Five years ago today, I was in Paris to celebrate my 40th birthday (which is tomorrow). It was a good trip -- but nothing like what I expected it to be. See, you can plan and plan and plan for something, but sometimes the Universe has plans of its own. I was about to get a very powerful reminder of that.
[Warning: long post alert. Please fasten your seatbelts and put your tray tables and seat backs in the upright and locked position.]
Turning 40 in Paris was something I had promised myself I would do, as far back as I can remember, so actually keeping that promise felt like a real accomplishment. My first trip to Paris, three years earlier, was such a joy -- everything I expected and more -- that I couldn't wait to go back.
I had a picture in my head of what that 40th birthday trip would be like. It was my second time in Paris and I felt like I knew my way around a little bit. I spoke enough of the language to get by pretty well. I brought my mom along -- she had been to Paris a few years earlier on one of those 3-week-10-country European tours, and she really liked Paris a lot. And who better to help me celebrate turning 40 but the woman who gave me life in the first place? So she was happy to come and keep me company on my short birthday trip; we arrived on Thursday and were leaving the following Monday, and only had 3-1/2 days to see the sights.
I envisioned us strolling around the city, doing things neither of us had done on our prior visits, but also not feeling super-rushed to pack everything in -- after all, we'd both already done the Eiffel Tower. Sitting in cafés, watching Paris walk by while enjoying our industrial-strength French coffees. Doing a little trip to the Musée d'Orsay and the Orangerie (which I would discover had been closed for renovations). Doing a few touristy things, like visiting Versailles and going on a dinner cruise on the Seine with a French friend. We planned the perfect balance of scheduled activities and free-wheeling it around the city, capped off with a special dinner on my birthday, planned for Le Procope.
The trip started off well - a great flight over (this, by the way, was just four months before September 11th so flying was significantly more effortless) and checking into our small Left Bank hotel. I picked the hotel, Grand Hôtel de l'Univers on rue Gregroire-de-Tours, because it was the 
sister hotel to Hôtel Saint-Germain-des-Prés where I stayed on my first visit and just LOVED, but which was booked solid this time around. Both hotels, by the way, are delightful 3-star facilities that offer nice accomodations, very clean, with charming common areas and breakfast rooms; however I didn't care much for our room at the l"Univers -- it felt like they forgot to redecorate it, although the bathroom was huge by Paris hotel standards (in fact, I believe this photo at right was our room, but it has at least been fully redecorated in some lovely toile - nothing like the dark, dreary stuff we were stuck with). But the great location -- just off Blvd. St. Germain on one side and the rue Buci market on the other, a few blocks from the Seine and all the famous Paris cafés -- lovely breakfast room (the hotel's arched stone caves), pleasant service and affordable rates made up for any minor deficiencies our room's décor.
On our arrival day, Thursday the 17th, being jet lagged (I rarely sleep much on a flight, even a long overnight one), we contented ourselves with strolling the neighborhood near our hotel and exploring a bit. We wanted to save our energy for the next couple of days... a decision that was to prove wise.
The next day, Friday the 18th, we had plans that evening to meet my friend M for dinner. She was treating us to a dinner cruise on the Seine and we were really looking forward to it -- I'd done a short cruise on my last trip and found it a relaxing way to see some of the city. So earlier in the day we decided to soak up a little Impressionist art at the d'Orsay.
As we stood in the line of people waiting to get in at opening time, my mother commented on some signs that were posted along the wall: "Beware of Pickpockets", in four languages. I laughed and said, "Yes, it's a real problem here in Paris so you just have to be on your guard with your purse all the time". My thinking at the time was: "I'm a seasoned traveler. I've been to Paris before. I know what to watch out for. So I have no worries."
Ha! Famous last words. (Can you guess where this is heading?)
We had a lovely time at the museum, getting our fill of Renoirs and Monets, and afterward crossed the Seine to the Tuileries. I remember that the big ferris wheel was still in operation from the millenium celebrations the year before, but we weren't interested in that. We decided to grab some sandwiches from a vendor at Concorde and sit near the Tuileries fountain to enjoy a little al fresco picnic, then walk up the Champs-Elysées for a while before heading back to our hotel to rest up and get dressed for our lovely dinner.
