On Monday evening (April 24), as Eleanor was packing at the Hotel Majestic, I called the home of the family with whom I would be staying to arrange going there the next day. Eleanor was to fly to London the same day and as nice as the hotel is, I did not want to stay there any longer than necessary. I was also eager to meet my new family. This was going to be a rather surreal experience, I thought, as I had not lived with any other family but my own for well over 30 years, and I did not know how I would fit in or how I would do marching to someone else's rhythm. It was not a problem, as it turned out, but it did have me a bit worried.

BLS had done a very good job of arranging for my accommodations while I attended the school, and from the short bio Véronique, the School's accommodation officer, sent me of the family members they sounded perfect. And they were. The husband and wife (Patrice and Isabelle Bogart, let's call them) are about my age and background, and they have three grown children. One of them, a son, now lives and works in London while one daughter lives and works in Paris. The other daughter lives at home and attends the University of Bordeaux. When I called the first time no one answered except the machine, and I did not feel confident enough to leave a message. Yet after several more attempts I was forced to do so, sounding like a dolt no doubt as I left a message in French that I was at the Hotel Majestic and would love to begin my stay with them as soon as possible after Eleanor's departure.

M. Bogart telephoned me at the hotel Monday evening with the most effusive welcome and after I asked him to slow down a bit we communicated quite nicely. He said he would come by the Majestic the next day after school and pick me up. I knew where the house was as Eleanor and I had found the street on which they live on the map and walked by their home Monday afternoon. We rang the bell so we could introduce ourselves, but there was no one home. It turned out they were at their weekend home in the Pays-Basque and did not return until Monday evening. Like so many other houses of its age (I suspect it was built in the 1920s) it is narrow and tall, in this case four stories, and very elegant. There is an entry hall that leads to stairs that takes one to the first floor (or second in the US) where there is a dining room, living room, a TV den, the kitchen, and a half bath. The next floor had a bathroom and three bedrooms, and the third contained the bedroom, a bathroom, and outdoor patio used by the parents. It is a beautiful home and the Bogarts are justifiably proud of it.

The Bogarts opened up their home and life to me and welcomed me in the most genuine and warm way possible. It was truly a great experience being with them. I had the son's room on the third floor and was given my towels and space to put things, and I was all set. M. Bogart asked about any special needs I had and when I said I would like to get some Badoit mineral water he went out and bought some for me. (The next day I bought myself some orange juice to drink in the morning, as the day does not begin for me until I have a very large glass or two.) They made it quite clear that this was to be my home while I was in their city and that they wanted to make things as pleasant and comfortable for me as possible.

The tuition for the school is separate from the cost of a room and board, and BLS has a list of families that will take in students for the length of time they are in Bordeaux. The cost is not expensive, really, and during the week the host families are obligated to provide two meals, generally breakfast (coffee, tea, toast, or something similar) and dinner; students are on their own for lunch. Three meals are provided on the weekend. The free time at lunch was not all that bad, as I needed time during the middle of the day to relax and detune a bit after an intense morning at school. Thus, it provided me the opportunity I need to get away from things and be on my own.

"Take Versailles, add Antwerp and you end up with Bordeaux". This is how Victor Hugo described the wine capital of France, and the world. This distinguished city is the best preserved 18th century architectural complex in the world. Its white stone facades, lush gardens, original cobblestone streets and elegant boulevards are just some of the many aspects that make this such a wonderful city, one that ranks as one of the continent's most beautiful. Of course, there is also its geographical location, temperate climate, and friendly atmosphere that make it a remarkably livable place. Whatever the reason one chooses to visit Bordeaux, everyone shares the same inherent love of wine and refined gastronomy. We discovered here a laid-back, pleasant city, with broad boulevards, wonderful parks (in particular the Jardin Public and the Parc Bordelais which are simply stunning), and a wide range of cafes, restaurants, elegant shops. Even though it is the 5th largest city in France, it is also very safe. Being in the center of the French wine industry ain't all that bad either, and for me that was like dying and going to heaven.

The Bordeaux Language School (or BLS) is located on the Place Gambetta, where there are some very good restaurants. Called at one time the Place Dauphine, Place Gambetta was built in 1747 and is flanked by a collection of beautiful Bordeaux style fa�ades. It is a meeting place for people of all types and ages who come here to eat, talk, have a coffee, or just hang out. Close by the School Bordeaux offers a wide range of shops, boutiques, malls, and flea markets. Some of these are the 'Golden Triangle,' a chic, designer district; La Galerie Commerciale des Grands Hommes, an impressive glass-domed building combining high-class shops with a closed food market; Rue St Catherine, one of the longest pedestrian shopping streets in Europe; and Rue Notre Dame, a place for antique connoisseurs. Now, this is a city where one can spend some serious money, and I certainly did do my bit to keep the French economy humming.

