My initial instinct told me this was not going to be the relaxing, stress-free vacation I had imagined.  My daughter Mallorie had been living and attending college in Salamanca, Spain for the last 6 months.  I was visiting her during Easter vacation, looking forward to time alone with my oldest daughter – a rare commodity considering I had two younger daughters at home.  Prior to my arrival, Mallorie had researched travel to Paris online and asked, no pleaded, to have the opportunity to see Paris while she was still living in Spain.  Her argument was that the travel expenses from Spain to France would be much less than from the U.S. at some future date.  Her extensive research showed that airfare and hotel rooms were on the high end during Easter.  She had discussed transportation to France with some of her professors and discovered the idea of traveling by train.  The cost of an overnight train from Madrid to Paris was less than half the price of airfare.  Mallorie boasted of the beautiful European countryside we could enjoy along the way.  Her enthusiasm got the best of me and I agreed to the trip.  “This will be our adventure, mom!” Easter in Salamanca was extraordinary.  We participated in the Easter Eve vigil in the main plaza until well after midnight, withstanding freezing temperatures, huddling together to keep warm.  The next morning I sat on the edge of the small twin bed in the room I was sharing with Mal while I visited Salamanca, watching her pack her big red suitcase.  We bought this extra large suitcase before embarking on her junior year of college in Spain.  “Honey, are you sure you want to bring that big suitcase?” I carefully asked, softening my tone, not trying to sound motherly.  I’m thinking three-day trip, easy to pull and lightweight.

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“Mom, I’ve been living here for six months and have traveled throughout Spain many times.  I know what I’m doing.”

With our suitcases packed, off we went on foot to the bus station, approximately four blocks from Mallorie’s apartment.  I love my daughter with all my heart, but let’s just say she tends to get a bit cranky when her physical stamina is challenged.  After walking a couple of blocks on cobblestone roads, it began.  The little sighs I have come to know so well.  Irritated sighs, like an exaggerated exhale.

“Are you ok Mal?”

In her melodramatic way she groaned, “I’m getting sweaty!”

I knew I had to keep moving so we wouldn’t miss the bus.  I consoled her the best I could, coaxing her along.  We arrived at the bus station early enough to grab a café con leche and a little breakfast.  The trip to Madrid from Salamanca was about 2 hours.  On board the bus, we settled in to our seats, happy and sweat-free.  A sigh escaped our lips at the same time, and we both started laughing.  It could only be downhill from here.

The train station in Madrid is somewhat user friendly for non-Spanish speaking travelers.  But figuring out where to find our train was another story.  Fortunately, Mallorie was quite fluent in Spanish by this time and got us the correct train tickets and directions to the right track to board.  With bags in tow, we headed to the train bay.

The train we were traveling on was listed on the ticket.  Number 407.  Anxiously we passed each passenger car, looking in to see where our sleeping quarters would be for the next 13 hours.  On our trek to the ‘’Economy” class car, we passed Premier First Class.  I imagined a pleasant ride in such luxury.  This was followed by Comfort first class, then Freedom second class. Our pace quickened the closer we got to the Economy cars.  As we peered in one of the windows, it didn’t look as roomy as First Class, but at least we would have a bed to sleep in.

As we boarded the train, Mallorie struggled pulling her big red suitcase down the narrow hallway.  The door to our room was open and two older women sitting in deep Spanish conversation looked up at us.  Our new roommates.  There was hardly any room for my small bag, let alone Mallorie's huge one.  The room had to be no bigger than 4’ x 6’ with four fold down bunks with a single sink in the middle.  All I could think was I am much too old for this.  I instructed Mallorie to find out if there was additional storage anywhere, which there wasn’t.  There was no way I was going to be comfortable and able to sleep in this cramped space with strangers.  All of a sudden, the cost savings of taking the train to Paris began evaporating from my brain.  I needed to take control of the situation, and asked Mallorie to find someone to inquire about an upgrade to First Class.  I was willing to pay anything at this point.  Unfortunately, to upgrade to Premier First Class would cost over 300 Euros for each of us and, they only accepted cash at this point as the train was leaving in about 15 minutes.  I had about 250 Euros on me, and the ATM was too far away to take the chance of missing the train.  Premier First Class was not an option.  The young man told Mal that for 200 Euros total we could move to another four-room cabin that was empty.  I gladly handed over the Euros and within minutes we were in our own little space, happy and settled in.  We explored every nook and cranny of the cabin – pulling the bunks secured to the wall open, delighting in the working sink. 

