Whilst a rather important place for the French, for us visitors, it has a convenient hotel located just behind the square, and an underground, or Metro station, underneath.
Added to that was equally convenient cafes, one of which, The Cafe Republique, we had dinner every night. The service and food were excellent, and we had no problems with the language barriers.
At the top of the monument is a bronze statue of Marianne, said to be the personification of France.
Surrounding Marianne is three more statues, representing liberty, equality, and fraternity.
At the base is a lion guarding what is said to be a ballot box.
But it was just another episode of the helicopter story, we’re back on the ground after that fateful jump, things are not going quite as planned.
Do they ever in life or death situations?
… Yards were like miles, and I didn’t have the time to reach the weapon. I could see the pickup going around the burning wreck as he of the helicopter and approach me.
But, being the optimist I was I had to try.
And fail.
The pickup was on me before I’d made it halfway, stopping about a foot from me. Any further and it would have run me over.
I got to my knees and put my hands on my head not giving them any immediate reason to kill me. The man who had fired the rocket got out of the vehicle moments after it stopped.
A man in military garb, not very old. And not a foreigner. I was expecting South American, but not ostensibly one of us. A glance inside the vehicle showed the driver was a woman, in civilian clothes.
A surprise, yes.
“Mr. James I presume.” English, well spoken.
Another surprise or more than one, that he spoke English and knew who I was.
“We were expecting you but not be quite so dramatic entrance. Please stand.”
Kneeling had been difficult; I was not quite sure how standing was going to work. I was still recovered from the impromptu exit from the helicopter.
I tried and fell back on the ground. I looked up at him. “Sorry, the legs are still a little rubbery.”
He simply shook his head, leaned over and dragged me to my feet, then slung me over his shoulder, carried me to the rear of the pickup and tossed me in. I just managed to avoid hitting my head on the floor.
The man climbed in the back and then slapped the back of the cab.
Crunching gears, an over-revving engine, then a jerky start. It was not going to be a comfortable journey.
One minute I was sitting out in my office, working on some tweets, and the next I woke up, staring at a black screen.
I thought we’d lost power.
No, I’d been asleep for a long time.
To be honest, I’m worn out. It’s the end of the year and when it’s supposed to be a time to relax, go on holidays, do something else, I find life is getting more and more hectic.
Yes, I’m going on holiday, but it will be a time when I’m subconsciously looking for new locales for stories, the people, the places, what goes on, all different to my usual humdrum.
So, not a holiday in the true sense of the word.
What put me into this trance-like state was writing the next line, yep, it was as simple as that. I stopped at a particular point where I had something else to say, and it just felt like the train had come to the end of the track, out there, in the middle of nowhere.
I wrote that line in my mind, and it sounded good, much the same as we sometimes say something in our mind before we speak, and when we finally do, it sounded better in my head than out loud.
Perhaps I’m losing my touch.
Perhaps that ability to sum up everything I want to say in less than 200 characters is beginning to desert me, and old age and decrepitude is setting in.
Which reminds me, pills before bed.
Perhaps I’m just tired and it’s time to go to bed.
I keep putting it off because sometimes I can’t go to sleep and I’m just lying there staring at the ceiling, sometimes the cinema of my dreams.
I imagine I’m somewhere else, someone else, doing something else.
Lying there, afraid to move, I honestly believed that was just the stupidest thing I’d ever done.
Aside from the fact I could see we were about to be blown to kingdom come by a rocket, I had that split second to decide if I wanted to be incinerated, or in possession of 206 broken bones.
I guess I was assuming I’d survive the landing.
After all the helicopter was only about twenty to thirty feet above the ground and not moving very fast, in fact, it was slowing, and turning away, when the pilot saw the rocket launcher.
I could hear the crackling of fire not far from me, a result of the helicopter hitting the ground. It wasn’t a large explosion, and certainly not accompanied by a hail of red-hot metal parts.
Not yet.
I moved and it hurt. Understandable. But there didn’t seem to be any broken bones, which was nothing short of a miracle. I did try to affect a roll when landing as we were trained in parachute jumping, and maybe that had helped.
Enough time to recover, I rolled over and got to my knees. Ok, that hurt, twinges in my lower back, a slight sprain in my right ankle. No running then.
Then I heard the gears crunching, so sort an old Toyota pickup would make, followed by an over-revving engine. A novice driver. Or a man in a hurry.
Damn.
The pickup was coming back to check the wreckage.
And if there were any survivors.
