I sat on the floor of my bedroom, over a dozen atlases, restaurant directories and general guidebooks on Europe scattered around me. We had finally settled in the new house. I could look out the wall of glass windows toward the creek where the giant pecan trees had lost most of their leaves in the cool fall weather.

I was so excited! We were going to do the “European tour”! It’d been a dream of mine for many years and we were finally going at Thanksgiving. I’d always wanted to visit the actual locations of my favorite books, see the great museums and sample all kinds of strange and exotic foods. I’d daydreamed of visiting The Louvre, watching the Changing of the Guards, real French wine, soft cheese on a warm baguette.

My husband, Richard, walked into the room and flipped on the TV, a sports channel, of course. Used to his need for background noise no matter what anybody else was doing, I said, “Look at this list of restaurants I’ve checked out. We’ve absolutely got to go to Maxim’s in Paris. It’s been my dream ever since I saw Gigi when I was a little girl. There’s also this one in Amsterdam called Bali. I guess it’s Balinese. They serve a rice dish with over twenty different spicy, accompaniments. Doesn’t that sound fun?”

“Mmm hmm.” He flopped on the bed and started watching a football game.

I refused to let him deflate my mood. “I’ve checked out the temperatures to help decide what clothes to bring. November is supposed to be really cold in some of these countries, but warm in others. We’ll need a couple of large suitcases just for your stuff. “He’s a big guy

“Okay, now, here’s what you need to do. Put all your jewelry in the safe and buy a cheap watch to take with you. Otherwise it could all be stolen. “Even at home, Richard gets up at least once a night to check on his Rolex and diamond ring.

What’s the use of having this stuff if you need to constantly worry about it?

I’d been hoping this vacation abroad would give Richard and I a chance to spend some fun times together. He’d been under a lot of stress and seemed angry and depressed much of the time.

I’d been disappointed and a little hurt when he decided to take his father along. Dad was a very sweet guy but he had that “Great Depression” mentality and got anxious about spending money. He had worrying down to an art form. It didn’t help that Richard tended to act “macho” around his father and treated me like a servant. I really liked his dad though and figured it would be fun to see his reactions to the places we visited.

Richard could have taken a few cues from his dad about money. He was the last of the big time spenders. The kids laughingly referred to him as Daddy Big Bucks, (behind his back, of course). He had to have the biggest house, the fanciest Rolex, and the latest Mercedes. I enjoyed luxury and material things too, especially the trips, but they weren’t the most important things in my life.

Richard had our itinerary all planned. On this 21-day trip, we’d arrive in London and spend a few days, then fly to Paris where we’d rent a car and drive through the south of France to Madrid to visit Richard’s Uncle Sonny. Then we’d drive through Spain to Monte Carlo so Richard could gamble and then to Geneva, Frankfurt and finally Amsterdam. We’d fly home from Amsterdam. I’d wanted to visit Italy but there wasn’t time. We already had quite a schedule. Richard liked to keep moving.

As I gathered the brochures, I couldn’t help thinking of that old movie called “If it’s Tuesday, This Must Be Belgium”, where a group of tourists were in a different city every day.

 

LONDON

We landed in London at 5AM and took a taxi from Gatwick Airport. It was about a forty-five minute drive into the city and we passed rolling, green hills in the shimmering dawn. There was even a small herd of sheep. I could hardly believe it; I was actually in Europe! I’d been too excited to sleep on the plane and also my seat was one up from the smoking section so my lungs felt like crap. None of that mattered as we drove through the early morning. Excitement trumped any discomfort.

We arrived at the hotel, The Dorchester, which seemed very luxurious. It should’ve been for $1,200 a night! It looked like a large, delicate white castle with lovely gardens and a huge, luxurious lobby. Our room was very quaint with big chintz cabbage roses on the bedspreads and curtains although I was surprised that the room itself was so small. Not at all like the grand spaces in American hotels. I was tired, so even though it was 7:30 AM in London, I took a bath in the huge, claw footed tub and then slept all day.

After getting up, we had dinner at the hotel dining room. It was a large, elegant room with high ceilings, beautiful chandeliers, unctuous waiters, lots of linens and silver. I ordered roast lamb with all the trimmings and a delicious Crème Brule. Yum! Dad and I shared a bottle of excellent wine. I’d expected the food in England would be awful, so the luscious meal was a delightful surprise. I felt like I was on a movie set with all the British accents, everyone overly polite and stiff, everything so stereotypically what I’d expected in England!

On our second day, it rained nonstop and the streets were filled with people carrying big black umbrellas. It looked like so many of the paintings of London. In November, it was cold and damp. We walked along the wet, shiny sidewalks, passing street vendors selling roasted chestnuts. We bought a bag just to warm up our hands. I’d never had chestnuts before, although I’d read about them in stories by Dickens. They smelled like heaven, though they tasted rather mealy and bland. At least they were warm. I couldn’t stop myself from staring like the tourist I was at the big, red, double decker busses and the cute red phone booths. It all felt so foreign and different.