As we started walking up the Champs-Elysées, I started to feel a bit queasy. Maybe it was the sandwich, or maybe it was residual jet-lag, but we'd only gone a short way when I realized I really needed to go back and lie down. So we went down into the nearest Métro stop, where I bought a carnet of tickets, shoved my wallet back in my backpack-style purse, and we headed down into the tube to wait for our train.
Flashback: it's 2 weeks earlier. I am in Florida at a weekend seminar with my friend Carol. We go to a big indoor flea market we'd heard about. I spot a handbag/luggage vendor and decide to look for a suitable backpack/purse for my upcoming Paris trip. I find the perfect item: black, lightweight microfiber, and roomy enough to fit my wallet, passport, camera and guidebook. And only about $10, too! As I am mentally making up my mind to buy it, suddenly I literally hear a small voice in my head, as clearly as if it was someone standing next to me speaking into my ear: "Uh-uh... this bag only has a velcro closure; you know what those Paris pickpockets are like..." I thought about that for a minute, then promptly brushed it off. I was too smart for anything bad to happen to ME. And this was the perfect bag in every other respect. So I bought it.
The train arrived, already packed to the brim with people like a tin of sardines. My mother and I ducked into one car and grabbed for a hand rail, when suddenly two young guys, maybe 17 or 18 years old, crowded in behind us, shoving us further into the crowded car. The doors closed and the train started to move.
I was feeling so ill and distracted, and was trying to concentrate on what stop we were passing so I'd make sure to change trains at the right spot. Suddenly I heard it: the unmistakable sound of velcro tearing apart. "My backpack!", I thought. We were so jammed into this train I could barely move, but I managed to turn my head to the left and looked the young man behind me in the eye, and then looked at his hands -- and saw nothing in them. So I turned back around. My radar was up now, and I felt hyper-aware of my surroundings, but it was like everything was moving in slow motion and like I knew something was wrong but I was paralyzed; I didn't want to believe it was happening. Then I heard my mother say "Stop that!" and I turned to the right and saw her clutching HER bag tightly to her and glaring at the other young man next to her. The train stopped; the two boys got off along with a lot of others, so there was more room to move. And think.
And all I could think was: something's not right. I think he just ripped me off. I recall taking off my backpack -- which I foolishly had left ON my back when getting in the train instead of putting it in front of me where I could watch it (again, not thinking straight with that sick feeling I was having). I recall noticing how light it felt... how improperly light. I remember opening it but knowing exactly what I would see, or rather would NOT see.
No wallet. I looked again to be sure. No wallet. Which meant: no credit cards, no passport, no drivers license, and I could bloody well kiss goodbye the $400-worth of French francs I had gotten that morning after cashing in some traveler's checks. All gone. Holy shit. My brain went numb for a minute.
I looked at my mom and said: "They got my wallet" and her face got pale and wide-eyed. Here we were in Paris, and she was relying on me to be the "expert" and tour guide -- I was the one who loved Paris so much and spoke the language. Here it was only our first full day in the city, and we had a bit of a crisis on our hands. I told her to check her own bag and fortunately she had everything in it.
Now... this is the point where anyone in these circumstances would probably be entitled to indulge in a bit of panic and hysteria, right? This was the first time in my life I was ever the "victim" of a crime. It was my chance to totally freak out.
Or... maybe not. For some years, I had made a fair living coaching other people to realize that "it's not what happens to you in life, it's what you do with it that matters". As I stood on the train with my mother looking panicky, I had one small moment of clarity where I realized I had 2 choices: become a basket case, flipping out about what happened, and blaming everyone else with "Why, God, why?"; OR, stay calm and deal with the reality of what WAS.
And in that moment, I chose... because I knew it really WAS my choice -- not about having been the target of a pickpocket but I could choose what I would do about it now that it had happened. I chose the latter. I chose to just focus on the moment and what was the next thing I most needed to do... to just deal with one thing at a time. And what a difference it did make.
I told Mom we would get off at the very next stop so that I could figure out what to do. I knew I couldn't think straight on a moving train. So we did that. Then I told Mom everything would be OK and that I just needed a moment to think; she was clearly on the verge of becoming very upset, and I knew that wouldn't do us any good. She looked a bit relieved at my calmness and she stopped panicking out loud. I remember thinking: OK, Mom has her wallet so we've got money and credit cards to cover our expenses for the rest of the trip and to pay the hotel bill. What's the next most important thing I need to do? PASSPORT. It was Friday afternoon and by now it was around 3pm; and we had to leave Monday morning first thing - if I didn't get a new passport immediately I'd be stuck in the country until I could work it out (and while Paris is one of the few places in the world I'd really LOVE to be stuck for a while, this just wasn't the way I wanted to "stay" in Paris).
