She was banged up from tooth to toe, but love conquered all during this trip to Paris
We decided to go to Paris to celebrate our milestone wedding anniversary. As the reluctant family household travel agent, I couldn’t fully look forward to our quick escape until all details were covered.
Two days before our departure, when I had finally reached impending travel Zen, I applied sunscreen to my face. Why did such minimal pressure make my gum hurt? It felt like a splinter was wedged near an “on watch” molar that had been giving me occasional minor trouble. The dental gods decided, “Let’s give her a big flare up at the most inopportune time, har har.”
I ran to the dentist to learn I had an early infection and needed a root canal. Within an hour I picked up antibiotics and booked my very first endodontist adventure for two days after the trip.
Once I caught my breath, I decided to accept the annoyance. Possible amoxicillin side effects and all, I was determined we would enjoy our long overdue getaway.
The morning of travel day, my husband decided to mow the lawn, as one does in Man World. He discovered a sudden front yard swamp. It seemed the sprinkler system gods colluded with the dental gods for one more pre-departure zinger.
We called the experts, who were off for the weekend. They gave us a live phone tutorial as we hunkered over the stealthy geyser. There we were in the summer heat, swatting away mosquitoes, elbow deep in muddy water. Armed with tools and flashlights, we fixed the underground innards of the pipes and valves.
Later that day, our connecting flights were on time. Imagine! Such a modern-day miracle nudged us to leave the baggage of our worries behind, even though the nerves in my gums and the rattling bottle of antibiotics were carry-ons.
Speaking of, we travel light. Our plan was to hop on a train at Charles de Gaulle Airport with our spinners and small backpacks and go directly to our hotel. However (and there’s always a however), the gods of magnetic ticket strips joined the previous spoof gods to have some fun. As we fed our Metro exit passes into adjacent turnstiles, mine failed. Repeatedly. Ground-level Paris was a mere escalator ride above, but I was trapped. I hurled my luggage over the tall gate to my husband as we waited for help. Only there wasn’t any.
At last, a kind Parisian sized up the situation. He offered to let me slide in just behind him on his ticket. Apparently, I was not close enough to his torso. The brutal, automated closing gate — a sideways guillotine — crushed me enough to give me a monstrous bruise on my rear end. At least the cruel system spit me out on the correct side. Bonjour. First souvenir of the trip.
But not the last. On our first full day there, I was looking up at Sacre-Coeur’s majestic white domes. My rain poncho hood partially blocked the vista (yes, the heavens opened up most days that week) so I tilted my head way back as I was walking. I missed a cobblestone curb.
Splat. Twisted ankle. Pharmacy hunt. Elastic foot brace.
I was officially banged up from tooth to toe, but we were in Paris. I did not care and managed to walk many miles each day after, partly to avoid The Gates of Hell (subway ones, not the Rodin Museum original).
That city can magically cancel out all agony.
Until the airline dysfunction gods finally awaken. We were slammed with a stressful 36-hour delay to get home. This meant, a mere seven hours after stumbling through my front door, I was in the endodontist chair. As the joke format goes: “Jet Lag Root Canal” would be a good name for a rock band.
A newly married couple might frown at our glitchy celebration and say, “Dommage! C’est la vie.” A long-married couple like us, we genuinely laugh at curveballs and think, “C’est la vie en rose.”
Reach Denise Snodell at stripmalltree@gmail.com.