We visited the British Museum and I was captivated by the archaeology section. I didn’t have time to really study the exhibits as I wanted; Richard was in a hurry to see other sights and we had to move on. I was getting irritated by having to chase after my husband. He wouldn’t wait for me, just expected me to follow him and keep up. If I didn’t pay attention, he’d walk off and leave me. He had done it before. Even though everyone spoke English, I was afraid of being lost in London. His mood was good, though, so I didn’t make a big deal out of it

That evening we went to the theatre to see a wonderful production of Evita, one of my favorite musicals. I’d always been a real Andrew Lloyd Webber fan. The acting was superb and the actor who played Che Guevara was sexy as hell. I’ve had the hots for Che since college. The dancing was just okay. It seemed that the US productions had better choreography while the British had great actors. Richard said he really enjoyed the play and I was grateful that we got to go. I had high hopes for our holiday.

The following day, we did a bunch of tourist stuff – Tower of London, Westminster Abbey, St Paul’s, we even saw the Changing of the Guards. I felt like I’d stepped back in time, especially after touring the cathedrals, which were quite literally breathtaking. Looking up through the magnificent arches to the brilliant stained glass, everywhere I turned was another amazement.

I was having a great time, and Richard seemed to be having fun too despite rushing us through everything. I didn’t understand his hurry, and when I questioned him, he ignored me. The day was too wonderful to push it though.

Dad wasn’t feeling well. I knew he was worried about spending money to visit the various attractions. Thank god he didn’t know how much the hotel cost. Richard had picked up the tab for the hotels and meals and Dad didn’t have a clue about the actual price. He wasn’t really interested in museums or the theatre. He even considered movies “wimmen’s stuff” and refused to go to one.

We visited Harrods and I could have spent days there! A gigantic super store, with four stories and a basement filled with everything under the sun. All artfully displayed and decorated for Christmas, English style. The air was filled with the scents of pine and cinnamon. The gourmet food section had chocolates, caviar, and exotic delights. I purchased a few specialties to take home while Richard and Dad rolled their eyes.

Dad said, “Don’t you want some of those chocolate grasshoppers, too?

I just grinned. “I’ll pass on those.”

“Hurry up,” Richard said. “We’ve got to see Piccadilly Circus.” It’s a giant flea market and I’ve never enjoyed flea markets. We had to go so we could say we’d been.

We caught a cab to the hotel. The London taxi drivers were an experience in themselves.  They all had opinions about Americans. The last one said, “How come you people elected that actor president? He never even got the girl!” This happened in the eighties, so he was referring to Ronald Reagan.

The next morning, our last day in London, Richard got up early. “I’m going down to the coffee shop for breakfast,” he said. “You can pack the suitcases and get everything ready.”

I was exhausted after all the hustle we’d been doing just to keep to Richard’s schedule. And now he wanted me to wake up, skip coffee, and pack his bags? I was not a servant at his beck and call.

Simmering with anger, I shouted, “Pack your own bags. I’m not your damn valet.”

“By God, there are hundreds of women who would be glad to be my valet in exchange for a fabulous, all-expense paid trip to Europe.”

I was so mad and hurt I was shaking. “Well, get one then and I’ll take the next plane home. I’m your wife, not one of your fucking sluts.”

I ran into the bathroom, slammed the door and cried in frustration. I heard Richard grumbling and throwing stuff around in the other room. When I came out of the bathroom, he had packed his own bags. Pouting, he just glared at me and we left for the airport in chilly silence. Poor Dad was upset because of the obvious tension and kept very quiet.

I was not going to let him spoil this for me.

 

PARIS

The London rain seemed cheery compared to the dreary gray drizzle of Paris as we landed.  I asked the taxi driver who brought us from the station to drive around the Eiffel Tower on the way to the hotel. He pretended not to understand my high school French or my clumsy attempts with the French phrase book and kept yelling, “Eeet eze closed!”

Damn it, I knew it was closed. I just wanted to drive around the famous Paris site. It was a very different feeling in France than in England. Richard didn’t say anything.

We were staying at the Intercontinental Hotel, which was a five star luxury hotel, but very generic. We could have been in Houston or Chicago or any big city. I wanted local flavor and ambience, which I’d told Richard. Another thing I cared about that he chose to ignore.

After we’d checked in, we were all tired so we went for a snack at the hotel coffee shop instead of getting a big dinner before bed. The server, like the taxi driver, was extremely rude. Welcome to France.

Richard and I tried to be pleasant, since we were obviously making poor Dad tense. He lives a quiet life and our loud arguments confused him. Hell, they confused me too.

The next morning we visited The Louvre. I was so excited. When we got there, the museum was surrounded by ongoing construction, but it was still wonderful. I had to stand in line to view the Mona Lisa – I didn’t expect it to be so little!

