Hello Old Friends
Until I met my husband, Gary, I was planning to visit the Windward Islands of the Caribbean, which could easily take years to do properly. After I met Gary online, the Universe conspired to bring me to mainland Portugal in March of 2024. I’d planned to visit for two weeks, but I canceled my return flight and instead we sailed together to Porto Santo, in the Madeira Group. It was a glorious seven-day passage in perfect weather and I had no desire to leave Gary or his boat, Dyola, ever.
We left Dyola for a few weeks to fly to Grenada and sail my boat, Harmony, to Trinidad for extra safety in hurricane season. I was very relieved we had made the effort when Hurricane Beryl struck Grenada with deadly force just five weeks after we settled Harmony in Trinidad. After a brief tour in the US, introducing Gary to my friends and family, we flew back to Porto Santo and Dyola to continue sailing.
We spent four weeks in the amazing Azores before sailing across to the UK to visit Gary’s family and friends in England and my daughter in Wales. After that, we sailed south to France to visit friends of Gary’s up a river in Brittany. I had never been to France before and was dazzled by the generous hospitality and the fantastic foods.
Gary had spent many holidays in this part of France over the years and had a close community of friends there. They were all very fond of Gary and delighted that he had found (however unexpectedly) a loving partner. I was welcomed with open arms and hearts.
Being in France put me in mind of my own dear French friends, Oliver and Beatrice, who I had met in Puerto Rico and spent time with in Curaçao so I sent them a message to let them know I was in France. At the time, I didn’t even know where they were because I knew their boat, Orfeo, was in a boatyard in Scotland. But, as luck would have it, they were in Paris and they invited me to come and visit.
Gary immediately said he would stay and look after Dyola and that I should go. He’s not a city person and we couldn’t leave Dyola on the river unattended, so it was decided on the spot. It would be a very quick visit because Oliver and Beatrice were leaving Paris for their home in the south of France soon.
Our friends in Brittany kindly drove me to the train station and I rode the high-speed train into Paris. I had never been on a high-speed train before and when I found my ears popping from the pressure, I clicked on my navigation app and was amazed to find we were going almost two hundred miles an hour.
In just two hours, I exited the train and followed the crowd into the station and there was my beautiful friend, Beatrice, and her husband, Oliver, waiting to give me a big hug and show me around Paris. Oliver was born and raised in Paris and they had an apartment there, so I was thrilled to be introduced to what is arguably the most beautiful city in the world by an actual native Parisian.
It was my special good fortune that it was final day of the Special Olympics, so all the tourists were “over there” and the city center was relatively quiet. We ate a gorgeous meal at La Coupole, a restaurant not far from my hotel, where Josephine Baker walked her cheetah and Henry Miller breakfasted. In 1968, Patti Smith played guitar on the terrace.
After dinner, we went for a stroll and I got to see the little church garden where Oliver played as a boy. It was Saturday night and the streets were full of people rushing here and there, flying by on scooters and bicycles. I kept close to Oliver and Beatrice for fear of being lost or run over. I was born in Manhattan, so I am used to cities and feel right at home in the heart of any city, but I also have the common sense to know there is safety in numbers.
I was so excited, it was very hard to sleep, but my hotel room was very comfortable and quiet and I eventually dropped off. As soon as my eyes opened I leaped out of bed and rushed outside to greet the Parisian dawn. The streets were quiet and reminded me of my childhood in Manhattan. The few people out on a Sunday morning were either leisurely walking dogs or jogging by in tight pants. I found a little bakery on a side street with a line of customers out the door and figured this was the place. I got a croissant and a café and ate at a tiny round table, while couples and families tittered away in French over their Sunday breakfast. It felt like a happy dream.
We’d arranged that I would find my way to the Louvre and although there was a bus, I decided to walk. I wanted to take in absolutely every detail of this incredible city. The fancy boutiques felt very familiar and I peered in the window of an antique shop at the curios on display. I was in awe of the architecture, the flowers in the window boxes and small doors painted in tasteful colors. My route took me through a large park where, incredibly, remote controlled sailboats bobbed on a shallow pond. As a child, I had played around a nearly identical pond in Central Park where little sailboats plowed across the still water. It felt like home, although Paris seemed even more beautiful than NYC.
When I came to the bridge over the River Seine, I was nearly in tears with the beauty of it. I crossed over the Pont Neuf and looked down at the narrow canal boats moored along the bank. They looked so romantic, I thought of sailing Dyola there, but the water under the bridge was roiling with current. It looked daunting. I was happy to stand on the ancient pavement in the warm September sun and peer up and down the river before setting off to meet my sweet friends at the Louvre.
When the time came, much too soon, to bid them adieu, we had no plans for our paths to cross in the foreseeable future. There would be much water under our respective keels before I would see them again.
Gorgeous photos Beth!
When I read your stories, it makes me want to pack my bags and hit the road again. I so love to travel. I just got back from MOW and I saw a show on the Azors and going to plan my next big trip there. Good luck to you and Gary and I hope our paths cross again one day