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Preparing for Our Trip — 2004

During the summer, the time arrives to make arrangements for getting Leonard and me to three conferences organized by the African International School Association (AISA) to provide professional development opportunities for teachers. The travel agent points out that we need to use an airline that flies both TO southern Africa and FROM western Africa. That narrows our choices to two. We select Air France.

In Paris, skateboarders leap and flop in a square ringed with ancient statues whose gazes don't flicker even with the most spectacular of spills. Old warmth seeps up from a subway station. Smells of roasting chicken leak from a big oven on the street outside a meat shop where little naked birds line the window.

American politics fill this city in these last days before the 2004 election. The young man who lugs my book-filled suitcase upstairs to our small room in the Hotel Saint Dominique asks us who we are voting for. We hear the name "Bush" repeated on the taxi's radio and see a picture of John Kerry on the front page of Le Monde with the headline "Kerry accable Bush après le vol d'explosifs en Irak."

I remember being a child in France and feeling (for the first time) the buttery softness of a croissant in my mouth. Now I prefer the crusty, long bread at breakfast with hazelnut chocolate spread in a little plastic container that, in the U.S., would hold jelly. Dessert in a tiny café is a square of dark chocolate. The first night, we sit—a group of authors and spouses--and poke holes in thick layers of cheese and watch the onion soup bubble up, savory broth brewed the old way, simmered all day long.

Cigarette smoke isn't so pleasant. It lingers in public indoor spaces, stings my eyes, and makes the rooms feel stuffy. Once we're out in the chilly October air, sea gulls croak from a statue's head and balance on ropes that keep boats from being stolen by the Seine River currents. Every hour, the Eiffel Tower flashes in a spectacular display of gaudy sparkle. When we get close, we can see long lines of patient families, waiting for a turn in the elevator, standing under the watchful eyes of French soldiers cradling guns.

The next day, after my presentation at the American Library, we consider the similarly long lines that will surely nibble away hours of our time if we try to enter any place like the Louvre. Anyway, who needs a museum when there's free admission to Parisian streets? We wander and stare. Golden horses spread their wings at the entrance to a bridge; further on, huge torsos lounge on pedestals. Trees lean over balconies, resting their elbows on the railings. A stone procession of chariots and Greek gods and popes high on a building stands as a somewhat confusing testament to people and civilizations who've had their place in history's parade.  

Late that night, we board our Air France flight. Ten hours and twenty-five minutes later, we open gritty eyes as the jet descends toward Johannesburg. I've never before been to the southern part of the African continent, and I struggle for a reference point, finding one in a long-ago Honors English class where my high school classmates and I discussed Cry the Beloved Country. As the shuttle transports us to the guest house, somewhere far back in my memory, Alan Paton's powerful words about the flat, reddish earth still echo.

Sitting on the verandah, I'm struck by the creaking of birds, the way night drops so suddenly, the wideness of the sky, the dry air that seems to suck all moisture out of everything. Behind a fence, emus do a dainty dance, keeping their necks low as if ashamed. Guinea fowl clump in one spot. Ducks in another.

Leonard and I study the large map in the commons area of the guesthouse, figuring out for the first time exactly where the first conference will be. Another book helps me fill in a few mental details. For years, people have asked me if I've read the Number One Ladies' Detective Agency novels by Alexander McCall Smith. In preparation for this trip, I'm reading the first of the series as we land in the capital city of Gabarone.

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