi driver does not speak English, but we have a card with the address on it, and he gets us where we need to go. We tip him graciously, and he leaves us on the door step. My Guy has the code to get in, easy enough. Now we are between two doors, the second one locked. It’s 8 a.m. Saturday morning. We have keys and try every key hole within site. We look for secret latches, poking our fingers in every imaginable nook and cranny. Nothing. Certainly tenants will come to walk their dogs, right? Doesn’t happen. I’m thinking all the damn degrees we have between us and we can’t figure out how to open the door. It’s freezing, by the way. We make our way all the way to Paris and are now stuck between two doors. My Guy’s aunt told us there is an apartment manager but to use her judiciously as she has an attitude and will charge if called on too much. Do we beep her at 8 a.m. Saturday morning? We resume our finger poking. Surely we can figure this out. Finally we put our American Pride aside and buzz her.  She buzzes us in. I yell to My Guy, don’t let the door close behind you, we don’t know how to get back in when we leave. We stand there in suspension. We’re like two kids afraid we are going to get in trouble. He reluctantly buzzes her again.  Desole, sorry, we don’t know how to open the door. Oh, she says, you pass your key over the little black knob above the buzzers. Small detail. Stupid Americans.

There we stand in front of the elevator which is as wide as my shoulders. You have to get in sideways giving you just enough room to push the floor number. It says it holds three people. Only if you want to know someone very personally, I think. I go first, suitcase, then me. Up to the sixth floor. The door opens on the other side. I cannot budge the suitcase. I also cannot turn around. I practically go over the top heaving. I’m not cold anymore. Of course My Guy realizes the error and goes in the right way. Now we are at the apartment door. Pull toward you slightly and turn the key at the same time. With just the right pressure, we finally get inside. It’s really not fair to expect us to have our wits about us after being awake nearly 24 hrs.

We are told to stay awake and resist going to bed. So, off we go, finding a neighborhood cafe and our first effort at translation. It goes reasonably well. We decide to get our bearings and begin walking. My Guy realizes very quickly that he has digestive issues within minutes of breakfast. We ask for La Toilette and are given some sort of coin to get into the bathroom. We cannot figure out how to open the door, AGAIN. This is just too much for us at this point. Back to the apartment. No matter. It’s good practice getting in and out of the doors. He finally feels okay and we head out trying to find our bearings. We make it as far as the rotary around The Bastille. My Guy has an emergency. Luckily there is a public bathroom. It looks like a green space ship just right off the rotary with many cars circling it.  There is a man waiting ahead of us. The person inside leaves, and the man does not enter. He waits. We wait. After what seems like a long time, he pushes a button and enters. I think he just didn’t realize he needed to do this. Our turn. My Guy, desperate now, jumps in. He turns around and begins to unbutton his pants. The door opens. Oops, surprise. I push the button again. It closes. He begins again. Oops, oh no not again. I push the button again. He begins again. Not happening. Nearly baring it all at the Bastille and in frustration he hops out. We try to figure out what the French symbols mean. We realize the bathroom cleans itself, washing the toilette AND the floor before it will allow the next potty person. We press the appropriate buttons and wait. Yes, we are in France. There is no hurry and the little round space ship does take its time. The door opens. Mike hops in with confidence and is able to complete his mission. My turn. Funny, all of a sudden I am afraid of being stuck in small places with no way out. I hesitate but bravely push the button and am successful on the first try.


To be continued…..Love to all.


Goodnight from Greenville,


Dyanne is an inner wisdom coach, psychotherapist, writer, mind-body healer, Integrative Yoga Therapy teacher, certified “Journal-to-the SELF” instructor and creator of https://www.holywhollyholey.comhelping women heal and step into their power. She is the author of the ebook, “Holey Path to Holy Living: A Women’s Path to Healing and Freeing Sacred Feminine Power,” which can be found on Amazon and on her website


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