Thinking back. . .

I never got around to writing a blog about our trip to Paris in April, mostly because so much happened that I ended up not writing anything.  It was a blast, and Paul and I had a great time aboard our Viking River Cruise from Paris to the Normandy Coast.  I highly recommend it.  It was a wonderful trip.

Oddly enough, two different events that stand out in my mind took place in Paris during the three days we spent there before embarking on the ship.

First, was the day we decided to visit the Eiffel Tower and had bought tickets ahead of time for a 1pm entry so we wouldn't have to wait on a long line.  Viking's itinerary took us to the Marais in the morning, and after leaving the group, the two of us headed for the Metro to take to the Tower stop.

 Except it turned out our directions were wrong and we shortly found ourselves totally lost.  In desperation, we stopped a group of young English speaking men to ask directions.  Turned out, that's where they were going as well, and invited us to join them.  They were Brits from Leicester, who looked like a 60's rock group, with lots of spikes in their ears and noses, but friendly as could be. Unfortunately, we soon discovered they were as lost as we were.

We apparently wanted the train, not the subway, and after tramping up and down endless flights of stairs and through various train platforms, our "leader" ascertained we were at the right place.  By this time we had added a young Australian couple to our group who were also lost.

Heaving a great sigh of relief, we watched as the train pulled into the station.  The door opened, and the polite Brits motioned to me and the Australian girl to get on, followed by four of the guys and a rush of strangers who were also waiting for the train.  And then the door closed.

Paul told me later that he wished he had a camera to freeze the look of sheer horror on my face as the train pulled out of the station and he was still standing on the platform.

The good news was that the Brits who were on the train were now my new best friends, staying with me and the Australian girl at the station where we got off until the rest of the pack, including Paul, arrived some ten minute later on the next train.

One last memory from that wild day.  When we all went to leave the station, the turnstile at the exit suddenly decided not to work.  This did not deter the Brits who simply climbed and jumped over the apparatus.  It also didn't deter Paul, who is over 6 ft.  You might remember that I am not exactly towering in height and the turnstiles were quite high.  Climbing was just not an option.  Another photo, thank goodness, he didn't get:  Joan, elegantly crawling her way under the turnstile on all fours.  Paul didn't dare laugh.

The second event I remember with less fondness was the night we ate at a very lovely seafood restaurant near our Paris hotel.  I love fish, and since the menu was all in French, I asked the waiter for his suggestion.  He was exuberant about the "fish of the night" and I said fine.

My dinner arrived and it looked very delicious.  Except, when I went to take my first bite, I hit a solid sheet of bone.  Calling over the waiter, he explained to me that "You must flip it over, Madame".  Flip I did, and began eating.  It was quite interesting, different than any fish I had ever tasted, and I was curious.  Already half way through the serving, I called over the waiter and asked what kind of fish it was.  He answered by telling me he would bring me a picture.

He did.  I was eating a Manta Ray.  Needless to say, that was the end of that dinner.  Paul, who rarely eats fish, couldn't stop laughing.

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Marching through the Metro

My new best friends!

OMG!  My poisonous dinner!

Remembering "The Great One". .

It was February of 1964 and I was at my desk at the Barcelona Hotel where I was hired to handle public relations and edit a daily newsletter that was distributed to hotel guests. One of our regular guests approached me and asked if I would like two tickets to "the fight" that evening.

I had never been to a boxing match in my life, but I thought, "what the hell, they're free!" so I said yes and thanked him for his generosity.  Little did I know what an earth-shaking event I had just signed on for.

Next, I called my husband at his office and asked him if by any chance he wanted to go.  His response?  "Are you kidding, Joan?  That's the championship bout between Cassius Clay and Sonny Liston!  Of course I want to go. I'll pick you up at the hotel. For god's sake, don't lose the tickets!"  All of a sudden, I was a hero to my husband.

I was aware that Clay was training at the 5th Street Gym because every morning during the past few weeks, as I drove from my home in North Miami to my office on Miami Beach, I would see this young black guy, in shorts and a tank top, running down Alton Road on his way to the gym.  These were times when blacks were still not allowed to stay overnight on Miami Beach, and Clay would actually run all the way from his hotel in Overtown to his morning workout. (It wasn't until Frank Sinatra made a stand about allowing Sammy Davis Jr. to stay at the Fontainebleau, when they were both appearing there, that the restriction was finally lifted.)

Our seats that evening at the Miami Beach Convention Center were fabulous.  Everybody who was anybody was there in the arena to watch hulking and silent Liston, the undefeated world champion,  make mincemeat of this young, big-mouthed upstart.  For the very first time, the crowd saw what it meant  to "float like a butterfly. . sting like a bee".  Liston looked more and more confused, right from the opening round, and when he finally refused to come out for the 7th round bell, the place went wild!

It was a night to remember and I relived it this morning when I heard about Mohammed Ali's passing.  He was truly a remarkable man and I followed his career with great interest after that very memorable night.  We were very lucky to have had the opportunity to be there on that very special evening..
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