PART II -- THE BORDEAUX LANGUAGE SCHOOL (BLS)

Getting ready to go to Bordeaux for school was an exciting time for me. I can say with all honesty that I had not looked forward to anything quite this much in years. I studied French before I left as I did not want to turn up there sounding like a complete dope, and I was very happy I did because as it turned out I knew much more than I thought I did. The practice I had on our vacation was a great help as well, although I still think I would have preferred to adhere to my original schedule of begin-ning in February and attending school until Eleanor joined me in mid-March. Before I began at BLS I had to complete a written test that permitted the people there to judge my level of competency. It was really a lot of fun to do, and, as usual, I wrote and wrote and then e-mailed it to them for evaluation. I don't know about the quality of my answers, but I was told I have the distinction of writing the test with the longest answers of any they have ever received. Readers of this journal will not be surprised by this in the slightest.

When I got to the school I found myself in a class with 8 other students. In it with me were two young Spaniards, two German women (one somewhat younger than I and the other quite young), and a young Japanese woman. Unlike more traditional schools, BLS does not have terms that begin and end on specific days. Rather, people can begin and end whenever they want, and some come for one week, two weeks, or several months. In my case, at the end of my first week the two Spaniards left for home, as did the older of the two German women. Their places were taken by an Austrian woman and a Swiss man. This arrangement did not cause as many problems as one might think as the competency test gave the staff the ability to blend people with approximately the same linguistic skills. In fact, the constant change of students was actually quite good and made everyone keep on their toes to be able to understand new accents and ways of speaking the language.

The classes were conducted exclusively in French, and that was great except when it came to arcane rules of grammar and then I would have preferred some explanation in English. The first week I understood about 65 percent of what was going on but would have done far better if I had not been so very tired; I had had no opportunity to rest after the marathon driving Eleanor and I did and it showed. The teacher did a good job in drawing us out in conversation so we could make the inevitable mistakes and be corrected by her or other members of the class.

The young Japanese woman was very cute but had a hard time getting beyond her cultural inhibitions about making public presentations and participating in class. As time went on she got better and better and no doubt by the end of her three month tenure in Bordeaux will be mixing it up with the best of them. I just wonder, though, as an article in the International Herald Tribune pointed out, how she will do when she gets back to Japan. The gist of the article was that young Japanese students, es-pecially women, have a hard time adjusting to (and being accepted back into their culture) Japanese life and all its strictures after studying in the West. I have no idea if this is correct or not, but I cut the article out and gave it to her to read.

The Bogart house was about 10 to 15 minutes from the school, so after a brisk walk I was ready to begin class at 9 A.M. We would go until lunch, come back for some more class work and then end the day at 3 p.m. At lunch we would be on our own, and with the plethora of good restaurants nearby I was always able to get something to eat. After lunch we would often talk about where we went and what we had to eat, and it was during these discussions that one of the differences of what it means to be 20 and 60 years of age became much clearer. The kids in the class would get together and have a sandwich and some beer and I would go to a restaurant for veau a la viennoise (which I adore), a salad, and some wine. I never eat this way at home but the proximity to such good food, such salubrious wine, and the need to get some time to myself was an irresistible combination. After finishing lunch I would do some window shopping and look for something Eleanor might like.

At one store I saw a beautiful linen jacket with a scene in Venice woven in light blues and whites. It is wonderful so I went in and for the next half-hour talked with the sales people about the proper size for my wife. Having an inspiration, I went back to the Hotel Majestic where the people know us well and asked one of the very nice managers what size she thought Eleanor would take, and her instantaneous response was 40, not the 38 I thought. I went back to the store and got one of that size as a surprise for my bride. It fit perfectly, I am pleased to say, and she likes it as much as I do. (When I gave it to her, I should have realized that a new jacket means new slacks and shoes. So, this spur-of-the-moment purchase has led to many others so the ensemble will be complete.)

That same day I also went to Jacodi, a French store that sells the most exquisite baby clothes, so I could buy something for my grandchild-to-be, whether it be boy or girl. That was great fun, but are they ever expensive. I soon came to realize that if we have a granddaughter I will soon be broke be-cause there are the most wonderful things for little girls. Boys as well, of course, but we have many things from when Matt and Andrew were babies to give their sons. But the clothes for little girls are simply beautiful. I resisted as best I could but got a couple of things that can be for either sex. That shopping was really fun.

Many, if not most, of the students at BLS were young, in the early 20s for the most part, I should guess. They were going to BLS to better their French, of course, because they saw it as important to their careers. Everyone there spoke English, and it is remarkable the extent to which it has become the second language of the world. Yet, these young people rightly believed that in the modern world they need to speak and understand French as well. I was the only one there who simply liked the challenge the language presents and who wanted to learn it because "it is there." It made me rather an oddity.

The only problem that my age presented was when the kids were sitting around the school lounge Thursday or Friday to talk about what they would be doing over the upcoming weekend. One of the young lads I got to know reasonably well was from England and when he asked me what I was going to be doing I said no doubt not what he would be. He smiled that knowing smile and said he hoped not. The plans he and his friends made sounded interesting, to be sure, but I really did not think I would fit in as they went bar hopping and looking for people of the opposite sex. That takes greater stamina and recuperative powers than I now possess. So I wished my young friend good hunting and made my own plans. Paris did not sound all that bad.

