Many people are vaguely aware of Madagascar and where it is, probably even more so since the Disney movie came out with the name in the title. It is a large island/nation off the southeast coast of Africa and I have actually been there. It was many years ago with my ex-husband almost two years after we had been married. He was a medical student at the time and as part of his studies he found a hospital to intern in for three months so he could study tropical medicine, so off we went.

 Madagascar is a fascinating place, called the Red Island, with many areas of red earth, part of it desert, part tropical jungle and some of the most beautiful beaches and ocean that I have ever seen. The lemur, a monkey-like animal, is found only there. The medical conditions I saw there were only read about in nursing books before arriving, such as tetanus, leprosy, syphillus along with all sorts of people infested with worms and other similar parasites. It’s a place where death isn’t scary to the inhabitants, and the dead are brought out of their graves still wrapped in straw mats to be taken to parties and to “see” what is new since they left. There were remarkable carved wooden tomb markers in one area showing the life of the person who had died.

 So, eventually it was time to leave. One of the doctors had a camper truck that he wanted to be taken to the capital and sold and he asked us if we would drive it there. We thought it would be fun and a great way to see the country as we returned to catch our plane home. We had three days and it was only about 500 miles or so and we thought we could easily make it. Ha. They were checking the engine before we left and noticed a leak in the radiator so some sort of agent was poured into it that supposedly took care of the problem and we were off.

 We were thirty minutes down the red dirt road when we went through a huge puddle and the truck stalled. Now my ex-husband knew nothing about engines and I knew even less but somehow he knew that he needed to dry the head of each spark plug, which he did, and it worked sending us once more on our way.

 We had gone fifty miles or so when we noticed that the heat indicator was on hot and we found out that the leak in the radiator had not been fixed. The radiator was hot and out of water. All we had in two jerry cans was gasoline, very expensive there. Luckily for us, a truck driver stopped and asked our problem. He was high up in the cab of his truck and could see ponds and lakes off in the distance so we filled our gas tank and his as full as we could, dumped the rest of the gasoline, and my ex and he went and got water. It turned out that we would have to stop and fill the radiator every 37 miles.

 Madagascar, now, by the way, called The Republic of Malagasy since their independence from France, had been having very heavy rains for weeks. We had gone about 200 miles when we came to a long line of vehicles all lined up at the banks of a raging brown river, torrential from the rains. No one could get across as there was no bridge. We were lucky to have a little food and a camper to sleep in. At one point an interesting Englishman and his guide asked if we would mind if they joined us as we did have the room. He was there studying the butterflies of the island-it has more varieties than any other place on earth he told us. My ex kept looking out the window all night. Finally, at about three in the morning he saw that the water had gone down and decided that we should cross the river then, at that moment. He kicked out our two visitors and we somehow managed to cross safely. By then we were really low on gas and had to park at a gas station further on until they opened. It was then that we found that in our crossing of the river we had pulled the rear bumper almost completely off on a rock.

 We had entered rice country, driving through rolling hills terraced with rice fields growing a brilliant green against the red earth. We were really hungry having run out of food and not seeing any place to stop and buy some. Then we started to smell something burning. We stopped, opened the back of the camper and smoke poured out. It turned out that the exhaust pipe of the truck and been bent upwards, on the national “highway” none of it paved as of yet, and the heat of it was against the wooden floor of the truck. A full fire hadn’t broken out yet but there was a black smoldering area under one of our suitcases which had a bubbled burnt area on its plastic surface. My ex got under the truck and tried to pull the exhaust pipe down but couldn’t and didn’t have any tools to use. He had to hitch hike into the nearest town where an American doctor lived to get help leaving me with the truck. Time passed slowly. I was starving. I even went into a field of corn and got an ear but it was too hard to eat. A little boy came buy trying to sell me something to eat but I had no money. Hours later, my ex and the doctor finally arrived. They, of course, had eaten. We were soon on our way and I had the best meal I have ever had when I arrived-fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, home made rolls and home made sweet pickles. It was fabulous.

 We had one day to get to the capital to catch our plane. The highway finally became paved and we were making good time when we came to another river. It was rushing and scary like the last one but it looked rather deep. My ex looked at me and actually asked me if I would roll up my jeans and wade in and see if it was too deep for the truck to go through and I actually did it. Why didn’t he do it? I still don’t know but it certainly did sort of shadow the rest of our marriage. And, to top it off, fresh water could be dangerous in Madagascar because there were often parasites in it. Anyway, the depth of the water was fine and we arrived in Tananarive in time. We drove the truck to the home of the man wanting to buy it and apologized for the hole in the floor of the bed, the missing rear bumper, the leaking radiator and he laughed and said many vehicles arrived after that drive in much worse shape.