Richard, however, wanted to set the world’s speed record for touring the entire Louvre in under three hours so I couldn’t linger over the magnificent sculptures and wonderful paintings. It was difficult as he barked orders at Dad and I. For the first time, I was grateful I hadn’t come alone to Europe with Richard.

In the afternoon we visited Montmarte, the artist’s colony on the left bank. It was a fun atmosphere with artists displaying their wares and sketching caricatures of the tourists. We had some wonderful Boef Bourguignon at a small café at four in the afternoon. Richard refused to eat late – European style.

At the top of the hill in Montmarte was the lovely, graceful Sacre Couer Catedral. It’s style is similar to the cathedral at Chartres which I also long to visit one day. Inside the sacristy it was cool and dark and the hushed echoes and the smell of incense gave me such a feeling of peace and sacredness. The views of Paris from the cathedral steps were incredible. I loved visiting the cathedrals. There was so much history. It made me realize that we Americans really are upstarts.

Tuesday morning we took a city tour, driving down the magnificent boulevards which were built by Napoleon, past the Arche de Triomphe. It was truly a spectacularly beautiful city. Too bad it was inhabited by the ill-mannered French. We visited the Palace at Versailles in the afternoon. Another vignette of history. Good grief! It was so incredibly ornate with the French provincial, gilded furniture, the lavish drapes and bed hangings and magnificent paintings on the ceiling and walls. No wonder the French had a revolution.

Dad still wasn’t feeling well and wanted to stay in the hotel that evening. I think he was just freaked out by our “luxurious lifestyle”, or it could be our love-hate relationship.

I was determined to make it work, even if it choked me. Dad and I left our passports and valuables in the hotel safe, but Richard wanted to keep everything with him so all his stuff was in my purse. Him keeping it meant me being the one carry it.

Richard was trying too. He took me shopping, and then we were going to Maxim’s for dinner, just he and I. All decked out in my new raspberry and black Givenche outfit with an elegant cape, I strutted down the street feeling very chic and cosmopolitan, toting my first and only designer handbag. Maxim’s was only a few blocks from the hotel and it was a lovely, cool evening so we were walking. I don’t know how I got Richard to agree to eat at what I considered a “normal” hour, but he had gone to McDonalds earlier.

Suddenly, a guy on a moped banged into me on the sidewalk, shoved me and grabbed my purse. I started screaming incoherently for Richard’s help.

Richard said, “Oh good God, calm down. You weren’t hurt.” I guess he thought I was just pissed off by the moped being on the sidewalk.

Rubbing my injured shoulder, I told him, “He’s got my purse and your passport is in it.” I’d finally gotten through to him, so he took off running and chased the guy for a block or so. Did he think he could outrun the moped? He was really upset, red-faced and grumbling and cursing under his breath by the time he returned. That was the most expensive purse I’d ever bought and not only Richard’s passport, but our credit cards, a little cash, my French phrase book, and my glasses were in my purse. We walked back to the hotel and the concierge assisted us in reporting the stolen credit cards but in order to get Richard a new passport, we had to report the theft to the police.

I was in shock and felt absolutely terrified. So, although it was not far, we got into a taxi in front of the hotel. When the driver found out we were only going a short way, he kicked us out of the taxi, cussing and yelling at us in French. The concierge was able to find a taxi that would take us to the police station. It was in a bad neighborhood and the police station door was locked. We knocked and a surly policeman answered, took one look at us, and screamed, “No one here speaks English.” He slammed the door in our face.

Richard, who was 6’3” and weighed about 300 lbs, banged heavily on the door with his fist. They reluctantly let us in. A policewoman helped us fill out the report. It was difficult because my phrase book was in my purse along with my reading glasses. I was able to get them to call us a taxi when the report was done and we returned to the hotel.

It was getting late and we hadn’t eaten so we went to the Pied Cochon Café, supposedly the origin of French Onion Soup. It was really delicious, but I was still shaking inside over the theft and Richard was moody and uncommunicative. This little restaurant was something he had wanted to share with me; he’d discovered it on a previous trip. He was depressed now and wouldn’t even talk to me. Richard was in one of those moods where it was just best to be quiet and let him work it out. I knew he was scared, but he wasn’t the only one, and I wasn’t acting out like a sullen teenager.  I also pretty freaked out and felt so vulnerable. I wished he could be supportive and comforting. My shoulder was aching from having the purse jerked off my arm.

When we returned to the hotel, we found Dad pacing the lobby and wringing his hands. We had not told him about the purse being snatched because he worries. Someone had found Richard’s passport with a postcard from the hotel inside and they called the hotel. The concierge had called Dad’s room and told him his passport had been found. Dad and I had left our passports in the hotel safe but he was very upset and confused. We explained what had happened and that it was Richard’s passport that had been found. Yay! We called the people who had found the passport and arranged to pick it up the next day.

