Plans that didn’t require our luggage.

We still didn’t have our seven checked bags when Tuesday dawned, so we needed to make new plans. Plans that did not require any of our gear or more layers than the clothes on our backs.

Mark walked down to the place where you can pay an expert parasailer to take you flying off the mountain in a sort of tandem rig, and signed up the teenage boys for an eleven o’clock flight. Then he and I went to one of the stores in town to buy gloves for them, since it’s cold up there, and approach shoes for me, just in case hiking became necessary. (I had picked great versatile shoes for airport sprinting and for urban walking around — comfortable black leather flats in a sort of sporty mary jane style — but it wouldn’t do to hike in them.) The boys got dressed to fly.

I stayed at the bottom with the two little boys. The 7yo begged to be taken to a French McDonald’s to find out if it was the same or different. I thought this outing might be best if it was gotten out of the way as soon as possible, so I packed up a backpack with spare clothes and the child carrier, and ventured down into the town with a little boy’s hand in each of mine.

We found the Golden Arches with no trouble, and I ordered two happy meals with the touchscreen kiosk with no trouble, but when it came time to pay I had trouble: the machine would not take either of my credit cards, and it displayed a command to pay cash at the counter. I had neglected to get cash from Mark that morning, so I rushed out the door (one perplexed child at each hand) to ask directions for the nearest ATM; upon arriving, I found that my cash card did not work either.

So I had to explain to the two children that we couldn’t buy any food, and did they want to walk around and look at things instead? No, they both started to cry. So back up the hill to the apartment.

On the way up, towing my two sad little boys by the hands, I bumped into an Englishwoman who exchanged pleasantries with me and then asked, “Have you been up on the gondola yet?”

“Yes,” I said, “well, not this time yet, a few years ago. But my kids are doing parasailing from there right now,” and I gestured with my head at a few colorful sails which were circling down at the moment from the sky. (Probably not them, although it could have been.)

“Oh my,” she said, “that must be scary to watch.”

I thought about it for a moment. “No,” I said, “they are seventeen and thirteen. I am sure they are having fun.”

When Mark arrived with two happy teenage boys, I made him take the small kids back into town for their Happy Meals. The 11yo went too. It probably made their day.

Our oldest had taken a GoPro on his flight. I hope to post it later when he sends it to me.

+ + +

We had been told the bags would arrive that evening, either by 6 pm or at 6 pm, so someone had to stay and wait. We took turns heading out on little errands. Our 13yo went out looking for gear with Mark. The 17yo went for a run. I took the 11yo out window shopping and to a bookstore, where we browsed for a long time and where I bought her an Asterix book and myself a cookbook.

When I got home there were still no bags, and it was time to make dinner. The TV was on, where French news covered Hurricane Irma, paying closest attention to the French islands. We were listening too, because we had friends staying on St. Kitts that night, and were hoping for the best for them.

I made chicken noodle soup, with a cold rotisserie chicken; carrots, onions, parsley and celery; and egg tagliatelle sold rolled in little nests.

And I made a first course with olives, cured meat, and last night’s haricots verts tossed in vinaigrette.

(I had rhum raisins. And those raisins were really, really rhummy. Perfect. Although I think I spilled some on my new approach shoes.)

+ + +

Not long after 10 the phone rang, and Mark thrust it at me, saying, “I think it’s about the bags!” I took it and said “Hello?” and was greeted with a bad connection, a static-and-gaps-punctuated stream of absolutely incomprehensible rapid French, with what sounded like the wind roaring past the window on the highway. I tried to reply. I told him I couldn’t hear him well. I asked him to speak more slowly. He didn’t slow down. I tried again and he hung up on me.

“He hung up,” I said.

“Call back!” said Mark.

I called back and he picked up, sounding irritated. Something something — and a string of numbers that I thought might be our street address. Was he asking what address to deliver to? I ran and fetched the paper with our address written on it and repeated the address back. “Okay, okay,” he was saying, but then there was more. Was he out there trying to be let in at the automatic gate? I struggled to hear and understand, running barefoot outside, and finally I heard him say “SMS.”

Which left me wondering why I didn’t think of that. “Oui, bien sûr,” I said, “ce sera bon, envoyez-moi un SMS.”

He hung up, this time I did not call back, and a second later Mark’s phone pinged in my hand. J’arrive en 50m.

“He’ll be here in fifty minutes!” I said to Mark, who was reading over my shoulder.

“He’s just now leaving the airport, maybe,” said Mark.

“I guess he was only trying to confirm the address.”

I tapped back, slowly because Mark has autocorrect on and it kept “fixing” my French: Qqn vous attend devant le numéro 269. “You have two q’s in that word,” said Mark, and I irritatedly explained that it was an abbreviation for somebody.

So Mark and I sat outside on a bench and waited. And checked our phones for news of the hurricane. And took selfies.

And finally a van came up the hill slowly, and the driver stopped, and it was the driver we wanted to see, with all seven of our bags in the van. I apologized and explained that I was no good on the phone, and he said it was no problem, and I signed for the bags and Mark counted them, all there. Did we need help carrying? Non, nous avons deux grands fils, I told him, and indeed Mark had already texted the 17yo who was jogging down the long driveway to help us with our bags.

We had to stay up at least another hour divvying up pajamas and toothbrushes and laying out climbing gear for the next day. And Mark and I finished the bottle of wine. And then, much relieved, we went to bed.

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