At the end of each day I would go to have a cup of tea at one of the local sidewalk cafes and read the paper or watch the people pass by. Certainly, one of the greatest gifts France has given the world is the sidewalk café, and for those who have not had the pleasure yet of experiencing one this might be hard to comprehend. For the price of an espresso, a glass of wine or beer, or whatever one can sit there for hours talking with friends, waiting for someone to join you, or, as I did, just unwinding without being disturbed or asked to move on. Nothing beats this experience anywhere, even when the weather is less than ideal.

After this interlude, I went back to the house to do some work, either for one of my clients or for class. I usually did not get back there until 5 P.M. or so and by the time I had finished my "homework" it was time for dinner. It was really lots of fun being with the Bogarts, and their generosity and friendliness made my transition into their family as easy as possible. In fact, I got to like them very much very quickly. We dined at about 8 or 8:30 and during the meal we would talk in French about what I had learned that day, and both the Bogarts were wonderfully kind in how they corrected my mistakes. In actuality, this is the best way to learn another language, and I learned as much French from them as I did at school. It would have been horrid if I had opted to stay in a hotel rather than with a family.

PART III -- PARIS FOR THE WEEKEND

As I mentioned previously in this edition of the journal, one of the things about attending BLS at this time of year was the many long weekends I would confront. I know from experiences with business trips that fell on three day weekends that I did not like them in the slightest. I just have too much time on my hands, and I do not handle it well now. It is one thing to walk around Bordeaux and its beautiful parks with Eleanor and quite another to do so alone while watching young families with their children, lovers walking hand-in-hand, and others having some form of collective fun. It is for this situation that the phrase "third wheel" was invented, and I knew that this series of four three-day weekends in May was not an ideal situation for me.

The Bogarts wanted me to join them for my first weekend there in the Pays-Basque home M. Bogart had built there and which they use a great deal now that he had retired. They were very disappointed when I told them that I had an invitation to visit our friends in Paris, but I promised to go with them before I left. Last year Jean-Claude, our very good Parisian friend, and I made a bet that whichever of us spoke the other's language better at our next get together would get from the other a bottle of champagne. When I called his home when Eleanor and I first arrived in France and spoke to him in French, the first words out of his mouth were that the champagne was on ice. Now, on this first three-day weekend I was on my way to the City of Light to drink it.

Because the instructor wanted to begin the weekend before the rush we got out of class early Friday. Thus, I made a 4 P.M. reservation on the TGV to Paris and had lunch with the Bogarts before we all left for our weekend destinations. The leisurely excursion through the early afternoon and the delightful time I was having with the Bogarts made me later than I thought in getting to the station. I got the bus for the station at the Place Gambetta and arrived at Gare St. Jean with just a few minutes to spare. For someone who had lots of time, I darn near missed the train. After the normal 3 hour run we arrived in Paris and I took the metro to the 16th district and checked into the Hotel Poussin. It is very nice and the one where Eleanor and I have stayed many times in the past. I like this district of the city a great deal, as it is quiet, rather upscale and has some wonderful restaurants.

After walking around the district a bit Friday evening in the seemingly endless rain and cold to see some of the sights I like so much I went back to the Poussin, shaved, and got ready for dinner at a restaurant right across the street. It was a marvelous meal but it still interests me that even in a place such as this the service I get eating alone is much different than that I have received in the past when dining there with Eleanor. Not rude or anything like that, just less attentive. I have noticed this at other establishments in the U.S. and in Europe when I am traveling by myself. It is hard to say why this is so, but others have had the same reaction as I when I bring this experience up in a conversation. After dinner I called Jacqueline's house and confirmed the arrangements to be with them the next night for dinner.

On the way from the hotel to the station Saturday afternoon to get the train to go to the suburb in which Jacqueline and Jean-Claude live, I went to both Printemps and the Galeries Lafayette department stores to look for bérets and found one at each that I liked. (At the rate I loose them, I need as many as I can get.) Once at the station and with ticket in hand I made the way to La Garenne Colombes where they live and walked to their house. We had a wonderful time together, just lacking Eleanor to make it perfect. We had a great meal Saturday evening, of many courses that began with hors d'oeuvres and the celebratory champagne for which I had studied so hard, followed by scallops and vegetables, a salad, cheese and wine, and then dessert. It was all very good and took us no more than two and a half hours to eat.

Both Jean-Claude and Jacqueline were surprised at how well I could speak French, and Jacqueline was pleased that for the first time she did not have to spend half her evening translating for Jean-Claude. They have two daughters, and some years earlier we had one of them, Isabelle, with us in California for the Christmas holidays. She has turned into a stunning young woman, now with a husband and young son and making her parents feel very proud. They are all terrific, and at the end of evening they called me a taxi and back to the hotel I went. But they asked me to return the next day for lunch when I would have the chance to see Isabelle again, an invitation I found irresistible.