So we headed up to the street to look for a gendarme so we could find out where to go for the new passport... we were right back at the Place de la Concorde, and voila! there was a suitable government official standing right across the street from the Métro entrance.
I explained, in my bad French, what happened, and asked where the American Embassy was. I thought I remembered from my guidebook (which I of course had left in the hotel room) that it was on the Right Bank somewhere not too far from Concorde, but I had no idea where. The French policeman babbled something in his trop-vite French and pointed to the granite building right next to us. I thought I wasn't understanding him properly... did he mean that the American Embassy, the one building I needed to find most in the world at that moment, was just 10 yards from where I was standing? Could it be possible? Yes... that's exactly what he meant; he gestured again for us to just go around the corner.
Still dubious, that's what we did. And sure enough... one phone call from the security guard to someone on the "inside" and a brief security screening later, and we were on "American soil" and being personally escorted upstairs to the passport office to do the paperwork.
You know those moments in life where everything just falls into place, 1-2-3, easy as pie? From that point on, that's what happened to me. Having no official ID (the crooks really cleaned me out) to prove my identity, I might not have succeeded in getting that passport so quickly, but they allowed my mother to sign an affidavit as to my identity (seeing as she'd known me for exactly 40 years -- I guess I brought along the right person on that trip!) I went into a booth and took some photos that show me looking worn out and a little like I'm on the verge of tears; one of these photos is now stuck in my passport until 2011. They gave me the proper phone numbers and a free house phone to call Visa and American Express to cancel my credit cards -- which I managed to do so quickly that the thieves had no time to shop with the stolen cards (or perhaps they really were only after the cash). I also found out the Amex office was just a short walk from the Embassy -- they said if I could get there by 5pm they would have a new credit card ready and waiting for me and would allow me to get an emergency cash advance on that card (something they normally don't allow). Badda bing, badda boom... within about 90 minutes of those weasely little pickpockets snatching my wallet, it was problem solved and case closed.
I later learned that while I was on the phone with the credit card people, my mother was striking up conversations with other American travelers who had their passports stolen. Their stories were quite different from mine, and they had been much more in physical danger than my mother and I. One couple had just gotten off the plane at Charles de Gaulle Airport and were wandering around with their luggage trying to find the right place to get the train into the city, and a "good samaritan" stopped to direct them, leading them personally to the right location... except that he was a mugger and once he got them off to some deserted and isolated spot within the airport complex, he hopped over a gate and took some of their luggage with him. They were an older couple and there was no way they could catch him. The other, truly scary story was a man who had been in Cannes for the famous film festival, and while he was in his hotel room, with the door locked, and was taking a shower, he heard a loud noise in his room, and came running out with nothing but a towel wrapped around him -- to discover two men had broken down the door and were in the process of stealing whatever they could find, including his laptop, cell phone and passport that were lying on the bed. They even knocked the man to the floor to get away!
So clearly, our situation could have been so much worse than what it was... a minor, albeit stressful, glitch in our day that was resolved amazingly fast and with great ease. I like to think that my choosing to calmly face facts and deal with it one step at a time is what allowed everything to flow together like that; I can't imagine it would have been very helpful for me to break down in tears and have an anxiety attack. Upsetting as it was to go through this, I just remember making up my mind that I wasn't going to let it define or spoil the rest of my special birthday weekend. After all, how often do you turn 40 and in PARIS, no less? I felt that if I didn't just go on with our plans and do my best to enjoy myself, I'd be letting the pickpockets win.
I never bothered to file a police report or visit a police station -- it would have been a complete waste of my time, and I had precious little of that to go around on this trip. After all, the police were never going to find these guys, or my ID (it was probably sold for some ill-gotten purpose before the day was out) and we had dinner plans to look forward to that night! We got a cab back to our hotel (no more Métro for me on that trip!); I called my French friend to say we'd be just a little late and told her briefly what happened. We rested for about 20 minutes (ironically, that ill feeling I had that started all of this vanished instantly when I realized my wallet was gone), then changed clothes and went out for our lovely dinner.
