During the past two weeks the conversation buzz has been about the Paris Olympics and the myriad of events, medals and celebrations as well as the pain of defeat. Nothing was more devastating than the quick withdrawal of Italian welterweight Angela Carini from her fight with Algerian Imane Khelif. He was barred from other world competitions because his chromosome blood tests revealed his were XY which means he is a biological male.
I believe this gave him an unfair advantage. He scored a technical knockout after Carini quit the match because I have never been hit with such a powerful punch! This is from someone with well over 100 fights with women. Khelif has no obvious female characteristics. At 5’10” he is three inches taller, has narrow hips and more muscular arms. Her devastating loss reduced her to feminine tears. His face is as unfeminine as it can be. Khelif eventually took home the gold medal.
I doubt Carini will cherish her visit to the City of Lights. Neither will I treasure my singular visit there many years ago. My late wife and I were able to go to many unique and fascinating places during the second half of our 50 years of marriage. Befitting of my personality, weird and odd things hover over me like a predator sensing its prey.
Travel is one of the most broadening and educational of all endeavors. Below is a collection of thoughts and situations that I think you will find interesting and even amusing. I added some current reflections to provide a bit more depth and perspective to my travels. One of the most difficult trips we ever made, occurred during the fateful summer of 2001 when we traveled to Northern France and Paris.
It was an exhausting trip with one special highlight. Mon San Michel Abbey is a tidal island and mainland commune in Normandy. It was quite a journey to get to the Abbey. I remember after we exited our bus, we had to walk at least a half mile on a serpentine road, which took us to a 312-step stairway that led us to the Abbey’s entrance. It was such a beautiful place, I wish we had stayed there longer.
When we finally got to Paris, we were staying in a prestigious hotel, adjacent to the Paris Opera House. Its entrance and lobby were first rate, but the luxury ended the moment we got off the elevator. Our first room was next to the gym, which opened at 6AM. We declined it for obvious reasons. The second one made the first look luxurious by comparison. The carpet was filthy and had bloodstains on it. I expected to see a yellow police tag stuffed under the mattress. My wife made me wear my shoes to bed. There was no shower and I could not fit comfortably in the tub. While this tour was a deluxe one, neither were Mass attendance nor a visit to Notre Dame’s Cathedral on our itinerary.
My wife hated everything about the city because the people in it were very unfriendly. Parisians can also be very rude. Their motorists must get points to see how close they can come to killing you. One driver nearly impaled us on the bumper of his Peugeot. As for service, I have had better luck in my local Post Office.
Unsurprisingly to me, was the fact that the friendliest person I met was a middle-aged working woman. She reminded me of Mae West, just as her charms started to fade. I was leading our group of eight after we had just finished the best meal we had in Paris, at a little Italian restaurant, owned by two American expatriates.
I had crossed the street and to my dismay, nobody had followed me.When this former New Yorker leads, no one follows! While they waited for the light, I looked around, taking in the sights. There was a very tall Parisian woman on roller skates that caught my eye. The Parisians have a weekly skating event, where hundreds of skaters glide along a secret but predetermined route that changes each week. I guess she was just getting ready for the Pari Roller.
Then out of the blue, came this Mae West look-alike. She smiled at me and said something in French I did not understand. I politely said Nooooooooooo! Then she said, Parlez Vous, Francais? I answered, turning beat red, Nooooooooooo! I later figured out, with the sophisticated help of my only daughter that what she had said was probably that popular line from the movie, Moulin Rouge, Voulez vous couches aver Moi, ce soir? This modestly translates to Would you like to sleep with me tonight? This is from a song by Christine Aquilera, Lady Marmalade with Lil’ Kim, May and Pink.
Two days later when we were all walking down the same boulevard, I saw her strolling down her regular beat. Alas, the friendliest person I met in Paris, is not someone I could even admit in polite company as having met. She’s a prostitute or what progressive culture euphemistically calls a sex worker. Only in Paris! I guess my wife and I can never say, like Rick from the film Casablanca…we will always have Paris!
Later I told my parish priest about my experience, not in the confessional because I had easily resisted the prostitute’s offer, but after Mass one Sunday. Being the clever person he was, he asked me, Was it a man or a woman?
He made me a real believer the first time I ever talked to him. I had a file folder with some documents that he had to approve. He stopped me 10 yards away, telling me that he was leery of such folders. What is it, he asked? I said, a paternity suit. I have no idea why I said this! He replied: Well, that would be an improvement! This had to be in 1986 or so, many years before the pederast scandal rocked our Church. The late Monsignor had an insight few of his parishioners had at that time.