Sunday turned out to be a particularly beautiful day in Paris and as I again walked to the metro station to go to the Gare Saint-Lazare to catch the train to La Garenne Colombes I came across a wonderful piano player playing on the sidewalk directly across from one of the city's fine open-air markets. He was fabulous, playing many of the great swing, jazz, and blues tunes I know and love. The French love jazz a great deal, and afford American musicians far greater respect than they receive in their native country. My father, who loved jazz and played the piano very well, would have enjoyed the sounds this man put out from the piano he carried around to his outside gigs in the small truck parked nearby. During one of his rare interludes, we spoke in English and I told him that he had a wonderful left hand, which he did, and that it reminded me very much of some of the Fats Waller music I had heard in my parents' home. He smiled and said Waller was one of his heroes and that he tried to pattern the way he played after him. I stayed for at least an hour, bought a CD, and then had to get moving as by now I knew I would have a hard time getting to my destination on time.

Sunday lunch was terrific as Jacqueline and Jean-Claude are always gracious hosts. Jean-Claude has just retired and Jacqueline told me that she is worried that he will not find enough to do now. He stays around the house for most of the day and is driving her nuts, she said. Funny, Eleanor says the same about me now that I work at home. I wished her good luck in this, as it is hard for them both. Lunch also gave me the opportunity to see Isabelle again. She told me her husband was in Spain with their son at his parents' home, so she was on her own. It was so nice to see her, and from every yardstick I could use, she is doing very well, indeed. We had lunch in the back yard of their home and just talked. It could not have been nicer, but I wished that Eleanor could have been with me as she is also very fond of Isabelle and her parents. After lunch, Jacqueline took me to the Parc de Bagatelle in the Bois de Boulogne to stroll around a part of the Bois that is new to me.

For a while we thought we would not be able to get there as it seemed everyone in Paris had the same idea as we. There were no parking spaces to be had until we turned down one street and, just as we got halfway down it, someone pulled out of a space just big enough for our car. What extraordinary good fortune. We parked and began the trek to the Parc, passing as we did one of the oddest sights I have seen in that city. There was a fundamentalist Protestant tent revival meeting going on, just as we might see someplace in the South. I mean, this was seriously weird. The singing from the tent wafted over the people outside and to the street where we were walking, something I would expect in Birmingham, not Paris. Jacqueline was baffled by it all, as were all the other Parisians who saw the proceedings, so I filled her in on what was going on. She still found it hard to understand, a befuddlement I clearly appreciated.

The revival meeting added to the parking strain and drivers were looking everywhere for someplace to put their vehicles. Then we came upon the way the Parisians deal with situations such as this. They improvise. The boulevard just outside the Parc's entrance, and between it and the revival, was quite wide so, with their usual aplomb, people simply parked in the middle of the road, bringing the four lane road down to two. Voilà. Instant parking lot. When this "lot" filled up it was time to create others in the same fashion, and by the time we were heading back to the car we saw so many streets like this that the police were forced to start issuing parking citations. Jacqueline and I thought their presence was due as much to the beautiful day as to the way the cars were parked, but whatever the motive they were doing a land office business. But this won't amount to much, as I understand that when there is a change in government, as there inevitably will be, all the parking violations will be forgiven. What a country!

The Parc was wonderful. It cost us 10 francs each to get in and it was certainly worth it. As we walked around lamenting a bit that the flowers were not yet in full bloom, we began to see some more of the damage caused by last December's dreadful storms. Some trees were broken off just a few feet off the ground while others were just pushed over by the severe winds that hit the area. There were far too many of them for the caretakers to deal with rapidly, but no doubt, judging from the areas we saw replanted, they were making significant progress.

The gardens are traditionally French, very geometric and finely attended. The caretakers must be highly skilled as everywhere we looked the Parc was beautiful, new beds had been planted, and we just knew later in the Spring it was be simply extraordinary. This is a form of artistry that I find extraordinary, and I wished my mother could have been with us as well. She was a superior gardener and horticulturist and would have found the Parc de Bagatelle and its stunning gardens magnificent to behold. There were hundreds of people there with us, all elegantly dressed, as only the Parisians can, and many families were there with their young children. As usual the kids, no matter what age, were very well behaved. We stopped for something to drink along the way as it was rather hot, and after three or so hours we left. My stomach was beginning to feel a bit strange but I did not know this feeling was the beginning of something that would cut my trip short.

After finding the entrance we used a few hours earlier Jacqueline drove me back through the Bois de Boulogne to my hotel. I took a short nap and then went to Le Congrès, a nearby restaurant, for an early dinner. I called Eleanor that evening and had a chance to talk to our friends the Maynes as well. It was lonely without her, and the scenes of people walking together in the Parc and the Bois made me realize how much I missed her. After that I got into bed to get ready for the next day and the train ride back to Bordeaux.