We couldn't have picked a better way to spend that evening than floating peacefully down the river, enjoying a very delicious dinner with my friend M and one of her friends whom she brought along just to be sociable. My mother and M's friend (I forget her name now) hit it off and had a great time talking, leaving M and I to debrief on the day's adventure; and true to what I'd expect of a fellow coach, she wanted to "dig deeper" and help me figure out "what it all meant" -- because we don't believe in accidents or coincidences.
What I came to see was that the entire experience was about trusting my intuition, and what would happen to me when I didn't. Once I was able to think about the entire event, I realized there were "signs" everywhere, going back to two weeks earlier when I deliberately ignored that little voice warning me about my poor choice of backpack; to the fact that I decided not to do some common sense things like make photocopies of my ID and credit cards to keep in the hotel-room safe; to carrying so much cash on me and carrying my passport IN my wallet instead of putting it in one of those under-the-clothing security pouches -- which I'd brought along and decided to leave in the hotel room. And talk about "signs" -- my mother found the most blatant one of all, at the d'Orsay when she saw the sign about pickpockets! I mean, who needs a sign from the Universe when you've got the Paris police department thoughtfully warning you about impending danger?
Every step along the way, I had intuitive signs staring me in the face, and I arrogantly ignored them, thinking I was too damn smart for anyone to ever put one over on me. I was trying to be "logical" instead of listening to my heart. And I got slapped on the wrist for it... serves me right, and to this day I blame no one but myself for my own stupidity. It probably would have been faster if I had just handed those thieves my wallet, because I did everything else but... my lack of willingness to trust my heart was the reason I was such a perfect target for them.
Live and learn, right? So... it wasn't quite the dream birthday trip I imagined. The next day - my actual birthday - we had pre-arranged to tour Versailles, and I really thought I was up to it when we set out on the train (this time with no problems) that morning. But we got there and the day was overly warm and the crowds were tremendous and you couldn't really see or appreciate a thing. I also think I underestimated both my ability to recover both from my considerable jet lag and the stress of the day before. We left Versailles early, went to the rue Buci market and shops and brought back a nice light lunch to eat in the room, took a long nap, and then went on to enjoy a really memorable birthday diner at Le Procope, where my bad French was apparently just good enough to charm the host and got us a table for two outdoors, on the miniscule little balcony. We had scrumptious food and delightful service, complete with a yummy crème brulée for dessert.
On our last day, we decided to wander around the two islands, first touring Notre Dame and even attending a bit of the mass (in French) (my mother, having been raised Catholic, understood the ritual and even decided to take communion, so that was something special for her). Afterward, we walked through the jardins behind the cathedral and it turned out there was a little outdoor artist's show taking place back there (it saved us a trip up to Montmartre)... and I found the sweetest little souvenir: a small 4x6 embroidered scene of the Ile de la Cité and Pont Neuf as seen from the Pont des Arts... which just happens to be my favorite view in all of Paris. So happy birthday to me!
Other ways we made the most of that last special day: visiting the Paris Holocaust Memorial, just behind Notre Dame; enjoying our first taste of ice cream from Bérthillon on the Ile St. Louis; and finding some excellent street jazz muscians who traveled with their own miniature upright piano - Mom liked the music so much she bought their CD! In some respects, that Sunday, our last day, was the best day because it felt like what it must really be like to LIVE in Paris... we picked a small part of the city and really got the most out of it rather than trying to see everything in such a short time. We felt more like we belonged than like tourists, just for those few hours. It was a nice feeling.
My birthday adventure was nothing like I expected, or planned. But in some ways I got a lot more out of it than I could have anticipated. Instead of a lot of cheap souvenirs, I got a greater understanding of myself. I realized that the spiritual philosophy I had been sharing with others for years really did work in practical terms if you could slow down long enough to apply it. And as an added bonus, I even managed to impress my mother a little bit, who afterward said she couldn't believe how well I handled myself -- and that my French was much better than she ever thought it would be (and she's not one to throw away compliments like that).
So, the moral of the tale... you can make plans for what you want, but you might get something entirely different. The trick of going into (and through) your 40s gracefully is being willing to embrace those moments where you get something other than what you planned for, hoped for, or wanted. Because one thing I know for sure: life is not going to sit still and wait for you to "get it".
"Experience is what you get when you didn't get what you wanted."
Boy, do I ever know THAT. Suffice to say, on future foreign travels, whether to Paris or elsewhere, I will be more careful, more aware, and won't ignore those little important inklings.
I'd rather get my next dose of life wisdom in some other way next time.