The following morning, we had trouble finding the address and a four foot tall and four foot wide Frenchwoman answered our knock at the wrong apartment. She began screaming and yelling at us in French. She didn’t even come waist high to Richard but she was jumping up and down, so she could attempt to shake her fist in his face. It was quite a sight. She even chased us as we tried to make a getaway. I’ve never met anyone like the French people, before or since.

We finally found the right apartment and a delightful Lebanese couple served us Turkish coffee, thick and delicious. They spoke excellent English and explained they had found the passport in the ditch with a hotel notepad inside and had called the hotel. We were very grateful, of course, and I enjoyed visiting with them.

We then went to Burger King for breakfast. At this point, I didn’t dare object to anything he wanted to do or risk another one of his bad moods.

Richard said, “I’ve decided to pick up the rental car early and leave this damn place. I just want to get the hell out of Paris.”

He was very upset over the theft. My shoulder hurt, and I felt anxious. I was sure ready to get out of Paris, too. “Okay,” I agreed. We returned to the hotel, packed and then took a taxi to the north side of Paris to get the car.

More hassle! The only car they had, a tiny Fiat, was leaking oil and they weren’t sure it would make it for the rest of our 3,000 mile trip. After much arguing, we took the car and headed South. Did I mention that Richard was a large man? The Fiat was tiny and we were packed into that car like sardines.

We’d been planning on visiting Fontainebleau so we stopped on the way. It was only forty-five minutes until closing when we arrived, so we hurried through. Dad didn’t want to spend the money for admission so he waited in the car, (also known as the tin can). I would have loved touring Fontainebleau if we hadn’t been in such a rush.

The gardens were spectacular. We literally ran through the “hall of mirrors”. We didn’t have time to really look and experience this magnificent castle. I barely glanced at the fabulous furnishings and the wonderful portraits of the Sun King, Louis XVI, Marie Antoinette, and the young prince Louis XV.

As we were leaving Fontainebleau, Richard said, “I’m going to look for someplace to

eat.”

“It’s the middle of the afternoon. Why can’t we have a nice dinner at a normal time? We are in France, for God’s sake.”

“You just have to try to control everything, don’t you?” He bellowed, his face red.

My eyes filled with tears as we headed out in the tiny car, with Richard obviously enraged. Dad sat there quietly. He was not accustomed to our “living out loud”. He lives a very conventional life. We continued driving for hours. I didn’t dare say anything for fear of amping up Richard’s temper.

Richard’s mood went from surly to worse, cussing and muttering when he wasn’t just brooding. I think he felt he wasn’t a “hero” or “manly” when my purse got snatched. I was still feeling very vulnerable and unsafe so we argued and argued about everything. We were good at that.

 

ROAD TRIP PARIS TO MADRID

We got stuck in traffic in Orleans and Richard yelled and cursed the traffic and the tourists. What did he think we were? Dad and I just kept our mouths shut.

After about three hours in tense silence, Dad finally spoke up. “Richard, I’m really getting hungry.”

So, at last, we stopped in Tours, France about 9:00 PM. . We found a charming old French hotel, the Hotel de l’Universe, and had our only really fine dining experience in France. The waiter was the only Frenchman we encountered who was polite and helpful. I don’t even remember what we ate; only that it was delicious. The wine was good and the hotel was quaint and the service was wonderful. In November a delightful wine called Beaujolais Nuevo is in season. Dad and I both really enjoyed it.

When Dad and I ordered the wine, Richard got upset and started talking about alcoholic treatment centers for us when we got back. “Richard,” I said, “Come on, we’re in France. Not to drink wine is a crime against nature.”

He’s always had issues with any kind of alcohol use. He doesn’t drink at all, and he’s not even an alcoholic.

The next morning Richard and Dad walked around Tours while I slept. I wasn’t feeling well. Tired to the bone combined with not being a morning person made it difficult to get out of the cozy bed. When Richard returned to the hotel, he insisted we get on the road immediately. I’ve got frizzy hair that takes time to arrange before venturing out in public, I wanted to at least wash my face and put on a little make up. A cup of coffee would have been nice. Richard is used to sleeping four hours a night but I need my eight hours, which seems to irritate him. Everything I do seems to irritate him.

Why in the hell did I want to take this damn trip?

We drove like crazy through the south of France. I don’t know how fast we were going because the speedometer was in kilometers, but it was very erratic as he attempted to pass all the cars on the road. Richard’s driving was making both me and Dad carsick and when we’d stop for gas, Dad and I usually rushed to the bathroom to throw up.

As we approached the toll booths, Richard would start bellowing at us to come up with the change for the tolls, and Dad and I had to start scrambling frantically to find the correct money. We had to figure out what country we were in, and how much the toll was. We were all nervous and irritable by now. What was supposed to be a nice drive was turning into a test of all our patience.

Richard sent Dad in to pay for gas at one of the stations and they ripped him off. Richard bellowed at him and Dad was upset. He was actually shaking, and he had tears in his eyes. Done with France, I couldn’t wait to hear some good old Spanish.