PART IV -- AN UNWELCOME ILLNESS AND A VISIT TO DOCTOR RAYMOND

Monday morning I awoke and knew something was seriously wrong. I felt dreadful, as though someone had stuck a hot knife into my stomach and was turning the blade slowly. There were two other complications that were even more worrisome, and I began to wonder if I could get back to Bordeaux. I tried to call the American Hospital but could not get an answer. Whether I was calling the wrong number or no one was answering because of the holiday (which is hard to believe) I do not know. What I did know at the time was that the train left at 2 P.M. and I wanted to get back to the house and to my own bed. I asked at the hotel if I could stay, but as it turned out it was fully booked, as was the other hotel in the city where we have stayed. Things were looking rather bleak.

That morning I called Eleanor again, more for moral support than for anything she could actually do for me. She was scheduled to fly home in a couple of days from London and did not have a ticket to return to Paris. All I knew was that I hurt, there were other complications that were unpleasant, and the hotel was full that night so I would have to find some other place if I stayed. It was all very stressful and I was worried. To make a long story short (which for me is an almost impossible task) I made it to the train, to Bordeaux, and then to the house. Unfortunately, the Bogarts were still at their home in the Pays-Basque so I was alone there. But at least I did not worry about where I would be spending the night.

The next morning I went to BLS and asked if they would help me find a doctor. The pain was still significant, I had a fever and a pounding headache, and I knew that I needed help. They arranged for me to see one two days later, and until then I knew that I had to eat carefully, stop drinking wine of any kind, and be as good to myself as I could. I continued in the class and in a way that was great as it took my mind off things. Yet, I had some hard decisions to make as I knew I could not continue as I was and if I returned home it would have to be soon. Although my comprehension in the class was now at about 95 percent and I was feeling good about the progress I was making in French I was feeling too poorly to have any fun and to really learn the language the way I wanted to.

I had the doctor's appointment and I now had to find a way home if he said that this would be a prudent thing to do. Thus, I had to do some planning for that eventuality. I called United Airlines, the company I used on the way over for my frequent flyer tickets, and as usual the people with whom I dealt were spectacular. Unfortunately, there were no open frequent flyer seats I could reserve so I would have to purchase a ticket. Then I called my simply terrific travel agent in New Jersey, Melanie Van Doorne, who had arranged the house in Provence for us and recommended the trip insurance I bought. Melanie is about the best there is and I called her for help.

No matter how poorly I felt there was no chance I could leave for home without going to Den Haag first to see the Wileys. I called John and told him what was happening and that I might be leaving for home early but not without seeing him and Liesbette first. I asked him to get me a hotel room at his favorite place nearby, which of course he did. When Melanie found out this part of my plans, she arranged a flight for me from the Netherlands to San Francisco on May 9 on KLM. That would permit me to see the doctor on Thursday and get myself to Paris and from there to Den Haag. I had some unused tickets on the TGV so I went to the station and exchanged them for the trip to the Netherlands. Again, the ticket agent with whom I dealt could not have been nicer as he could see that I was in quite a bit of pain which did not help my French any. But, we managed to get through the transaction all right, and I left with the tickets I needed. Now, I was ready to leave for home if Dr. Raymond, whom I would be seeing later that week, indicated that in his opinion this was wise.

M. Bogart drove me to the doctor's office on Thursday and waited so he could drive me back to the house after my appointment. I checked in and was shown to the waiting room and told that Dr. Raymond would see me in a few moments. It was rather a surreal time, as from time to time one of the three physicians in the office would walk by the room with cigarettes in their mouths, smoking up a storm. I guess they have not got the message yet about the correlation between smoking and disease, and certainly the concept of secondary smoking was too metaphysical to contemplate. When I was given the word that the good doctor was ready I walked into the hall and was greeted by smoke so thick that by the time I got to his office/examination room, a distance of a few feet, my eyes were watering and I was coughing. It was really extraordinary. In most cases smoke does not bother me too much as I had become accustomed to it after so much time in France. Yet, this time, in a doctor's office and not being in the best of health, it made me feel much worse.

Dr. Raymond was very nice and spoke reasonable English. I explained to him what had happened, my symptoms, and then he gave me an examination; I am happy to say the digital exam has found its way to France where it is alive and well!! We discussed what he thought I might have and then he said that if my symptoms did not get any better I would no doubt have to go to the hospital for further tests to determine the exact cause of my illness. He thought it might be a bleeding ulcer or diverticulitis but did not know for sure. I knew one thing. The two French words I never wanted to learn were catheter and bed pan, and when he recommended that I return home to consult my own doctor I did not squabble. Besides, it did seem prudent. This was far different from what happened to me last year, and, with all the new symptoms, much more ominous.

By this time Eleanor had returned home so I called her, brought her up to speed about what was going on and asked her opinion about what to do. Being sick away from home is not much fun, as I learned in 1961 when I was in Geneva and had to have an emergency surgery; I did not want to go through anything similar in France. I called the insurance company and asked for their assistance, which was very helpful in making my decision. They told me what I would need to do and offered to help however they could. The people at TravelSafe were very good, and I appreciated that a great deal.