 So, that was my adventure. It put in me a thirst for travel and new adventures that has never gone away. It gave me a hiden distrust of my ex-husband and made me realize that I needed to learn how to do things for myself, such as learn how to do basic things with cars. Looking back, I was so young, so different than I am now, so unformed, really. I never could have guessed the path my life was to take many years later.

Five things that you might not know about me-if you know me at all from just a blog. (I saw this meme on another blog and thought I would put in my two cents worth.)

1. I was once in Madagascar with my ex-husband for three months. I actually let him talk me into walking into a river to see if it was passable for the truck we were in.

2. I met my wonderful French husband on a blind date in Austin, TX.

3. My first job was as a cashier behind the counter at a Woolworth’s that my father owned. I hated every minute of it. I’ve never had my feet ache like that.

4. I was an operating room nurse before I move to France. When I first began working as a nurse I would get a real rush when  huge emergency would come in, such as a gunshot wound to the head. At the end not even that excited me and I thought if I had to see another hernia repaired that I would scream. Let’s not even talk about the doctors I worked with.

5. I was pursuing a degree in archeology when I met Maurice and ended up in France. I saw myself deep in some Mexican jungle working on a dig of one of those spectacular ruins. Life can always surprise you.

 I had been drawn to the window of a shop recently because of the cute things for the home that it had inside. It was the usual utilitarian stuff that most homes have, such as nut crackers or cheese graters but these were different. They were cute, they were colorful and they made you smile.

 Imagine my delight when I was given two of them for Christmas. The first one is this darling cheese grater called Nana, a name for grandmothers, I believe.

 On the side of the package it says:

Once upon in a plate

Round, round, round

A hill of cheese

High, high, high

That an Italian princess

Pretty, pretty, pretty

With a metal dress

Which scratch, scratch, scratch

Gave during a dancing night.

The company is called Pylones and it is Parisian. Their web site shows many more cute things.Monsoon Marketplace - Pylones Of Paris

I notice that they also have two stores in New York City.

The other gift was the two salad servers looking like a comical man and woman diving into the water.

Not an alien, but a painting of the figure on top of the column in the middle of Bastille. It is a painting that I saw through a window. I like it.

As I am wont to do, I was channel surfing once more looking for something in English. Yes, I know my French will not improve by watching TV shows in my native language, but sometimes I just need it. It’s like a little comfort food, some macaroni and cheese, on a cold winter’s day. I can sit there and totally understand what is being said, what is going on, all the inside little jokes that only Americans can understand. It’s nice after floating around in a sea of French.

Cute and friendly little bulldog living in the lobby of a hotel.

 Anyway, I came upon a TV series popular several years ago, Third Planet From the Sun, about four aliens who land on earth, take on human forms and then try to figure out what the heck is going on around them. Gee, I identify. Of course, it’s not as bad as when I first came to France. I’ve picked up some French in spite of myself and I’ve come to understand some things that used to be strange to me, such as saying “Bonjour” to everyone when you enter a doctor’s waiting room or having to pay for a chicken that is weighed before the head and legs are cut off-you pay for the part cut off. Wouldn’t you have a fit if they did that in the States?

I don’t have a photo of a chicken in a market, but here is a plane tree in the sun. I like the shawdows.

 I do feel like an alien as I walk around Paris, never really fitting in, an observer of all that is going on around me. Fortunately, I don’t mind. I’m sort of a sociologist, collecting facts, foder even, for my blog. I’d like to become more a part of it all but I guess it just isn’t going to happen at my age. I don’t mind except at long French meals with everyone blabbing on. Everyone thinks I am a nice quiet girl. Only Maurice knows how far that is from the truth.

 How things used to be

 Really, I was the last person in Paris without boots. Everywhere I looked I saw cute boots being worn by woman. I love boots but didn’t have any. Probably because they cost a whole lot more than shoes is one reason none were in my closet. What can I say, I’m cheap. I usually wait until I am in the States to buy shoes as they have those wonderful discount shoe places, like DSW. I love those. You won’t find those in Paris although there are places that sell less expensive shoes. I did try some on in the States but nothing was to my liking.

 It’s that time again in France. That time when you gird your loins and head into the battle that are the twice yearly sales here. Apparently you can’t have sales and call them “soldes” whenever you want to but are required to do it twice a year by the government. Somehow I don’t this this would be good for the store owners but what do I know?

 So, even though I hate crowds, especially crowds in France when there are sales, I decided to head to our little Printemps Department Store nearby in Place de la Nation. There is no way I would go near the huge stores by the Opera. I waited until lunch as I thought the crowds would be less and was surprised when I found that I was right. I bought a new pillow, two pillow cases and, in a case of complete buying frenzy, saw a pair of shoes that were half off and bought those too. I need a coat but decided to wait a little longer until the prices were even lower, if not wait until I am in the States again.