We passed beautiful chateaus, wineries, and lovely scenery in the Pyrenees, but we were going too fast to even take a photo. Visiting a winery was completely out of the question. I insisted that we stop in San Sebastian in Basque country. Richard wanted to keep driving, but I was tired and miserable. Dad too, but he wouldn’t say anything. I didn’t blame him one bit.

We found a lovely ornate, gilded hotel that had a suite with two bedrooms and a spectacular view for only $80. This was a shock because the other hotels were so expensive. San Sebastian was beautiful and the hotel looked out on a lovely cove with a large statue of Jesus guarding the harbor. The architecture was impressive and unique, sort of like an ancient village. We went out for a walk on the seawall and watched the sunset. There was a spectacular view of the cove and a refreshing breeze from the ocean. We all let out a collective breath of relief.

Richard piped up with, “Let’s find something to eat.”

I was beginning to hate those words. “I need to clean up and dress, I still haven’t had a shower or make up, and I look and feel like a bag lady.”

His face turned red as he glared at me, really mad.  “Goddamnit, everything has to be your way. Why don’t you just go off and do your own fucking thing?”

How on earth could he be mad at me? I’d done almost everything he’d wanted, and in triple time. He wanted a beautiful woman on his arm, but refused to let me shower before going out for a nice meal? I refused to go to dinner. I sat in the room and cried and tried to figure out how I could manage to get to an airport and go home. It was obvious that taking this trip with Richard had been a mistake.

Early the next morning he wanted to leave immediately, no coffee or breakfast. My eyes were swollen from crying. “I want to sleep some more.”

He slammed things around the hotel room, screaming, “You can sleep when you’re dead!”  I hadn’t unpacked the night before, so it took five minutes to grab my suitcase and climb in the tiny car. I didn’t comb my hair or put on make-up and I looked and felt like crap. I’m fair and I need makeup! I wore my thundercloud expression and tried to decide what to do. I was so angry and hurt.

 

MADRID

By the time we reached Madrid and Uncle Sonny’s, I had made a decision to just leave and fly home. Richard’s Uncle Sonny and Aunt Yvonne didn’t know what to think because Richard and I were snarling at each other in barely civilized voices and my hair was all frizzy and wild. I’m sure I looked like the Bride of Frankenstein on a bad day. Dad was thrilled to see his brother and get some space from our dysfunction.

I rested a while and felt somewhat better. I got dressed and put on some makeup, so I looked halfway human. Sonny looked at me and said, “Wow, you sure clean up nice. ” After an awkward silence, with everyone just staring at me, we went to the casino with Yvonne and Sonny. It was very laid back, unlike the casinos I’ve visited in Vegas and Atlantic City with Richard, with all the slot machine clatter and noise.

Dad said, “I just want to go to the track.” He was not impressed by the casinos. He joked about having “Meals on Wheels” deliver to the track when he got home. It was nice, being with other people and we shared an enjoyable meal with jokes and laughter. Richard seemed to be calming down, which meant that I could, too. .

Later that evening, Richard apologized for his behavior. We talked and he said, “I feel like I’ve spent all this money for this fantastic trip and no one appreciates all I’ve done. You and my dad just bitch and moan and complain all the time.”

Instead of reacting emotionally, I tried to reassure him that I did appreciate the opportunity to visit all these wonderful places. “I love you, Richard. I just want us to be happy.

“I want that too,” he said. “Which is why I brought you on this trip.”

I gritted my teeth at his need to control every last thing. He’d only gotten worse with age, and an increased bank account. I nodded. “You’ve always known how much I wanted to      visit Europe”

Yvonne fixed Thanksgiving dinner and a Spanish couple, friends of theirs, came over as well. Sonny was known as the family cheapskate, and in typical Sonny fashion, there was a tiny little chicken for the seven people at dinner. The poor scrawny chicken looked like it came from Ethiopia. We got a bite and a half each, but at least there were some excellent side dishes. We all played poker in the evening and we were relaxed and everyone seemed to be in a better mood.

The next day, we drove around for a mini tour of Madrid with Sonny. He’d stop the car at a fountain or monument and say, “Take a picture.”

We’d ask “What is this?” And he’d say “Hell, I don’t know – all the damn tourists take pictures of this crap.”

Madrid was another typical big city. It looked like any other city anywhere in the world; very modern and generic. Thank God we were able to relax. We were all so tired and grouchy. The rest was wonderful, and I enjoyed visiting with Yvonne.

In the evening Richard went to the casino again while I packed and spent time with Yvonne. I can’t quite understand why gambling is okay, but a glass of wine signifies alcoholism! Go figure.

When he returned from the casino, it was obvious that he was feeling amorous (after all he’d apologized) so we went to bed early. I was chastised for not initiating sex more often (or never). “After all”, he said, “I paid for all this and it’s the least you can do. Do you know how many women would be more than happy to take care of me?”