At this point we were both starving in addition to being physically and mentally exhausted.  Surely there would be a decent place to eat dinner and have a drink.  We found the dining car to be clean, candlelit and offering a menu with attractive selections.  Not what we expected for the “coach” cabin.  I sat down with my daughter, now a young woman, sharing our first drink together as adults.  She had become quite the wine connoisseur while living abroad and ordered for both of us.  That was a defining moment for me.  I had an adult child.  The memory of her blonde curls bouncing as she ran and those big blue eyes looking to me for comfort from a scraped knee.  Now I sat across from this young woman, not needing to be “mom” for now, but two adult women having adult conversation. 

Soon after dinner our beds were beckoning to us and we made our way back to our own little room. 

It was a tight fit for the two of us.  After bumping into each other a few times, I sat on my bed and waited for Mallorie to complete her bedtime routine.  I was so thankful we were able to have our own room.  I couldn’t imagine what it would’ve been like with four women in there.  Soon we were both snug in our little bunks. 

Falling asleep on the train wasn’t difficult.  The sounds of the wheels on the track became hypnotic, even sedating.  Within a few hours I was in a quiet, peaceful sleep. Our arrival at the first stop was announced as the trains whistle blared, wheels screeching to a halt.  This occurred several more times throughout the night, jolting me awake every time.  It seemed I had just fallen asleep again when the final whistle blew and the train turned off its engine.  We were in Paris!

It was early morning when the train arrived.  This was not my first time in France, but the excitement on my daughter’s face and the pace at which she was getting her belongings together made me feel like I was seeing it for the first time.

We lugged our bags down the narrow corridor and stepped out into a beautiful sunny day.  The warmth of the sun on our faces made the unrest of a long night disappear. 

One thing Mallorie and I hadn’t thought about was reading and speaking French.  We couldn’t find anyone that spoke English and finally found some help from a man fluent in Spanish.  We needed to figure out how to get to our hotel.  I saw a line of taxis out in front of the station, and suggested we grab one and go. 

My daughter’s response was “No, mom.  A taxi is a huge rip-off.  We can get there by subway and it will only cost a few Euros compared to 40 or 50 Euros.”  As before, I knew better, but somehow common sense seemed to evade me again.

The first challenge of navigating through Paris was the subway itself.  It would require several subway line changes to arrive at our destination – The Hôtel France Eiffel.  We purchased our tickets, grabbed a map and plotted our route.  We headed toward the sign displaying the line we were to take first.  We made our way through the rushing crowd, only to stop at the top of a large stairwell, going down.  I heard that familiar sigh escape my daughter’s lips.  “Let’s go,” I enthusiastically cheered.  I faintly heard a hesitant “okay” and started down.  Thump, thump, thump.  I looked back to see my daughter dragging her big red suitcase behind her by the handle. 

“Mom, wait!”

I stopped mid stairway and turned to Mallorie.  “You need some help?”

Her eyebrows scrunched together.  “No, just slow down a bit.”

I waited until she caught up to me and we both made it to even ground.  As I set my suitcase down on its wheels and extended the handle to pull it to the correct train, my daughter let out a loud shriek.  I looked up to see a whole new flight of stairs going up this time to get to our boarding track.  Visions of chocolate éclairs and crepes I would soon devour invaded my thoughts.  The more calories I burn now, the more dessert I could enjoy later.  This was not the case with Mallorie.

My suitcase was much smaller and lighter, so I quickly suggested she carry my bag and I hers.  We didn’t have time to debate it so I grabbed her bag and headed up the steep stairway, Mallorie apologizing and thanking me our entire assent.  Our train was pulling in as we stepped foot on the platform.  It took all the strength and energy I had left to dash for the doors, Mallorie following close behind.  It must have been a busy time of day for this particular subway stop.  Crowds getting off the train and layers of people shoving to get on.  We both managed to get ourselves and our luggage on board, grabbing for anything stationary to hold on to as the train jerked into motion.  I had to smile at my daughter, looking like she just ran a marathon.  We looked at each other in exasperation and giggled.  One step closer to our relaxing vacation in Paris.