As the pain was not getting any better, I continued to have a fever, and my headache was still making life miserable, I came to the conclusion that discretion was the better part of valor and decided to head home. It was a difficult decision to make because I had so looked forward to being in Bordeaux attending BLS and living with a French family. Perhaps M. Bogart offered the most sage insight when he said that being in a foreign country learning a new language for six weeks, so far away from home and one's spouse, was just too much. He and his family have had many BLS students over the years and thus know full well the strain this can produce and that being ill did not make things any easier. He thought when I came back to continue my studies I should stay for no longer than two or three weeks.

I told the people at BLS what my plans were, they told me that I could come back to complete my studies there whenever I wanted and wished me good luck. They are a nice group of young people who make it easy as possible for one to pursue his/her studies. I hated to leave, but there did not seem any other choice, especially as Dr. Raymond's words about having to go to the hospital if things did not get better were ringing in my ears. With this all in order, I got a hotel reservation in Paris for the night of Saturday, May 6, called the Wileys to say I would be with them Sunday afternoon leaving Tuesday for home. Then I called Eleanor to tell her my plans. It was a melancholy time as I wanted to stay and leave at the same time. But Bordeaux would always be there and I could go back.

PART V -- GETTING READY FOR THE TRIP HOME BUT FIRST PARIS

Saturday morning the Bogarts packed for a church retreat in the Pays-Basque. Thus, we bid one another good-bye early in the morning. I said good-bye to Marie, the Bogarts' daughter, and her sister the evening before. Marie was off for the weekend to the Burgundy region to see friends. She was taking a train at 12:30 A.M., the source of one of the "discussions" between her and her father that demonstrated that young people are alike the world over, not liking to be questioned by some "higher" authority about their actions and why they were doing certain things the way they were. If I had not known better I would have thought these loving people were set to go to war, but after the talk was over and Marie left the house, M. Bogart lit a cigarette and just smiled, saying that he did not quite understand everything his daughter did but loved and trusted her just the same. This was one terrific family and I loved every minute I stayed with them.

Marie's sister was going with several friends to the family vacation home for the weekend, and had come to Bordeaux from Paris the night before. As I have said, the Bogart home is rather large, but it is always amazing to me how young people can fill a structure such as this, any structure for that matter, with as much life as they do so soon after walking in. I wish I had had the opportunity to meet the son because if he was anything like his sisters he must be really something.

These were melancholy moments as I had come to like these people a great deal. They are a delightful family, open, welcoming to a complete stranger, full of life and exuding obvious affection for one another. After the Bogarts left on their retreat, one daughter had caught her train, and the other was driving south, I waited for the taxi they had called to take me to the station. When it came I got my junk into it, thinking as I did that I had far too much stuff and it weighed far more than it should. My God, those bags were heavy. But I was on my way home and at that minute that was all I cared about.

At the Gare St. Jean I got my train for Paris. I had to wait an hour or so, a time I always use to watch what is going on. At one point I saw one young man near the station's snack area who looked as if he was rather mentally unbalanced, walking back and forth talking to himself animatedly, head bobbing up and down and hands gesticulating at times in the wildest ways. To the others who saw him there was not the slightest thing wrong at all, and as it turned out they knew more than I. Then I had an epiphany. I realized this "deranged" man had one of those new accessories for his cell phone, a head set and a microphone that was pinned to his jacket so he would not have to hold these damnable things while he talked. He may have thought himself to be the coolest of the cool, but to me he certainly looked like someone who needed to work with a therapist in the worst way.

The TGV is a great way to travel, and as we headed north it seemed that most everyone in Bordeaux was going to Paris for the weekend. But with mandatory seat assignments once people got to their places everything was great. It was just as everyone was getting settled that cell phone intruded again. I had just begun to read the International Herald Tribune when someone's cell phone rang. It was a scream to watch as virtually everyone in the car began to search to see if the call was for them. I never saw whose phone it was but for about 10 seconds it was hilarious to watch people pat down their pockets and look in purses. Oh, how I hate these adjuncts to modern life.

I checked into the Hotel La Bourdonnais where Eleanor and I have stayed many times recently. They made room for me in one of their smaller rooms and it was certainly adequate for the short time I would be there. I also made a reservation for a taxi to take me to the Gare du Nord in the morning for the trip to Den Haag. But it was time for another walk around the neighborhood and to stop by the local pharmacy for some medicine. As much as I like Paris I was in no mood to do much touring, and besides my stomach pain would not allow it.

