One Step Ahead

by J. J. Kapka

  Among the people with whom she’d shared a larger table that morning was an elderly American couple who were on their fifth visit to England and who gave her a number of terrific, little-known pointers for getting the most out of her visit to the city. Rather than take a regular sightseeing bus as she’d planned, they instead recommended she hop on a double-decker bus on one particular route that happened to traverse many of the main arteries and attractions of London. They advised her to do that first to get an idea of the city, and then to select her in-depth visits from those places that struck her as most appealing.

  Sure enough, and with the added benevolence of the summer sun putting in an appearance for the entire day, she’d found the route so interesting that she took the bus both ways just to be sure she’d seen everything on both sides. It was strangely invigorating to sit up high, with no roof over her head, the sun beaming down and the wind blowing her hair all over, all the while drinking in the amazing complexity of one of the largest cities in the world.

  When she finally hopped off the bus around noon, close to the stop at which she’d originally boarded, she made tracks for a lunch spot that had earlier caught her eye, a traditional fish and chips shop. The place was as unfussy as could be, with a few overworked tables and chairs, but the site of the lunchtime crowd bearing away conical bundles of crisply golden fillets of fish cemented her decision to give the British staple a try.

  After pointing to a couple of different varieties of white fillets she judged most likely to make the successful transition to deep-fried nirvana, she stood back and took in the process of the cook dipping it in the batter and consigning it to the hot mercies of the deep fryer. Minutes later, she had her own redolent packet consisting of French fries—chips—piled into the bottom of the cone, with the battered fish resting comfortably at the top.

  Maddie then sat down, and following the example set by some of the other diners, sprinkled some malt vinegar over the entire mass. After a few false starts of burning her fingertips as she tried to separate off a bite-size piece of fish, she retrieved a fork from the counter and was finally successful at capturing a nice chunk. The lovely juxtaposition of textures between the crisp, light crust and juicy, tender fish astounded her. It turned out that the fries were nothing special, but the fish had enough allure in this simple guise that she resolved to engage in a repeat performance before she left merry old England.

  Between the saltiness of the fries and the tanginess of the vinegar, her mouth was left with a yearning that her mere bottled water couldn’t slake. After wiping off the sins of the fryer from her lips and her fingers, she set off for a pub that she’d spotted on the corner. Taking her place at the bar, she decided to be adventurous and order a shanty, a combination of ale and lemonade. It turned out to be just the antidote needed to make the fried food a bit more digestible, while at the same time quenching the craving the saltiness had engendered. In fact, the combination of her sun-drenched time on the bus, a fully fed belly, and the alcohol all contributed to a feeling of languor. She felt like laying her head down on the bar and taking a nap, just a little one. But in her desire to continue taking in all the city had to offer, she fended off the urge, resisting the inevitable pull of jet lag.

  Consulting the guidebook she’d stashed in the mini-backpack she’d purchased yesterday, she decided to make her way back to the Tower of London. She’d passed close by the famous site on her morning bus ride, and having read all about its fascinating and often bone-chilling history, she decided to get there via the Underground instead of repeating the bus ride yet a third time.

  Some hours later, having taken a walking tour of the Tower with a guide, she was fully steeped in the royal intrigues and machinations that had taken place within those dank walls. In fact, the thought that kept coming back to her as she’d listened to the accounts of the various prisoners who had spent so many years within the confines of the Tower, was that their suffering certainly made her current situation look like small potatoes indeed. Not that it lessened her heartache, but it did give her a better sense of perspective.

  Coming back out of the gates, she looked at her watch and made a snap decision to stop at a theater ticket booth to see if she could catch one of the many productions advertised on posters hung throughout the long hallways of the Underground. Strangely enough, despite being a New Yorker, she’d never been to see Cats. Becker had always derisively dismissed it, as many of the theaterati did, as being glitzy showmanship more than true theater. Somehow, without really realizing it, she’d fallen in with this line of thinking and hadn’t even attempted to see it with a friend. But now, finding that it was still playing in the West End, she felt a perverse desire to spite Becker—even if he didn’t know it—by taking in this previously “forbidden fruit.”

  Unfortunately, the booth had already closed for the day, but she doggedly decided to pursue her inclination and made her way by train to the West End. Figuring it couldn’t hurt to try to her luck at the box office, she went directly to the theater. Likely owing to the long-running record of the show, with so many people having already seen it, she was tickled to find that not only did they have a seat, but she was able to score one of the best seats.

  With forty-five minutes still left till showtime, she decided to grab a quick bite to eat. Wandering around the area, she soon found herself on the fringes of what turned out to be Covent Garden, where she ambled into a laughing crowd that was watching a trio of street performers. Not wanting to miss anything, she quickly stepped into a nearby takeout shop for a sandwich, which she took back to the periphery of the throng. She enjoyed her stand-up meal while taking in the performance of the buskers. Their interactions with the audience were as hilarious as their acts, and Maddie marveled at their quick ability to ad lib in response to the various things that were shouted out to them. As she finished her sandwich and reluctantly left the scene to make her way to the theater, she realized that Becker wouldn’t have given them a moment’s notice, having always had a strong disdain for people who took to the street to earn their living.