Damn it, he makes me feel like a hooker.

 

BARCELONA

      We left Madrid about 8:00 AM. I had coffee and a bite to eat – Yippee! We whizzed by beautiful “castles in Spain”. Really! There were all these wonderful castles in Spain. We couldn’t stop, of course, or even slow down. Richard continued his horrible driving, speeding and slinging everyone around as he attempted to pass everything on the road.

It was interesting how the light in each country was so different. As we drove, hurriedly, through Spain, the sky had a golden yellow cast. The countryside looked like West Texas, except for the castles hovering in the distance. I could visualize Western films being shot there in the scrub brush. Didn’t see Clint Eastwood, though.

We arrived in Barcelona about 3:00 in the afternoon and checked into Hotel Princesa Sofia, another luxury hotel, and after a brief rest went shopping. That evening, (yes, evening!), we headed out to dinner. We were supposed to go to this castle I had read about, but it was closed and we ended up in a restaurant at the port. The Restaurante was Casa Costa de Marie, Costa Playa de la Barceloneta, Baluarte 124. I kept the address in case I ever get back there. Best seafood I ever had! We had paella, mixed grill and zarzuela, with crème brule for desert. Very impressive. Dad was a tad freaked out when the waiter set the paella on the table with all the seafood still in the shells, but he enjoyed the food.

We went sightseeing in the Fiat and visited the Columbus monument and the replica (200 years old) of the Santa Maria, his ship. That’s right, the replica was 200 years old! The ship is so small. How on earth did they sail clear to America. Amazing!

We went shopping and bought souvenirs and a great leather outfit for me. This was one of my agendas for the trip, a leather pantsuit in Barcelona! It was charcoal gray lambskin, soft as butter. I loved it. I had to buy matching boots to go with it, naturally.

We went to La Catedral, the main cathedral. It was closed, but the outside was magnificent. Then we went to la Catedral de la Sacrada Familia by Gaudi. Wonderful. It’s been under construction for almost a hundred years and is adorned with mosaic tiles. It is an amazing work of art. Richard and I spent at least two hours there, wandering around and climbing up the turrets to see all the mosaics up close, although Dad didn’t want to pay the entrance fee again, and waited by the car. Admission was 80 cents. We drove to Guel Park and other architectural sites by Gaudi. I loved his stuff! It was whimsical and reminiscent of Picasso, who was a contemporary and friend of Gaudi. We got lost and drove around for a while. Real men don’t ask for directions, you know. I didn’t mind, I loved Barcelona! I want to go back there when I can truly visit in a relaxed manner.

Richard was being much more accommodating and cooperative. I think being able to relax in Madrid with family had definitely calmed him down. We were both really enjoying Barcelona and he seemed as intrigued by Gaudi’s works as I was.

Maybe we could salvage this trip after all.

 

MONTE CARLO

We left for Monte Carlo the next day. We finally got there after many hours of zipping through interesting countryside at high speeds, past castles and other unique areas. Richard, of course, refusing to stop for anything.

The Hotel de la Paris was the most lavish and beautiful hotel I’d ever seen. The outside looked like a giant wedding cake. Very ornate! It had a huge, lavish lobby with incredibly high ceilings, magnificent chandeliers, gorgeous floral arrangements and tasteful antique furnishings. We had a big bouquet of fresh flowers and a large fruit basket in our suite. They obviously thought we were someone special. Actually Richard’s ex-wife owned a travel agency with his last name so that’s probably why we got the special treatment.

We had a nice meal in the rooftop restaurant with a spectacular view of the Cote d’Azure. The light there was blue and soft. I guess that’s why they call it the “Blue Coast”. It was so pretty with the waves lapping the shore and the yachts floating in the harbor. There was one ultra high-tech yacht floating in the harbor that was used in the latest James Bond film with Sean Connery.

After breakfast we went to the pool although it was a little cold. We were trying to salvage this trip and, for now at least, be polite to each other. The views were incredible with white terraces laden with baskets of flowers overlooking the sea. The houses and buildings were crawling up the hillsides like toys. I made an appointment at the spa for a massage and hairdo. I was so tired from all the driving and tension, and a massage sounded wonderful.

Since Paris, we’d driven over 3,000 miles. I absolutely refused to drive any further. “My ass is not going to be crammed into that Fiat for hours again!”

Dad agreed with me and nodded behind Richard’s back, but he wouldn’t say anything so I had to be the bitch. No problem!

Richard announced, “Everybody in the car. We’ll go to the airport in Cannes and book a flight to Amsterdam. We can still fly home from there.”

“I’m exhausted and don’t want to do any more driving,” I said. “I’ve been carsick, Richard. I would really like to rest by the pool.”

“It’s not far–just up the road a little ways,” he said in a reasonable tone. “I need you to come with me.” So I agreed. I was trying to be amenable. Dad went, too. We drove and drove and drove. Richard was upset and cussing the French, the roads, the tourists and everything else in sight. He was driving like the maniac he is. Dad and I both got carsick, and we had to stop to throw up once again.