After the short tour and a nap, I decided to go to Le Suffren where I knew I could get something nice for dinner, and am I glad I did. When I sat down it was early by Parisian standards and I was seated next to an elderly gentleman who was making his way through one of those gigantic plateau de fruits de mer. I ordered salmon and when I asked the waiter for another lemon wedge the man said to me in French I could have one of his. When I said, "merci bien," he said "you're welcome" in perfect English. This began one of the most memorable evenings I have ever had. I said to him that he must really like oysters because his plateau seemed to contain a very generous amount of them. He said he inherited his love for them from his father but, again like him, he found it impossible to open them and is thus forced to come to a place such as Le Suffren so they would be opened for him.

This man, whose name I do not know, but wish I did, was at the end of his meal and as he waited for the check we struck up a conversation. He asked if I were American, to which I nodded yes. He said that was nice and made some very nice comments about the Americans and what they had done for France over the years. He said that as a young lad his family sent him to England to learn the language and will never forget that after arriving at his host family he was asked in the ever-so-polite English way, "oh say, young man, would you be ever so kind as to shut the door?" Later in life, because of his knowledge of English, he was assigned by the French army to be a liaison officer to the Americans during World War II. He then recounted some of the stories of his work with them as his country was being liberated.

He told me that when he was first ordered to report to an American command he entered the headquarters and the first words he heard was when someone yelled, "Buddy! Shut the f*****g door!" This quiet and very polite Frenchman barked out this command in the restaurant in a loud voice to demonstrate the way it was given to him all those many years ago. The volume of his voice wafted over the other diners and surprised many sitting near by us. Their less than enthusiastic response (at least by those who understood the word he used with such gusto) did not phase him in the slightest, as he clearly liked recounting the story because, as he smiled and said, "At long last I knew I was with the Americans."

It was quite evident that he liked the story and, even more, the United States. And that was one of the nicest things about the evening, as it is reaffirming to hear from someone like this what the United States has meant to others and that the sacrifices we as a nation have made over generations are appreciated. It rather reminded me of the time several years ago when Eleanor and I were leaving the Carrefour supermarket in Paris and were asked by two older French women if we were Americans. When we told them we were, and being a little uncertain of the reaction we would get, they said, "God bless you." What a stunner that was.

After the war my new friend was on his own during a time, he said, of extraordinary austerity and uncertainty. He did not have great compassion for the current crop of young French men and women as they face uncertainties of their own, as he said they really do not know what it is like to live with privation and never quite knowing if things were ever going to get better. But, things did, with the help of the United States, he said. He went to school and then ended up working as an archivist in the French Assembly. In this capacity he traveled to the US and was amazed by what he saw. But, most of all he was amazed at the lack of anything commemorating that nation's participation in either world war. His love of the US has continued throughout the years, and he sent his daughter to the University of Pennsylvania law school and traveled to the States again many times, for her graduation and on vacations.

When he asked me what I most like about France, I mentioned many things to him, and then mentioned that one of the things that has impressed me the most are World War I war memorials I have seen in virtually every village and town, and am saddened that no such things exist in my country. He said why should there be, as our losses in the First World War were negligible compared to those suffered by France. They were horrifying, he said, and that the war still influences much in contemporary French life. I mentioned the American cemetery in Draguignon I had seen and although he had not been to that one he had visited those in Anzio and Normandy. He found all of them to be astonishing and an appropriate tribute to those who had fallen in the liberation of his homeland and the continent.

This was a very fascinating man. He told me that he had been married for 35 years but that 5 years ago his wife died of cancer. He said to me, rather wistfully, that when this happens when one is 45 or 50 it is possible, after meeting the right person, to get married again and start a new life. But at 75 he thought that was not possible and was thus reconciled to living on his own and making the best of it. He has several grandchildren and when I mentioned that our eldest son and his wife were expecting in December he patted me on the knee in approval. He loves his grandchildren, especially his granddaughter, as she is far more affectionate than the boy. Oh, yes, he said, "the young boy is delighted to see me when I have something for him, but after the package is opened outside he runs to play." He sighs and wonders if he was the same with his grandfathers.

It was quite obvious he wanted to talk because the check awaited his action for well over an hour, and I was having such a good time with him I could have stayed for the whole evening. Ice cream is al-ways soothing to my stomach so I decided to have some profiteroles for dessert. (No, no. This is NOT a rationalization.). As I ate them he looked rather askance. He said he always saw Americans eating stuff like this and suggested that this is one of the reasons they are so fat. I doubt he believed it when I said I order this dessert only about once a year. Our encounter also demonstrated another aspect of dining in France. Until one is ready to leave, has paid the bill and gotten up to leave, the table is yours for the entire evening. This was how it was with us. He had finished, I had finished, his bill waited his payment and I had not asked for mine. And the waiter never said a word. What a country.

At the end of the conversation he mentioned that his current situation, that is outliving his wife, had made him reassess his finances and was delighted to see that he had more than enough money to live comfortably. Thus, he said, he had made arrangements to set up funds for each of his grandchildren that would ease their transition to adulthood when that time arrived. I suggested that must have made him feel very good and he nodded his assent. I then told him what I did for a living (a consultant in philanthropy) and in that capacity had worked with many grandparents who wanted to do something comparable for their families. I told him that the one universal reaction of all these peo-ple was the same as his. Deep satisfaction and contentment, and told him I thought what he had done was truly noble.