  She went on to see Cats and found it absolutely delightful. She was in awe of the actors’ ability to mimic the cats. Plus, the circular layout of the revolving theater and the detail in the costuming and makeup all combined to be exactly the kind of distracting escape that she needed to take her mind off her troubles.

  Musing on the day’s experiences after she returned to her hotel room, Maddie was suddenly struck by the notion that most of what she’d done that day, with the exception of the Tower of London, she would not have done if she were with Becker. Not the bus ride, because he preferred having fixed destinations, not joy rides. Not the fish and chips, because he rarely touched fried food. And certainly not the street performers or Cats. Probably the first place they would have visited would have been the British Museum, specifically the antiquities section, a favorite interest of Becker’s. Certainly they would have gone to Parliament and Westminster Abbey, with lunch at a trendy restaurant, perhaps in Knightsbridge.

  Comparing what might have been with what actually had occurred, Maddie acknowledged to herself that everything she might have done with Becker would certainly have been enjoyable and definitely worth her time. Admittedly, she derived a great deal of pleasure from seeing Becker’s delight in anything that sparked his interest. But if she were to isolate a common thread to the nature of her day’s adventures, it would be that they expressed a certain kind of spontaneity that she wasn’t accustomed to indulging. Left to her own devices, she was happier to go with the flow of the moment, taking recommendations not just from books, but from people. Becker’s approach was more regimented, and now that she thought of it, confining.

  Despite her sadness at what had transpired two nights ago, Maddie had to admit that she’d had an exhilarating day, not only because of what she’d chosen to do, but also because she’d done it alone, in a strange place, and yet hadn’t felt herself lacking for want of Becker’s companionship. If Becker
had been here, he wouldn’t have approved, she thought. I wouldn’t have enjoyed myself as much. She would have been on the defensive, watching Becker warily to see if there would be a trace of disdain or boredom on his face. That was always a sure signal that she’d need to step in and either distract him, or do something different, before his mood continued to descend into outright petulance, as often happened.

  Maddie began to suspect there was a degree of overhead on her part in maintaining their relationship, work that she’d done that she didn’t even recognize till now. Had Becker chosen to end their relationship back home, there would have been work and routine to sustain her through the shock and bafflement. But this clean slate which the trip presented her gave new perspective to what she’d been contributing to their marriage all along. So much so that, although her decisions today hadn’t been made with any kind of deliberate consciousness toward their divergence from their married “norm,” she now resolved to take that very tack. She would go out of her way to seek out experiences that she wouldn’t normally have sought in the company of Becker. If I’m going to be forced to begin my life anew, she thought, then damn it, I’ll make it my life, for better or worse.

  ~~~

  June 30

  Having made her decision to embrace her impulses and follow through on them without the guilt previously imposed by bringing Becker along, Maddie had had an incredible time over the past few days, doing things both expected and offbeat. She rented a car and drove out to the Cotswolds, enjoying a stop in hallowed Oxford en route. Once she arrived in the Cotswolds, she felt pleasantly engulfed by the placid country feel, which contrasted sharply with the big city trappings of London. The trees and fields were richly hued with all that summer had to offer in the English countryside. Maddie was completely taken with the cottage gardens bordering the lanes, which she haphazardly wandered along.

  Fortuitous in her choice of days in that it was once again raining down sunshine, rather than the more usual showers, she chose a picture-perfect tearoom with an outside table to enjoy her first taste of tea and scones. When the scones arrived with their Devonshire cream and strawberry jam, she delighted in savoring every rich bite. The almost crumbly texture of the scones was just the right foil for the meltingly moist cream and jam. She’d had no idea what constituted a perfectly made cup of tea, but judging by the satisfaction that her taste buds were evincing, she guessed that the pot at her elbow was likely an excellent example of the genre.

  Another day, having enjoyed the cottage gardens so much, she made her way out to Kew Gardens and spent a blissful few hours simply appreciating the carefully laid out gardens and greenhouses. For herself, she found the living plants and flowers, in all their myriad guises, so much more appealing than the musty confines of a museum.

  Finally, on the day before she departed London, she made a pilgrimage out to Windsor Castle, having read in the Times that the queen would be there that day. Certainly the royal flag was waving above the ramparts, showing that the queen was indeed in residence, but Maddie was out of luck in her hope that she might catch a glimpse of her. She knew Becker would surely have ridiculed her desire to see the queen, being as inured as they were to seeing famous faces on the streets and in the restaurants and theaters of New York, but, well, it was the queen after all. All she could do was silently gaze up at one of the old glazed windows and try to will her to appear. In fact, a figure did pass by, and she could have sworn it was holding a small dog, but surely that couldn’t be…Nevertheless, willing the figure to be who she wanted her to be, Maddie telegraphed her regards. Heaven knows, the woman had her hands full with many more weighty crises than Maddie did.

  Having done exactly what she’d set out to do after getting back up on the horse, so to speak, Maddie had closed out the first leg of her Grand Tour. She knew for a fact that it was going to be less grand than first expected, but definitely more spontaneous, and certainly more potentially rewarding.

