Paris, birthday, WW2 bomb, the sun, and a lost passport

Discombobulation and a good friend

I travel a lot. I’m very organised because I know that just beneath my outgoing exterior lies deep panic. I don’t lose things. Perhaps I need practice. That’s what one friend suggested recently. She was being cheeky. Teasing me. Ha ha - I wasn’t ready for it. I scolded her. We’re both 72, although she is almost 73.

I always put my purse in the same place. My keys in the same place. Out of fear of losing them. I experience horror when my partner keeps his wallet in his jean trousers. Always. And his wallet is always somewhere on his bedroom floor. That is like being lost for me.

Getting to Paris the other weekend was far from simple. My friend and I were just about to leave at 7 25 am when I had a message from my French friend, Isa. They’d found a WW2 bomb on the tracks near Gare Du Nord. Hells bells. Eurostar emailed to say that all trains had been cancelled.

In a state of discombobulation, we took to the phones. Flights that day – my birthday – were astronomical. Everyone who had cancelled was obviously trying to book! I had arranged to meet my French friend, her two sons, their partners and their five grandchildren in a park, Buttes Chaumont, in north Paris at 11 30 am the next day. I was on one to get there.

I booked tickets for a flight at 6 10am. That meant – neither of us ever do this kind of flight any more – getting up at 3 am. With extreme reluctance. But we did it, got the flights, arrived at Charles De Gaulle, full of the joys of spring, the weather was sunny and warm.

Never mind the replacement buses, never mind the four decorators in the very narrow three storey stairway when we arrived who were actually painting it at the time which meant my friend got white paint over her two jackets and a bag, never mind that the management company seemed to have omitted to leave us extra bedding – no, we were in Paris now, in an attractive little street near the Gare De Lyon.

We jumped in a taxi and before we knew it we were there. Cafe Rosa Bonheur – run by the LBGTQ community there. Hummus was Houmosexual on the menu. It was fun, sunny and so brilliant to see all our French ‘family’. There were one toddler and twin babies that I’d not met before. Plus two older ones that I had. We laughed and exchanged stories.

The cherry blossom was out, there was an Apollo temple folly on a hill in the park. All was well in the world. Three of us – my French friend and us – wandered off. Through the streets of the hip Belleville, young people sprawled all over the flower beds playing games, picnicking. It was a divine day. We ate a Moroccan-style veggie combo in a little restaurant I’d found, we strolled along the Canal St Martin as the sun went down, we rejoiced, then found the Jazz Club where we swayed to a huge urban gospel choir. My British friend balked at the number of times Jesus was mentioned but still a good time was had.

The Sunday was equally sunny. The Paris marathon was happening. Lots of cheering and people with bananas in little rainbow bags. And blocked off streets. But aesthetically Paris is so beautiful. We wandered. Ate breakfast in a brasserie on the iIe St Louis. Saw the back of Notre Dame where there is still a lot of work going on despite the front being open.

We strolled down one of my favourite little streets – Rue Mouffetard which I frequented as a student in 1972/3 – with all its market stalls and musicians and cafes. There was the trad Jazz band of old geezers and little children dancing. I love the way they are so free. And then a chanson trio at the end with a whole gang of crazy dancers – average age 70. It was wonderful. I joined in at the side. A blonde woman in red waltzed, a couple were lost in tango moves. What more could we want!

Jardin de Luxembourg had crowds of families basking in the warmth of the sun. This was the first warmth of the year. The magnolias were out. A sign. We has lunch in a irrevocably stylish brasserie. I had a mushroom salad with some kind of obscure radish, my friend had spiced pumpkin soup.

We meandered to Chatelet and Beaubourg or the Centre Pompidou which was about to close for refurbishment so free for the day. But too crowded. Now I did get the chance to boogie to a street band playing Sade. I was in my element. We watched a youngish man with a moustache and a pocket handkerchief and an enormous brush painting with water. I went and had a chat with him. One of my favourite things. Talking to strangers.

I tried to talk to him in French but that didn’t help because he was from Slovakia. It turned out he was studying Chinese calligraphy and was brushing a water poem on to the pavement about Beaubourg. Just the sort of thing I adore. Transient art done for the sake of doing it. And he was a very charming man.

Happiness is all of this.

I was relaxing back at the air bn’b when it struck me like a bolt of lightning. Literally, I jumped out of bed and shouted I’ve lost my passport. I just knew as the thought came into my head that I hadn’t seen it since the airport. Our flight home was the next afternoon.

And I always know where something like my passport is. Yet I didn’t.

It was that – that really threw me into confusion. Upset me. Gosh, the panic was huge.

My friend is very level-headed. We went through my bag, my clothes etc. Nothing. No passport. We decided to re-visit the original cafe Rosa Bonheur in case I’d left it there. It was a long way away. There was a crazy party going on. An Argentinian man who had befriended me the day before gave me an enormous hug but my passport wasn’t there. His Japanese style Kimono was wonderful though.

We went out to eat. At one point we were both crying with laughter. I can’t even remember why.

My friend started to apply for an emergency passport online. It was not easy. There was a bit where you had to take a photo and it had to obey those passport rules and be uploaded as a jpeg. We couldn’t do it.

It was late. I ordered us to bed. I insisted that someone would help us at the British Consulate the next day.

I was being optimistic.

When we got there the next morning, a gentleman informed us that post-Brexit, there is no-one to help in person and that we would have to fill in the online application. I admit I started to have a bit of a meltdown at this point. He wisely spoke to my friend and told her it would take two working days to get one. And handed her a piece of paper with information on it but also with a telephone number.

We found a nearby bar – a pot of tea for two for 11 euros – and now all cognitive ability had left me. It was beyond panic. I haven’t felt so utterly helpless for a very long time. It was very uncomfortable.

I had a friend who could act on my behalf. She rang the number, told the British Consulate person that I was 72 and not in a good state. It was all true. She played the age card big time. He was lovely, apparently.

On the seventh attempt, she submitted and paid £100. The photo of me looking like a bedraggled – it was raining too now – out of her head person went through.

We started to celebrate.

And the appointment to pick the emergency passport up came through as at 3 45pm. We were flying at 4 10pm. It was 11 15 am. We were round the corner. I persuaded her to ring again and say that I needed to get home for my medication.

It worked. I had the passport in my hands at 11 30am. But what about those people who don’t have a friend like mine, who don’t have these kinds of resources. They would be fucked. Totally.

We got the plane. But I felt drained for a few days. I was deeply shocked at how much it had rocked me. How devastating for me it had been.

Ironically, I got home and discovered that Air France had found my old passport. Too late, it had already been cancelled!!

I do have something good to report though. Filling in the replacement passport online application via my computer was easy peasy…

I’ll just have to practice losing stuff…