Some Not So Good News. Wednesday 19th August 2009.

Mum and Dad's arrival at our meeting point at the Bastille wasn't the happy reunion we had all imagined. Dad had been pick pocketed on the train and had lost his wallet and passport. I was faced with a rush of emotions and felt so sad for Dad and incredibly angry about what had happened. There was nothing to do but to be there and to get the ball rolling with cancelling cards, police reports and the like. I was really proud of the way Mum and Dad handled it, they were cool and calm and maintained their dignity every step of the way.

The administration process was long and arduous, as is to be expected here in France. The police report wasn't finished until about 1.30, even though we first arrived at the station at 10.30am. They were too busy to deal with the matter then, inside the station was a collection of victims that had no doubt fallen prey to something similar. Sometimes life just isn't fair.

After the police report, passport photos had to be organised and a visit to the Australian Embassy was needed to organise an emergency passport for Dad to return to England the following day. JR went with them while I took Alex to Jardin du Tuileries where we waited for their call. They arrived back to us late afternoon, AJ gathered enough chairs for all and we sat together in the cool of the shade to regenerate a little.

We found a lovely little Italian restaurant in St Germain where we ate well. I sat next to a charming 88 year old, Patrice was his name and he had been eating here every night for five years. He is alone and comes here for the atmosphere; it is a place where he can interact with other people, something he enjoys. Patrice caught my eye the moment he entered the room looking every inch a gentleman. He placed a cushion on his seat and his walking stick by his regular table, and took off his gloves, even though we were sweltering after a day of 34 degrees. The waistcoat he wore was of fine, golden fabric and looked special, it was made by a local seamstress. His fingers were decorated with rings encrusted with coloured gems and he wore a happy smile on his face, I liked Patrice and we had a nice talk sitting side by side at the restaurant.

We travelled with Mum and Dad, back to Gare du Nord for hopefully the last visit to the police station, to collect a police report number for insurance purposes. Why the report number could not be generated upon filing your complaint I do not know, but this is French administration and we are well used to inefficiency by now. I would highly recommend to anyone visiting this wonderful city that they steer clear of Gare du Nord, we have learned it is notorious for theft and the like. I wish we had of known its reputation before Mum and Dad had experienced it.

With Mum and Dad safely back in their hotel, we returned to the sanctuary of our Parisian home where we slept like babies, ready for another day.