No gun, lost that in the jump. But, as luck would have it, an AK47 was lying on the ground between me and the burning wreckage.
Only one problem. The pickup would be on me before I could get to it.
…
Is this the very definition of being between a rock and a hard place?
One minute I was sitting out in my office, working on some tweets, and the next I woke up, staring at a black screen.
I thought we’d lost power.
No, I’d been asleep for a long time.
To be honest, I’m worn out. It’s the end of the year and when it’s supposed to be a time to relax, go on holidays, do something else, I find life is getting more and more hectic.
Yes, I’m going on holiday, but it will be a time when I’m subconsciously looking for new locales for stories, the people, the places, what goes on, all different to my usual humdrum.
So, not a holiday in the true sense of the word.
What put me into this trance-like state was writing the next line, yep, it was as simple as that. I stopped at a particular point where I had something else to say, and it just felt like the train had come to the end of the track, out there, in the middle of nowhere.
I wrote that line in my mind, and it sounded good, much the same as we sometimes say something in our mind before we speak, and when we finally do, it sounded better in my head than out loud.
Perhaps I’m losing my touch.
Perhaps that ability to sum up everything I want to say in less than 200 characters is beginning to desert me, and old age and decrepitude is setting in.
Which reminds me, pills before bed.
Perhaps I’m just tired and it’s time to go to bed.
I keep putting it off because sometimes I can’t go to sleep and I’m just lying there staring at the ceiling, sometimes the cinema of my dreams.
I imagine I’m somewhere else, someone else, doing something else.
Lying there, afraid to move, I honestly believed that was just the stupidest thing I’d ever done.
Aside from the fact I could see we were about to be blown to kingdom come by a rocket, I had that split second to decide if I wanted to be incinerated, or in possession of 206 broken bones.
I guess I was assuming I’d survive the landing.
After all the helicopter was only about twenty to thirty feet above the ground and not moving very fast, in fact, it was slowing, and turning away, when the pilot saw the rocket launcher.
I could hear the crackling of fire not far from me, a result of the helicopter hitting the ground. It wasn’t a large explosion, and certainly not accompanied by a hail of red-hot metal parts.
Not yet.
I moved and it hurt. Understandable. But there didn’t seem to be any broken bones, which was nothing short of a miracle. I did try to affect a roll when landing as we were trained in parachute jumping, and maybe that had helped.
Enough time to recover, I rolled over and got to my knees. Ok, that hurt, twinges in my lower back, a slight sprain in my right ankle. No running then.
Then I heard the gears crunching, so sort an old Toyota pickup would make, followed by an over-revving engine. A novice driver. Or a man in a hurry.
Damn.
The pickup was coming back to check the wreckage.
And if there were any survivors.
No gun, lost that in the jump. But, as luck would have it, an AK47 was lying on the ground between me and the burning wreckage.
Only one problem. The pickup would be on me before I could get to it.
…
Is this the very definition of being between a rock and a hard place?
And probably would be, if I was away on holidays in Europe, simply because I’ve always wanted to be in Belgium on a Tuesday just so I could use that line. Not going to happen in the immediate future, but maybe next year some time.
By the way, that line is out of a movie, but I’m not sure which one. Obviously, it wasn’t that great if I can’t remember it.
But…
Searching for locations for my stories takes a lot of time and effort, using Google Earth and other means like street view. Finding houses, or apartments required a great deal of real estate research, almost to the point of buying a property.
Is there any better way to see the street it’s in, the neighbors, the neighborhood, and inside the house and gardens. Almost as if you lived there, which of course you do in the story.
In reality, I’m in Canada on the trans-Canada highway heading towards Banff, on icy roads in winter. Yes, that’s where we were a few years ago in early January, getting a feel for the place, the roads, the weather, the people, and the places.
Cold, yes. Atmospheric, yes, exciting, double yes. Sometimes research is really fun, well, I don’t call it that, otherwise everyone else will think it was not the birthday treat that it was meant to be.
And was.
My wife’s 65th birthday was one she certainly will never forget.
So..,
Writing is proceeding better now that I’ve knuckled down. The Trans-Canada experience has been translated into a story attached to a photo and has been posted. It will also become a new episodic story, and will start now the helicopter crash story has ended.
The treasure hunt has taken shape, and there’s lots of twists and turns, with people yet to show their true colours. It always seems that way when there’s a fortune at stake. Evil lurks behind and under every rock, and people who were thought to be untrustworthy suddenly change for the better, and those whom you thought you could depend on, well, you know what happens when a fortune is involved.
