I’m sitting in my hotel room looking out over the runway at Charles de Gaulle airport, because I’m leaving Europe tomorrow, after just a bit more than three months here. Most of it I’ve spent getting my head straight, but just recently I’ve spent a lot of it traveling. I have a lot to show you about the lovely Netherlands, but that will have to wait for a couple of days. Right now, my brain is humming and clickety-clacking from a day spent training through three countries.
I left this morning from Ommen, via a small commuter train, in the sweet company of Katherine. I had been sure that she didn’t need to come with me, but thank goodness she did, because really, I have about 7-8 words of Dutch, none of which were very useful in train stations. So from Ommen we went to Zwolle, where we changed trains and went to Schiphol airport. Not because I was flying anywhere from there, mind you, but just to change trains and take the Thalys train to Brussels. Katherine and I had a surprisingly good lunch at Schiphol, and then, with a flurry of kisses and waves, we said au revoir.
In case you ever happen to find yourself on the Thalys, let me tell you that in First Class they serve you beautiful complimentary meals, at your seat, with wine. They look delicious, but there’s never a low-carb option, so all I do is look, and accept a bottle of wine, which, in itself, makes the trip just that much more enjoyable.
I arrived in Brussels to find that there was a lot of confusion about my train to CDG – they changed the departure track, the announcements were misleading, everyone was asking each other what was going on, and so on. Once on board, the restaurant workers were on strike, so no food or drink was available. I was fine, but I did hear some grumbling around me.
Seven hours after leaving Ommen I arrived at CDG. You know, I could have flown it in about an hour, but it just didn’t occur to me. Shel and I always took the train whenever possible, and I guess I’m continuing that tradition. We always stayed at the Sheraton inside the airport, and so here I am, overlooking the runway as we did so many times together. And we always had dinner at Brasserie Flo, in Terminal 2F. However, by some quirk of mis-memory, I headed to Terminal 2 E, which is about as far as you can get from 2F without taking a train. After a cheery couple of kilometers of trans-terminal strolling (mercifully sans luggage) I sat down to dinner, where I absolutely unconsciously, but unerringly, ordered exactly what Shel ate the last time we dined there together, just a year and a half ago. He had said that it was very good, and so it was.
I came to Europe in mid-November, to close out my life spent here with Shel, and to face up to being alone. I’ve done that, in spades, right up to my final dinner in France, at least for the foreseeable future. I feel so much better than I did when I arrived, almost normal in fact. It’s been tough, lonely, interesting, loving, scary, reassuring, and satisfying by turns. But one thing is clear now – nine and a half months after Shel died I still miss him like crazy, but the acute grief is finished. I’m my own person again, feeling like myself, feeling better every day, and looking forward to whatever comes next. I’m hoping to spend an uneventful day up in the sky tomorrow, and to being re-united with my little family, my house, my garden, and my cat. And to not taking the train again for at least a season or two.