  ~~~

  The Becker Chronicles—London

  Reeking of bangers and mash, Becker went back to their hotel room to the discovery that Maddie had briefly returned and then taken off, not only with her backpack, but with his as well. Not only that, but she had his passport in her purse, too. Inexplicably, she’d left her suitcase, but he figured that must have been a mistake.

  She’ll be back, Becker thought. Hoping he was right, he stayed close by the hotel for the next three days, except for a brief excursion to buy new clothes. The set he’d arrived in had been all but ruined by the bangers and mash, and he’d had to have them sent out for cleaning before he could even leave the room to do his shopping.

  After three days, Becker finally gave up the ghost that Maddie might come back so they could settle things amicably. He spent the next few days trying to obtain a new passport. This involved forms and fees and proof of ID at the embassy, with a good deal of waiting in between each step. As he waited, he stewed about his predicament and Maddie’s role in it. He did allow that, given the way he’d sprung the breakup on her, Maddie might have been a bit justified in her reaction. But still…

  That was the sum total of London for Becker: waiting in the room for Maddie to come back, shopping for items he needed to replace those lost in the backpack Maddie had taken, and waiting at the embassy to replace his passport. By the time he had the new document in hand, he was eager to put London behind him and head to Paris for a fresh start.

  Chapter 3

  Paris

  Croissant—a Rich, Multi-layered Pastry

  July 1

  Disarray and confusion reigned at the stifling baggage claim area of Paris’ Charles de Gaulle Airport. People-movers crisscrossed up and down in a central atrium to deliver travelers into crowds that barely had enough room to wait for their luggage, let alone stay out of harm’s way from the hordes spilling out of the people-movers. This must have looked good on paper in some architect’s office, Maddie thought, horrified at the design of this supposedly modern airport. After more than half an hour of being accidentally and deliberately pushed and prodded, Maddie finally retrieved her new suitcase and her backpack from the luggage carousel and set off for the city.

  Foregoing an expensive taxi, she put herself at the mercies of the rail system. When she finally emerged, blinking, into the sunlight from the Madeleine Métro station some two-and-a-half hours later, she kicked herself for being so naïve as to think that taking the train would be a quick and easy alternative to a taxi. It had taken fifteen minutes to get to the bus stop, twenty minutes to wait for the next bus after discovering she’d just missed one, fifteen minutes to ride to the train station, ten minutes to figure out tickets and tracks, and yet another three-quarters of an hour of stop-and-go travel on a local commuter service. After all that, she’d still had to shift over to the Métro rail network and negotiate yet another transfer. By this time, she was about ready to abandon her baggage after dragging it up and down more stairs and platforms than she cared to count. If the trips to London and Paris were any indicator of the ease of travel in the modern age, she for one was ready to go back to the more genteel days of the ocean liner and porters.

  Pulling her city map out of her pocket, Madison stepped out of the bustling crowd and found shelter under a store awning as she tried to orient herself so she could find her hotel in as few steps as possible. After browsing through a raft of brochures at the airport, she had elected to try another “charming” hotel close to the Place Madeleine. This time, I hope it truly is charming, she thought.

  Finding the hotel’s location on the map, Maddie once again gathered up her baggage and walked toward the closest corner. Passing a convivial-looking café, she proceeded to follow the outermost perimeter of the immense square, stepping off the curb to cross the first small street she came to. A horn blared only a few feet away, causing her to jump back in panic. Having successfully programmed herself for the English mode of driving on the opposite side of the street, she’d mistakenly glanced to her right before cros
sing.

  Taking a minute to let her heart slow down again, this time she looked both ways, just to be sure, before she successfully traversed the little street. At that point, Maddie found herself passing the mouthwatering windows of Hediard, the noted purveyor of assorted gourmet items, many of which were tantalizingly lined up in the store’s windows. Pressing her nose against the glass to peek through the afternoon glare striking the window, she made a mental note to revisit as soon as she had a chance.

  Continuing to the end of the next short block, she looked up at the street sign affixed to the building and found that she’d reached her street. Glancing to the right, down the short block, she saw the sign for her hotel. Walking rapidly, she held her breath in trepidation as she pushed open the door to the lobby. Casting a quick glance around, she sighed with relief. The hotel was, indeed, charming. Rich wood paneling was set off by antique furniture and clusters of fresh flowers, including a magnificent arrangement on a central, marble-topped table. In the midst of her rubbernecking, her eyes met with those of the clerk at the desk, who had a bemused smile on her face.

  Slightly abashed at being caught gawking, Maddie mustered her courage to attempt to use her high-school French as she’d promised herself during the months of planning. Wary of the well-known French contempt for any language not French, she hesitantly put forward her request for a room as politely as possible.

  The desk clerk didn’t bat an eye before answering in flawless, if charmingly accented, English, that yes, there were rooms available. “Would Madame like a room facing the street or the inside courtyard?” the young lady inquired.