We stopped in Cannes for lunch. (There is a family joke that when you go anywhere with Richard, it’s like being on a restaurant inspection tour. He had to eat often!) Richard said, “Let’s go look at the shops.”

I protested, feeling tricked again. He always got his way, no matter what. “I don’t want to miss my appointment for a massage.”

“You can have a massage later.”

Frustrated, I curled my hands into fists. There was a reason I hadn’t wanted to leave with him. But, oh no, I had trusted him. “I want to go back to the hotel and relax, damn it. ”

He pushed back in his chair. “Well, I’m going to shop in Cannes even if it harelips the f**king Pope.” “You can figure out how to get back to the hotel if that’s what you want.”

Dad winced and glanced around in embarrassment.

Obviously, I missed my massage appointment. When we finally got back to the hotel, I went down to see if I could get another appointment, but nothing was available. When I returned to the room, Richard had gone off to gamble. I had no key and couldn’t get in. I went down to the lobby to ask the concierge to open the door for me.

In this oily, condescending French accented voice he said, “I am not able to do that MADEMOISELLE.” I didn’t realize until that moment that “mademoiselle” was a dirty word! He glared at me haughtily. “Zees room is registered to Monsieur Trask.” I use my maiden name so my passport said Phillips. I was furious. I was tired and car weary and now I was being treated like a slut by a stupid French asshole!

I found Dad and went to his room and tried to relax a bit. I was literally ready to kill Richard. At 5:00 he called and wanted to go eat. I didn’t care if I ever shared another meal with the man. In frosty tones, I said, “I’m tired and it’s too damn early to eat and I couldn’t relax because I was locked out of the damn room. Thank you for thinking about me when you left. ”

He yelled and screamed about what a bitch I was, and hung up. He finally came back around 9:00 and wanted to go to sleep. I was furious. Dad and I had waited for Richard, and our reward was being hungry and mad.

I wanted to go home. I walked around and sat on the deck looking out at the ocean for a while. I felt so lonely and depressed. I was envisioning this lovely romantic vacation, and instead I’d been mostly miserable. I’d hoped Richard and I would get closer, not tear each other to shreds. Now I just wanted to go home. I decided I could stand it a few more days. I really wanted to see Amsterdam and no telling when I would get another opportunity.

The next morning, we were jerked out of sleep at 7:00 AM by riveting! The noise was so loud it was impossible to sleep. They were remodeling the hotel and working right outside the window of our room. Come to find out, they were riveting our window trim. Richard left for the airport to pick up our tickets and I ordered a Continental breakfast but the noise was so loud I couldn’t stay in the room. I went down on the terrace and looked out over the water. It was relaxing with the yachts floating in the harbor. I met Richard and Dad on their way to the pool and we went for lunch, instead.

Richard wanted to gamble, so I went to the room for a nap. The jack-hammering had finally stopped. There was a trash chute for the construction debris right outside the window which had added to the incredible noise. But It was finally quiet and I fell asleep. I was so exhausted my brain was numb.

Twenty minutes later I was ripped from sleep by the jack-hammering and trash chuting again. I awoke in a murderous rage. I leapt out of bed and knocked over a chair and broke the strap of my new lizard purse as I grabbed it and charged down to the lobby ready for battle.

As the elevator door opened, who should have the misfortune to be standing there but Richard? He took one look at me and started backing up with a look of abject fear on his face and real terror in his eyes. I screamed at the top of my lungs (and they are healthy), “GET ME OUT OF THIS FILTHY, FUCKING, RATHOLE HOTEL YOU SON OF A BITCH. ”

He shrank to about four feet tall and about 90 lbs. All of the very elegant guests in the luxurious lobby had the incredibly bad manners to stare with open mouths as I sank to the floor, sobbing.

Richard helped me up and led me to the elevator as the concierge rushed over. Suddenly I became “Madame” .

“We will take care of this, Madame,” he assured us in an unctuous voice.

“I WANT OUT OF HERE”, I calmly repeated. “IT SOUNDS LIKE WORLD WAR III IS GOING ON IN MY GODDAMN ROOM!”

Richard escorted me to the room. The noise was incredible and Richard, in his nurturing and sympathetic manner said, “I DON’T CARE WHAT IT COSTS. I’LL PUT YOUR COMPLAINING ASS ON A PLANE TODAY, SO YOUR SUFFERING CAN END.”

Then, he called the manager and yelled a lot. They offered us another room with twin beds. Richard objected to this and I would have to pack and then pack again early the next morning so we both said “No.” After all, they only worked from 7:00 AM to 7:00 PM.!

I opened the windows and stepped out on the balcony with my camera to document this atrocity. As I aimed my camera at the workmen they began to wave, cheer and catcall. I was only wearing a filmy slip. “Hey”, I thought. “A couple of them are kinda cute. Maybe I could trade Richard in.” I took the photos and waved back. As I stepped back in the room, the shouts got louder so Richard stomped out on the balcony and glared at them. It got extremely quiet. Have I mentioned he is a very large man?