The crowd slowly dwindled and we grabbed two seats together.  My age was beginning to show its ugly head as my quads twitched and my biceps ached.  Either I am getting too old for this or I wasn’t in as great of shape as I thought.  We rested our heads against the cool window behind us, enjoying the few minutes of rest.  At the next stop we would transfer to a different line.  Once again we dragged our tired, ragged bodies out of the train and into the bustling crowd.  This final subway ride would deliver us to our hotel.  The exchange was seamless, our new “car” scantily occupied.  Our final destination came quickly and we became rejuvenated, ready to dump our bags and start enjoying Paris. 

The cool, crisp breeze greeted us as we stepped off the subway train.  As we exited the subway and stepped on to the street, again, a shriek from Mallorie.  This time, one of true awe.  The Eiffel Tower.  There is something about seeing this historic landmark.  Standing in the presence of something you have only read about or seen pictures of in history books or travel magazines. When I think of Paris, the Eiffel Tower (and chocolate éclairs) comes to mind. 

Our hotel was not as close to the subway as expected, but we made it, squeezed in the tiny closet of an elevator, and flopped down on the bed in our tiny room.

Mallorie’s fluency in reading, writing and speaking Spanish made getting around much easier as many words in Spanish are similar to French.  She was pleasantly surprised at her ability to translate.  Our three days there included all the must-sees in Paris – the Eiffel Tower at night, the Musée du Louvre, Musée d'Orsay, Montmarte and Notre-Dame, to name a few.  We walked and walked all over the city, taking in as much culture as we could. 

Mallorie at the Eiffel Tower

The day arrived for our journey back to Madrid.  Reluctantly, we packed our bags and checked out of the hotel after a morning filled with chocolate éclairs and strong coffee.   The subway experience back was not as traumatizing, yet still presented us with a few challenges, especially the stairs. 

We managed to navigate our way back to the train station and to our four-person room.  This time, the train was full.  Comfort and privacy flew out the door.  We struggled to fit Mallorie's suitcase above the door, but as before, it refused to fit.  Wishful thinking on our part!

Our roommates arrived, one girl around 19 years old traveling abroad by herself and the other a young girl around the same age traveling with friends.  They both were very sweet and friendly.  After dinner, they invited Mallorie to hang out with them at the bar.  Mallorie glanced my way concerned about leaving me alone.

“Come with us, mom.”

“Oh no, Mal, go and have a good time.  I will be perfectly happy lying in bed reading my novel.”

“OK, see you later.”

Just as she closed the door, it immediately swung back open, Mallorie popping her head in.

“Mom, I love you, “ she said, her beautiful bright smile beaming at me.

“I love you, too, sweetie.”

I could hear the excitement in her voice as she walked down the hall with her new friends.  I couldn’t concentrate on my novel, so I turned out the lights, listening to the rhythmic, sedating sounds of the wheels on the track.  This time they seemed to elicit peacefulness in me.  I relived in my mind the events of the previous days with a smile on my face as I lay there.  We did have our adventure, just Mallorie and me.

I didn’t hear the girls come in during the night and when we all jolted awake in the morning, goodbyes were said, email addresses exchanged.

I stepped off the train, growing weary thinking about my long flight home the next morning.  We got in a taxi (at my insistence) and headed to the hotel by the airport.  Mallorie and I enjoyed one last night together.  We stayed up late laughing at the craziness of our train ride to Paris and back. 

As we got in our beds, turned off the lights, Mallorie sat up in bed. 

“Mom, the girls I met last night said I absolutely had to visit Germany while I am living here.  Maybe you could come back to Spain before I move back to the U.S. and we could take an overnight train there.  It’s super cheap…..”

The Writers Insider Guide To Paris - Perhaps you are fed up with your 9 to 5 regime; perhaps you are a writer needing a new perspective . . . perhaps, like so many, you are intoxicated by the myth of writing in Paris (have read A Moveable Feast, dreamt of Sartre in Les Deux Magots, been haunted by the Beatniks' or Henry Miller's immortalized adventures) and are interested in discovering what such a life is all about. For whatever reason, you are ready to make Paris your home and haven for new words. KNOW IT IS POSSIBLE. This guide will set you off on the right footing by bringing to your attention all the international and French resources available to writers in Paris which might otherwise take you many pains and hours of research to locate. The guide also directs you toward the active community of writers currently located in Paris: i.e. the journals, bookstores, cafes, and soirées where you can seek support, listeners, and public outlets for your work. Throughout the guide you will find other writers' stories -- those published or just beginning -- proof that the dream of writing in Paris is possible.