He offered to buy me a cognac as we talked but I declined and said that stuff is really bad for my stomach. I told him I was on my way home and was going to the Netherlands to see some very old friends first. At that, he paid his check, took my hand in his and shook it at some length and then bid me good-bye and a safe journey home. I am often accused by my wife of exaggeration, but it is safe to say I have rarely had such a delightful evening as this one and that it is one I will remember for a very long time. If meeting him is the price I had to pay for getting sick and having to leave for home early I would gladly pay it anytime.

PART VI -- TO DEN HAAG AND HOME

The trip to the Haag was very interesting and more difficult than I expected, especially as my bag was very heavy and I was feeling poorly enough not to want to have to lug it around much. Yet, lug it I did. When I bought the ticket in Bordeaux the agent told me that although I could get a ticket on the TGV from Paris to Brussels the fast trains between Brussels and Den Haag were sold out. Thus, I would have to take a regular train for the remainder of the journey. I asked at the Gare du Nord the day I left about this and found the information I had been given to be accurate. When I read my ticket I saw I had about 15 minutes to get off my train, find the other one, get to the right car, get on, and stash by bag. This was bad enough in a station I know well, but it has been years since I have been in the one in Brussels and I feared I would never make it. Certainly, I did not feel well enough to do much sprinting. Happily, the train conductor could tell on what track my train would be departing but admonished me to hurry once our train stopped as all trains leave right on time. Sage advice as it turned out.

We got to Brussels and I got off the TGV and ran to get the connecting train. I cursed all the way and got there just as the whistle sounded and the last passengers were getting on. I threw one bag on board and handled my computer case a bit more carefully, although by that time I was getting to the point I hoped someone would steal it. I just did not have the energy to carry it around much longer. I found my seat OK and collapsed, amid, as it turned out, many more passengers than the car had room for. The trip was slow, a milk run as it turned out, or so it seemed from all the stops it made. It was hot and humid inside the car, which was oversold by at least twice. People were standing everywhere but slowly as we made our way north more left the train than got on and by the time we reach Den Haag I no longer felt like a sardine. I met some very interesting people along the way, two from England and two others from Hawaii and thus passed the time very agreeably indeed, but yet the Haag could not arrive fast enough.

When I got there I called John and asked if he wanted me to come straight away to his house or after I dropped off my bags at the hotel. The tone and volume of his greeting made it obvious before I heard the words that he and Liesbette wanted me to come to their home immediately and then head for the hotel after dinner. Thus, I got a taxi and was driven to his place where I spent a very enjoyable late afternoon and evening having a very simple dinner that John assured me would not hurt my stomach. I think the most important tonic was being with them again and feeling their energy and enthusiasm. I am very fond of these two and it was nice to be with them yet again.

The next day was equally enjoyable, especially as I was able to sleep in and got to the Wileys in time for lunch. I stayed in a hotel about a half-hour's walk from their house, and what a refreshing way to begin or end the day. I walked by some beautiful homes and everywhere, even in the most modest front yard, were absolutely beautiful tulips and other varieties of flowers. It was spring, of course, and people had gotten their yards ready, and the results were stunning. The stroll also gave me the time to walk around the small village where they live to see the shops where John buys all his provisions. I am so impressed by the friendliness and hospitality of the Dutch and certainly John and Liesbette could not be in a better community. They feel very much at home there, and should.

As I would be leaving early in the morning the next day, Monday evening after dinner I said good-bye to Liesbette and I told her again what great progress I thought she was making. Her stroke had dealt her a real blow, but she does not seem to be bowed and defeated by it, but is making some Herculean efforts to get back as much of her abilities as she can. Of course, she has John's assistance, and that is constantly reassuring and helpful. They are heroes of mine and models about how to deal with adversity. I also had the opportunity to chat by phone with Liesbette's sister, Mary, who lives in Spain with her husband. She, too, is facing some great health challenges of her own but from the sound and enthusiasm of her voice one would never know that. All this made me feel just a bit inadequate with my silly little stomach ailment which paled into comparison to what these two women faced. After that, John drove me back to my hotel and we said "ciao" with my promise to return at the first opportunity Eleanor and I had. Until we do, we will miss these very special people.

Tuesday morning I arose early and got my bags packed for the last time and took a taxi to the train that would take me to the airport just up the road. There I checked in at the KLM desk and was greeted by a most attractive KLM customer service representative with an electric golf cart. It seems that when booking the tickets Melanie arranged for me to have a wheelchair but when the ticket agent saw I could walk they changed the order to this electric cart to take me to the VIP room. As I have said many times in this journal, Melanie is a real jewel and the best travel agent I have ever had. She knows the airport, knew that my walk would be a long one and that, feeling less that 100 percent, this could prove too much for me. She was right, of course, as I was not feeling all that well and the cart was just the ticket.