On another trip we went swimming in the Mediterranean, from our yacht, Le Ponant. The water was warm. This trip was the best we had ever been on. One moment was truly heavenly. One night, the captain anchored near an active volcano, Stromboli. All 50 passengers assembled on the top deck after a sumptuous Italian dinner with Pavarotti’s wonderful tenor’s voice, echoing in the background, as we all watched the volcano belch small streams of bubbling ash.
The trip concluded with a stop in Malta, only 115 miles from Tunisia. It is the most Catholic country in the world with about 96% of its population Catholic. The tour guide had her own theories about the mysterious death of Pope John Paul I. As we walked through their cathedral, there seemed to be a sizable number of people attending Mass, with even a few going to Confession. This was not the case in most of the European countries we visited over the years. Alas, too many churches serve more as tourist attractions and even religious museums.
In all my experiences, the tour companies were not very thoughtful in providing us with information about nearby churches or even giving us time off to attend Mass. Despite their lack of consideration, we were able to attend Mass with some of our fellow Catholic travelers in Ireland, Corsica, Normandy, France, and Lake Geneva, Italy. Hearing Mass in French and Italian was a challenge but prayer is a universal language.
I have excluded Rome because the Eternal City was the last stop on a wonderful pilgrimage we took with our then pastor, Monsignor Richard Stika, now the former Bishop of Knoxville, Tennessee. Father Jack Hickel, a spry priest in his seventies, ably assisted Monsignor during our tour and fraternized more with our group than did the future Bishop. He spent most of our Roman Holiday in Vatican City with his good friend and mentor, Cardinal Justin Rigali. Our tour company was Catholic and with two priests in our party, going to Mass was a daily occurrence.
Thanks to the Cardinal, we attended Mass in three of the most beautiful Cathedrals in Rome, including the lower level of St. Peters, encircled by the tombs of many popes. A woman in our group asked me to read during one of the Masses. I asked for St. Peter’s, but it was already taken. So, I read during our Mass in the beautiful Cathedral of Orvieto, over 100 miles from Rome. (I detailed that strange experience with Father Jack that morning in my essay, The Parish Lector in September of 2017.)
One of the best travel experiences I ever had occurred during my first trip to Rome. This marked my first encounter and ensuing fascination with the Spanish Steps. (My captivation with steps dates back several years to my first visit to the Washington Monument when I was in high school. I remember walking down the steps and counting them. The total was 500.) Just recently Anna and I watched Roman Holiday, an old B&W film, which featured the introduction of actress Audrey Hepburn to movie goers.
Near the end of the tear-jerker, there are several wonderful shots of the famous Spanish Steps, which look much better in color. I have been fascinated with them since the first time I visited Rome. I have personally counted them twice and by my count, there are either 132 or 133 steps. I was in doubt of the actual number until I started drafting this essay. The 135 steps date back to 1725. They are linked with Trinita Monti church. At the top of the steps stands the Spanish Embassy to the Holy See. I recommend that everyone read the history of this special place.
When in Rome or Paris, you really have to do what the Romans do, and that is watch out for pickpockets, most of whom focus primarily on careless tourists. I remember standing in line, waiting to get into the Sistine Chapel, when other visitors told us to beware of women with small babies, who worked in teams. The woman with the baby, really a wrapped up doll, would toss the baby into a crowd of visitors. Anyone who tried to catch it would suffer the loss of a purse or a wallet. According to these people, it was usually Romanian immigrants, who were notorious at this kind of theft.
There was no line in my prior trip to Vatican City. This tour was the aforementioned Catholic tour company, who had several good connections in Rome, so we were able to bypass the lines. Since the guide did not rush us, I had much more time to enjoy the experience of the Chapel, which left me in awe. I do not think I had enjoyed a Catholic Moment as pure as this one unless you count my Mass with my peers during my Extension training in Chicago in August of 1965.
As I have implied above, despite our good fortune, I believe the religious fervor in Europe is near invisible. I think the Continent has never psychologically recovered from the bombings, invasions and the human losses it suffered during World War II. It is as if they have blamed God for all the death and destruction. But on further thought, the moral indifference and the near termination of religious fervor, may date back to the French Revolution and its avowed threat to destroy Catholicism.
One can easily proclaim that this European malaise has spread all over the free world. When a Continent loses its soul, I wonder how many humans lose their souls as well. Nature abhors all vacuums. Too many across the world have found gods in many forms and iterations. Since that brief encounter with Mae West is still anchored in my memory, I wish I had written about My Parisian Prostitute earlier in my life. I have started to pray for her because in our Faith it is never too late for healing grace. I truly hope she is able to get the message. (See my essay Messengers of Grace from 2016.)
