The first trip

To say I was overprotected growing up is an understatement. In grade school, I couldn't even go on school trips to the fire department down the street. Later in high school I wasn't allowed into Boston 12 miles away.

The year to the day before I sailed for Europe on the U.S. America to join my bridegroom in Germany, my mother would not let me go to Attleboro, MA about an hour away with my then boyfriend to meet his parents.

My father and stepmom took me to New York. Even third class was luxurious with all kinds of entertainment: movies, games, library, dances and wonderful food. Many other Army wives were on the trip and we quickly bonded. Despite a storm, it was a good and fun trip.

Docking in Le Havre, France, there was a boat train to Paris.

For a girl where Boston was unknown, Paris was overwhelming. I needed to buy a train ticket to Stuttgart and arrange for a transfer of my trunk. Fortunately at the train station, the man in charge of the transfer was a British cockney who took pity on me. He also helped me buy a ticket for a train with one change.

It was 2 in the afternoon. The train left at 11 at night from a different station. The man put me in a cab and told me he told the driver not to do anything but take me to the correct train station and he was telling me that the fare should not exceed X francs.

Driving through the streets of Paris felt like being in a movie. I even had a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower.

At the train station with hours to wait I managed to buy myself something to eat. I told a Frenchman who said something to me, "Je parle français, vous ne parle pas français." He walked away shaking his head probably thinking how stupid Americans were. Only later did I realize what I'd said.

I was confused that my train was leaving at 23:00. I'd never heard of a 24-hour clock. That too I figured out and found the correct train, correct car at the correct time.

I was the only one in my six-seater compartment. The wooden door had a window and I could see through the window to the corridor as people walked by. After the first stop, a man joined me, probably not much more than my 20 years of age. He spoke a little English and tried to convince me to get off at the next stop. 

He did. 

I didn't.

I could not sleep. I was terrified and kept singing, "Whenever you feel afraid, just whistle a happy tune," to myself. I didn't sleep.

We pulled into the Stuttgart train station early the next morning. I noticed the Mercedes-Benz circle on top of the station tower. It would become my point of reference for the next two years that I would live there.

I grabbed my suitcases praying that my husband had gotten the message about my arrival that the nice man in the Paris station said he would send.

People were rushing to the exit.

And then I saw my husband.

Looking back about how I've learned to run all around Europe, where Paris has become familiar and easy to get around, where I speak French, I laugh at scared little me back then. 

But even then I knew being scared was okay. It isn't okay to let it stop you doing things you should do or want to do.