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Thursday, November 20, 2008
How this Journey Began, A Crack in the Ice
It was in October of 2003. I made my usual pass through the front of my bakery to have friendly exchange with my customers. One of the ‘fixtures’ of the bakery—as I liked to call the customers who had created the bakery as their home away from home—Fixture Joe called for me to sit at his table for a moment of conversation.
As a Pulitzer prize winning author, he often winced when I introduced him to a new customer as a Nobel prize winner. He would respond on more than one occasion, “well, April, I would like to be credited with furthering world peace, however,” then I just blushed profusely and laughed nervously—hoping to smooth over my mistake for the fifthteenth time in my exhausted baking stupor.
Most often we would talk about France. I have always had this ‘thing for France.’ When Fixture Joe would talk about his lengthy excursions with his traveling friend, Fixture Bill, I escaped to a totally different place. Unfortunately, after talking about the food and the incredible boutiques and the painfully obvious tourist attractions, i.e. the Eiffel tower and The Louvre…the Eiffel tower and the Eiffel tower…I had no more words. What could I say? I had never been to France. No matter how hard I would like to pretend, I just plain hadn’t been.
I have one word for Fixture Joe—profound. So now I would like to change Fixture Joe’s name to Profound Joe. One thing is for sure, I don’t think Profound Joe ever advertises himself as a prophet, but, somehow I think he always knows the events that will unfold. This particular day, with my signature dark circles under my eyes, I walked out front for my usual precious rounds with my dear bakery customers.
Profound Joe said, “April, have a seat.” I hesitated knowing everything I needed to get done in the kitchen, but, thought it would probably be good for me to take a break, I would be there late anyway.
I wiped my hands on my towel tucked into the strings of my apron and sat across from Profound Joe. He continued, “April, there are two kinds of people in this world, people who travel and people who talk about it.” I laughed nervously…as freakin’ always…and he said again, in a loud piercing voice—almost as if peering at me over a pulpit, “April, there are two kinds of people in this world, people who travel and people who talk about it.”
I smiled sitting at attention now and squeaked out a weak, “Thanks, Joe.” We talked some more, but, I could only see a talking head, I heard nothing. All I could do was think about what he had said about traveling. As I made myself a cup of coffee on my way back to the kitchen I thought of a thousand reasons why I could not travel right now.
As I pushed through the double port-holed doors to the kitchen, a smile crept across my face and I found myself thinking, “Was that a double dog dare? That was a double dog dare!”
Immediately, I was filled with energy and excitement. I was one for going all the way with a double dog dare. I wouldn’t cower this time either. I flooded over the rest of my self-imposed assignments for the day and couldn’t wait to get home that night. For the remainder of the day, everything worked like clockwork.
When I got home that evening, I sat down to my computer and logged on to www.cheaptickets.com. A few clicks on the keyboard, one hour and 300 dollars later (as if the cheap price was not confirmation enough) with my ticket to Paris, France, in my hand—I officially could look myself in the mirror and see a ‘Do-er not a Talker.’
I left on Christmas day 2003 for a trip that would change my life forever.