And as for the helicopter crash and its aftermath, this finally has been brought to a conclusion, but not without a bit of heart stopping terror involved.
My other story, in war time Germany and Italy, is humming along, but it is about to hot up in the castle. Our defector is yet to get there, but, by the time he does, our hero is going to have to clean up both the rogue resistance, and treasonous soldiers. Sounds easy, but in reality, it’s going to be a lot tougher.
We shall see.
And the Being Inspired series just got to 140, and is nearly ready to be published.
The working title of the project is ‘A Score To Settle’, though like all titles, it may change once the editor has read the first draft.
I have had this story in the back of my mind for some time, and every now and then, wrote a piece when an idea came to me. I had the general outline of what was going to happen, it’s now time to flesh out the plot points into a story.
What’s it about?
Coming back from a rest-induced hiatus, our main character is sent on what, at first, seems to be a simple mission, but when was anything simple?
And what could be more interesting than a human rights conference being held in a country that had been known for committing such violations, while trying to show the world it’s moving towards a more progressive and liberated government.
And intelligence advises that it is possible revolutionaries might try to use the conference to stage a coup de grace, ensuring that there will be no shortage of shadowy goings-on.
More will be revealed over the next month as the story progresses.
So, there I was, hanging half out of the helicopter, shooting a handgun at a truck speeding along a dirt track.
I know, what’s the effective range of a handgun?
The sound of the rotors was still deafening even with the earphones on and as I run out of bullets and was reaching for another clip, I heard a voice crackle in my ears.
“Some fool’s got a rocket launcher.”
That fool was trying to lean out the passenger side of the truck and aim the launcher at the helicopter.
The bucking and swaying of the vehicle nearly tipped him out onto the roadside, but something managed to anchor him, and he was taking aim.
“Now would be the time to peel away,” I said, not knowing if the pilot could hear me.
Our course didn’t deviate, so perhaps he hadn’t.
I calculated the distance between the helicopter and the ground, and the speed we were traveling. Fast. Short drop. Quick landing. Very painful.
In that moment I saw the rocket leave the launcher, I let go.
There was that instant where you feel disembodied and floating on air. The same as that few seconds in free fall, just before pulling the rip cord of a parachute.
I hit the ground a rolled, not that I thought it would do much good, and the stopped, just before I lost consciousness. Somewhere in front of me, there was a huge explosion, and then nothing.
Last thought, I hope the helicopter didn’t land on me.
As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.
Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.
For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1
These are the memories of our time together…
Even now, I still believe he is here with us, in spirit, though sometimes I swear I hear him coming down the passage, or is sitting on the floor, behind me in the office, waiting to hear the next piece of writing and offer his often sage comments.
But, no. When I turn around he’s not there, and I stop, for a moment or two, and remember.
…
This was Chester.
For a few days, we have been monitoring Chester.
He hasn’t been talkative, in fact, I have been mistaking his usual taciturn nature in the mornings for what it really was.
A total lack of interest in anything.
He did not come down in the morning. OK, so, sometimes he cracks a hissy fit and totally ignores me.
But, this is different.
After a few days he returns and gives me the benefit of his wisdom.
Today, he hasn’t shown at all, so I went looking for him.
He was in his usual hiding spot, lying down. I give him a pat, he opes his eyes and looks at me. This is a cat who is not well.
I pick him up, and there’s no immediate fight back. He doesn’t normally like to be carried anywhere. Today, he’s putty in my hands.
I call the vet. She can fit him in now if I run. I’m running.
He goes into his carry basket without a fight. OK, now I know something is definitely wrong.
There’s not a sound between home and the clinic. Usually, he screams the place down, trying to get him into the carrier, and then makes as much noise as possible when driving.
Today there is nothing, not even a whimper.
The vet comes out. She has been seeing him for the last ten years and they are well acquainted.
We see her every six months. Without fail, for shots and stuff.
I take him out of the carrier and he lies down on the metal bench.
She looks at him, then picks him up.
She weighs him.
He’s lost two kilos, and that’s a lot for a cat.
I can see it’s bad news.
It is.
He’s 19 years old, long past the average life expectancy.
To keep him alive now would be inhumane. He has, apparently, reached the end of his life, and has lost the desire to eat or to do anything. There was nothing I could have done to prevent it.
She says, it just happens.
It will be quick and it will be painless.
I can see in his eyes that it’s what he wants.
I said goodbye, went outside and sat in the car, and cried.
There’s going to be a lot more tears before this day is out.
