June 30, 2006

We’re back, rested and ready. Tanned is another matter. Freckled is more accurate.

To sum up, we had exactly an almost perfect trip to France. We celebrated Rebecca’s 30th birthday (June 22) in grand style. We took long walks in the startling Breton countryside and we slept in. I got to see a bit of Paris, which has made me want to see more, and we got a lot of shopping done: nerdy stuff like computer backpacks and a mouse. Bec and I celebrated our second anniversary. We stayed away from e-mail, mostly. We ate well and had wonderful company for most of the trip.

The flight to Paris is easy and relatively short, only about six hours. It’s also at the perfect time, around 11 p.m., so even someone like me who can’t sleep on planes is so exhausted that the magic happens. Airplane seats were clearly not designed for me. I’m too tall to keep my head on the lower part of the seatback without putting my knees over my head and I’m too short to put my head where it’s supposed to go on the head support of the upper part of the seat. So I’m stuck with my chin in my chest with my Adam’s apple jutting into my jaw. Thus, I cannot sleep on planes when it’s not proper sleeping time. But from midnight to 6 a.m., no problem.

We flew out of Douala, Cameroon’s economic capital and three hours away by bus. We watched “A Few Good Men” in French, and discovered that “You can’t handle the truth” and “You want me on that wall. You need me on that wall” really don’t work in French. It’s too much of a sissy-sounding language.

Air France security left a little to be desired, although it was a bank error in our favor. At the Swiss Air gate across the way, security agents went through every bag. At Air France, we got our metal table knife with the nice serrated edges through the metal detector. We needed it to cut the cheese (heh heh) we brought for a snack.

But Air France had personal video screens, which are the ultimate mark of a quality airline. I’ve still never been on an American airline that had them. They had movies that I wanted to see like “Match Point”, but really all I wanted to do was sleep.

We met up with Bec’s parents, Jude and Steve, at a hotel outside of. Once we got all the luggage out of the car in Pordic, where we were staying, it was incredibly comfortable. Even with all of the bags, it was pleasant. We just looked like the Joad family escaping the Dust Bowl. Steve pointed out that the Joads didn’t drive a zippy black Peugeot. I was assuaged.

Our first stop – and I promise not to go through all of them – was Monet’s house. We saw the water lilies – yes, those water lilies because we toured his garden.

I made a startling discovery at the Monet house. French people are funny. First of all, they speak French, which sounds girly coming out of a man’s mouth. Second, try saying “French people” without smiling. Start any sentence with “French people” and it has a better than average chance of being funny. French people drive cars. Funny. French people often have gastro-intestinal disorders. Again, funny. I can’t explain why, but I also can’t explain why French people like accordions, mimes and Jerry Lewis. See, that’s funny too.

I asked Jude if this was a problem. “Not if you don’t laugh at them every time they talk,” she said patiently, although I think I may have detected a hint of disappointment in her eyes. Was that with me, or with Rebecca?

After the house, it was off to Brittany, a brisk four-hour drive. Steve did all of it. He was the hero driver of the week.

The chateau was beautiful: pink exterior walls, old parquet floors and statues on the roof. The grounds themselves were spectacularly green with a path out to the coast. We took advantage of that several times. The rooms were decorated with ancient Egyptian and European medieval art. The house even came complete with two cats and a small horse – er, St. Bernard. But I swear I could’ve ridden Max. Two horses and a donkey lived across the road, and the donkey and I didn’t get along. Every time it saw me it howled. The first time that happened I was opening the gate at night, and I had no idea what was going on. I was looking around for a while, fearing that it was the world’s largest bat or rat. Nope, it was just an angry donkey.

Speaking of night, since Bec and I have spent the last year or so close to the Equator, night has set in between six and seven every night and it’s been consistently very warm to very hot. It was still light out at 11 p.m. in Brittany, and a little chilly. Bec liked the extra light. I enjoyed the slight bite in the air.

We spent the five days exploring quaint coastal towns and medieval cities, eating our way through each one. It was a lovely, relaxing time.

Bec and I went to Paris on Monday, and Rebecca gave me a pretty good walking tour for someone who hadn’t been there for 10 years. We watched the France-Spain World Cup match in a bar on the border of the French and Spanish fans. We got all the stuff we needed. I saw the goddamn Eiffel Tower, which was surprisingly hard to find, the Arc de Triomphe, the Tuilleries gardens and the outside of the Louvre and Notre Dame. Not bad for a day and a half.

We flew back to Douala on Wednesday morning. Unfortunately, the movies on the flight where I wanted to stay awake stunk. (One of them was “Firewall”. Where have you gone, Han Solo?) The flight was uneventful, although they held the plane to wait for late passengers. They did this when we flew to France as well. Why? If the ticket says 10:20 a.m., be there on time. Africa time means that people will be late for whatever appointment. It drives me absolutely bananas, but I figure that when I’m a visitor to a continent, I should be patient with local customs. I think that should stop at air travel.

Arriving in Paris and arriving in Douala are like landing on different planets. For that matter, landing in Kigali is like landing on a different planet than landing in Douala. First of all, the heat and humidity cover you, and then bash you over the head, as soon as you get off the air-conditioned plane. “My armpits (or, if you prefer, substitute what I really said) are sweating already,” I said to Rebecca after a few steps.

After the long line at passport control, where a short book is pored over like “War and Peace”, it’s off to the baggage claim area. I think I underestimated the Cameroonian capacity for violence until I tried to retrieve our two suitcases from the baggage claim conveyor belt. I don’t anymore.

Notice that I didn’t call it a carousel. It’s not. Instead, it is a single, short belt that culminates in a dead end. The belt can’t be more than five meters, or about 15 feet, long. A few baggage handlers throw unfortunate, unclaimed luggage off to the side, potentially breaking everything inside. Because of that, people cram each other up against the belt, and then attack each other to get at their stuff. I watched as priests and old ladies were shoved out of the way. Suitcases became weapons and elbows were out and pointy. At one point, I was pushed against the belt in such a way that my knees were bent in the wrong direction with my upper body going the other way. I was Gumby, dammit.

Rebecca was trying to get out of the area alive with one of our bags, but she was blocked in on all sides and being pushed back. In the midst of the madness – and you’ll start to see why so far we like it here – a middle-aged woman looked at Bec and sweetly said, “You must be very hot. But welcome to Cameroon.”

That seems like a good place to end this endless posting. This weekend, we go to the Canada Day celebration, where I will find out whether I should bring my rollerblades and hockey stick back to Yaoundé later this year. And then we’ve got the Fourth of July on Tuesday. Even better news, my temporary press pass is ready. Just have to get it on Monday morning. I’m in business, baby.

Happy birthday, Dad. Everyone wish him one, too. And happy Fourth of July.