Testing 1-2-3 - My First Blog

L’ascenseur est fermé cet après midi pour réparation.

Gary and I stood side-by-side, our eyes narrow slits as if we would suddenly comprehend the words on the sign in front of us if we squinted really hard.

Since we were standing in front of the elevator that would take us from the first level of the Eiffel Tower to the second level observation deck, it was a safe assumption that l’ascenseur was French for lift.

“Doesn’t femme mean woman?” Gary asked.

“Try squinting a little harder, honey. That says fermé, not femme.”

“’Réparation.’ That can’t be good, can it?”

I pulled out my smartphone and Googled “Translate French to English.” “It says, ‘The elevator is closed this afternoon for repairs.’”

A woman wearing a Hard Rock Café Hoodie standing next to us pointed at the sign.  “Yeah, the elevator is down. If you want to get to the observation deck, ya gotta walk up the stairs.”

Gary and I were nearing the end of a nearly three-week vacation. For my 50th birthday, Gary booked us on a trans-Atlantic cruise—Fort Lauderdale to Southampton—where we proceeded on to London for three days, then boarded the Eurostar Chunnel train to whisk us to Paris for another three. It had been a most wonderful trip, one that I had lovingly dubbed “A Tale [BW1] of Two Cities Tour.”

The excursion we were currently on, one that had included The Louvre and Notre Dame, was coming to a close with the final stop at the Eiffel Tower that included lunch on the 1st level and an elevator ride to the observation deck.  We’d enjoyed our meal of fresh croissants, soft cheeses, fruit and wine, but if we were to enjoy the view from the 2nd floor, we’d have to hoof it.

The stairway was more like scaffolding, simple handrail being the only barrier between the stairs and… death. Not surprising for a structure that looked like it was constructed from a giant’s erector set.

Hesitantly, I walked behind Gary towards the staircase, like Sydney Carton approaching [BW2] the guillotine. Stomach flopping, throat closing, I had such a feeling of impending doom that I almost expected to look over and see Madame DeFarge knitting away.

Gary looked back at me, surprised that I was not keeping up. “Are you coming?”

“Gary—I… I can’t. You know me. I don’t do heights.” [BW3] Having made the decision to chicken out, my throat relaxed, my stomach stilled. “Take good photos for me. I’ll wait for you. Right here.” I pointed to a spot three feet from the first step. “Here.”

Gary hesitated, his foot hovering over the first step. I nodded urging him on. “It’s okay. I’ll be fine. I don’t do heights.” I smiled encouragingly as he started up the stairs.

It wasn’t exactly accurate to say that I didn’t do heights. I would have been fine if an elevator had taken us to the observatory. I am fine in airplanes, tall buildings, even tall roller coasters. I only struggle when I have time to ponder, “what if?” “What if the guy running the ski-lift decides to take a bathroom break?” “What if the bolts holding this ride together need tightening?” “What if there’s an earthquake?” I was fine plummeting towards the ground with nothing but a seat bar keeping me from flying off a ride, but given time to think, “What if there’s a huge gap between the last stair and the observation platform? What happens if I panic halfway up, and I can’t move? What happens if I trip?” THAT’S when I’m in trouble.

Gary had been gone less than a minute when a family of four came towards the stairs. They were speaking what sounded like French, a language which, as already established, I didn’t understand. But even without subtitles, it was fairly clear what was happening. The father was yelling at the younger of the two boys while the mother stood by shaking her head and the older boy snickered. The boy on the receiving end of the dad’s tongue lashing looked sullen, arms folded, his downcast eyes hiding behind a curtain of stylishly disheveled hair, his lower lip dominating the visible half of his face. Having said his piece, the father pointed toward the bottom stair not far from where I stood. The young man walked to the spot and plopped down without unfolding his arms. The rest of the family began climbing the stairs to the next level.

I looked at this boy, sulking near my feet, and my eyes began to well up. This was me at his age. This was me forty years ago, my father yelling at me, in English, that I was a coward. A sissy. I was fifty now. When was I going to get another opportunity to visit the Eiffel Tower?

And then it hit me. I would do for this young man something I’d never managed for myself. I’d help him overcome his fear. 

I moved a little closer to him. “Are you afraid of the stairs?” I asked. “Because I am.” And, of course, being European he understood English, and nodded. I asked, “Would you have gone if the elevator was working?” and he again nodded. “Me, too,” I said. “Are you angry that you can’t go up like everyone else?” Again, he nodded. “Yeah. Me, too. Let’s go up together.”

Not having kids of my own, it did not occur to me that this would set off his “stranger danger” alarm, I mistook the look of fear in his eyes and pressed on. “No, it’s okay. Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll walk up just one flight, and then come back down. I don’t know about you, but my fear is that I’m going to get halfway up and get too scared to continue, only to discover that it’s scarier coming down. So, if we see that it’s NOT any scarier, we’ll know that we can always turn back. And we’ll check in with each other every flight. You want to turn around, we turn around, no questions asked.” I could see doubt play across his face. “Promise. No questions asked!”

I gave him a reassuring smile as I watched the idea this might work spread across his face. “Oh… one more thing. I don’t know about you, but I really don’t want to think about how high we’re climbing, so let’s distract ourselves. We’ll count the stairs, but in French. You’ll teach me. But we’ll only go as high as ten before we start at one again. I can handle climbing ten stairs at a time. How about you?”

The corners of his mouth turned up as he nodded. “Yes. I mean, Oui.”

And so, we began. Grasping the rail hand-over-hand, slowly we climbed. “Un, deux, trois…”

Okay, I’ll be honest - that’s as far as I can go. I’m a little OCD and had to count the stairs in English in my head.  As we made our way rather slowly, we’d stop every so often to allow people to pass. “Go ahead. We’re taking our time. Enjoying… the view.” And as people came down the stairs, I’d stop them and ask, “Is it any scarier further up?” “No,” they’d say. “And it’s so worth it. You can do it. Keep going!”

And that’s what we did. Three hundred and sixty-one steps. We made it to the top.

That’s when I discovered just how angry a father can be when he finds out that a 50-year-old foreigner convinced his pre-teen son to wander around with him. He had some choice words for me. Fortunately, I don’t speak French, so I chose to think that he was thanking me. Vigorously. But all of his anger melted away when he looked at his son’s face and saw victory written all over it.

And for me? Gary came over and gave me an enormous hug. “You did it, Honey! I’m so proud of you!”

I was proud, too. I had climbed the gibbet, not knowing what awaited at the top. I turned to Gary. “’It is a far, far better thing that I did than I have ever done. It is a far, far better rest that I —’ speaking of rest, is there a restroom up here? I’ve had to pee since step number seven.”

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