Then the jack-hammering started again with construction trash crashing down the chute. The noise was really intolerable, so we dressed and walked over to the snack shop for a hamburger. We didn’t talk about what had just happened. I was upset at Richard’s lack of respect for me, his inconsiderate behavior.

That evening, we went to the Casino Monte Carlo. Whee! I felt like a character out of a James Bond film. It was incredibly ornate and luxurious. Chandeliers, mahogany paneling, everything gilded and glitzed. Very sedate and quiet compared to casinos in Vegas. I began playing blackjack, and started winning! The chips were piling up; I didn’t know what I was betting because it was all in French francs. A whole group of people gathered and started placing bets on me. I was hot!I figured I’d made a bundle. I was planning my great escape. I couldn’t even see over my stack of chips, but when I cashed them in I only had $980 in American money. That wouldn’t take me far, but it was a nice fantasy while it lasted.

AMSTERDAM

We took a plane to Amsterdam since I had refused to get back in the Fiat and drive another 1,000 miles. When we landed, Richard told me to find a local hotel since I had complained about the generic five star hotels which had no local flavor, like being in a nice hotel in any city. I found an absolutely charming and quaint, 16^th century bed and breakfast. We got a cab and drove there. It was so cute; I loved it, but it didn’t have room service or elevators so Richard decided not to stay there.

“Dad can’t climb stairs,” he insisted.

Dad actually muttered, “Looks nice.” We found another hotel – it was local and much more reasonable. We were scheduled to stay at the Amstel, another five star, so this was more authentic. They had 30 watt light bulbs so it was difficult to read. I decided to buy a book light when I got home so I wouldn’t have this problem ever again.

I talked them into going to a restaurant I had researched called, “Bali”. They serve a rice dish that had an assortment of two dozen sauces and meats. Very spicy and delicious. Richard and Dad agreed it was the most exotic food they had ever eaten, but I’m not sure they liked it, but I sure did. Dad and I shared a bottle of wine and Richard mentioned alcohol treatment centers again. At least, he was now acting like it was a joke.

We toured the city. It was amazing with all the canals, and the skinny houses. We visited the Rijksmuseum with all the Dutch Masters and Van Goghs. Awesome! The self portrait of Rembrandt that looked so dark in the reproductions was incredibly rich, vibrant, and lovely. We saw the house where Anne Frank lived, Rembrandt’s house, and took a boat tour around the city. All very interesting and historical.

In the evening, we took a cab to the red light district. The prostitutes were posed in the windows and invited clients with sexy moves and skimpy clothes. There were also sex clubs where you could watch “real life fucky, fucky.” We didn’t go. They were very liberal about sexuality and drugs in Amsterdam. It was interesting because they had very little drug related crimes there since drugs were legal.

Dad was disappointed at not getting to Germany, so the decision was made to take a train to Dusseldorf for the day instead of the trip to a Dutch tulip garden that I’d planned. It left Amsterdam at 6:00 AM, which meant we had to leave the hotel at 5:00 AM. Nothing was open for coffee or breakfast so we (especially me) were hoping to get something on the train but they had no dining car .It was a German train and the Gestapo ticket takers scared the hell out of me. German always sounds like they’re barking orders. It was a three hour train ride and there was no coffee or anything to eat.

When we got to Dusseldorf, we looked for something to eat at the train station. No such luck, and no one appeared to be able to speak English. It was freezing cold. We walked around for a while and finally, I spotted a restaurant. It was owned by a group of Japanese who were very polite but could not speak English. They did have coffee. Hooray! They directed us to a hotel, also Japanese, but they spoke English and they gave us a brochure and recommended a restaurant.

We went to “Old Town” and ate a very heavy German meal. Thick gravy on everything. Dad found a Woolworth’s store and went in to buy souvenirs for his friends and relatives in the US. He bought one of those little sampler boxes of perfume with nine or ten small bottles and he said that should cover all his gifts and he’d only spent $10.00!

This time of the year the sun came up at 11:00 AM and set at 3:00 PM. How depressing. I didn’t like Dusseldorf and the Germans sounded like they were gargling when they talked.

We returned to Amsterdam that evening and planned to leave for home the next day.

We were all looking forward to going home. Dad was wandering around waving a little American flag, and muttering “God Bless America”.

I had the TV on and the Smurfs came on speaking Dutch. I started crying. “I wanna go home where Smurfs speak English!”

 

HOME

This trip was wonderful in so many ways. I visited places I had read about and dreamed of visiting. However, the goal of getting closer with Richard and healing our relationship did not come to pass. It was just a matter of accepting what is–that he would continue to be angry and controlling and resentful. There were many reasons I couldn’t leave this relationship so I’d just have to make the best of it.