invitation, but somehow going to Kentucky didn’t sound quite as exciting as New Zealand.
“Are you okay?” Amy asked as we walked the short distance back to our hotel.
I nodded. “Just thinking. Taking it all in.”
“Do you want to see something else now? Or should we go back to our room and call it a day?”
“It’s such a calm evening, after the wind this afternoon. What about taking a boat ride?”
“I’m in,” Amy said.
“Let’s hope you’re not all the way in,” I said.
She didn’t catch my attempt to compete with her earlier joke, so I explained it to her. “You’re in, but not all theway in because if you were all the way in, that would make you in Seine.”
Apparently her earlier pun now escaped her, and she looked confused.
“Never mind.” I remembered how my dad used to say that if you had to explain a joke, it wasn’t really a joke, and therefore it didn’t bear repeating.
Retracing our steps to the Pont Royal, Amy and I walked down the steps to the river level and bought two tickets for a ride in a covered passenger boat. The bench seat we selected near the front accommodated the two of us with room to spare. Only a few others joined us for our evening cruise. By the way they were dressed, several of the passengers looked as if they were commuting or on their way to meet someone for dinner. This certainly was a leisurely way to go.
“It looks different from this level, doesn’t it?” Amy said.
“What looks different?”
“Paris. The city. The buildings. You have to look up to see anything, and none of it appears the same as it did when we were viewing it from our hotel window.”
“You know, I read in one of the guide books that if you want to get a unique view of Paris, you can take a tour of the sewers.”
“You can’t be serious,” Amy said. “That’s not my idea of a good time.”
“Mine either.”
“I like this speed.” Amy leaned back and gazed out the glass top of the boat to view the bridge we were motoring under. “I want to see as much as we can of Paris. Just not from the heights or the depths.”
“Heights?”
“I don’t do heights. You know that.”
I tried to remember if I knew that Amy had a thing about heights. It had been years since she and I had done anything that required significant elevation. She hadn’t expressed any fear when we boarded the plane or when she looked out the hotel room window.
Her next sentence began with, “Ever since your brother Will …” and then a distinct memory returned to me.
Amy and I were nine or ten years old. We were playing outside at my house when Amy threw my brother’s football onto the roof. The football got stuck at the edge along the gutter. Will brought out a ladder, and then he made Amy climb up it to retrieve the football. She accepted the task, but then my brother shook the ladder and teased her.
I yelled at him to stop. Amy froze and clung to the rungs, unable to move up or down. After I threatened to tell on him, Will finally stopped shaking the ladder. It still took a lot of coaxing before Amy tapped the football loose, and it tumbled to the ground.
Hanging on for dear life, she called down something that made Will crack up. “Gravity always works, doesn’t it?”
I knew she was afraid. But it did seem odd for her tobe thinking of scientific principles at such a moment.
“Come on, Isaac Newton,” Will called up to her. “I have to put away the ladder.” Then he gave the ladder another shake.
I screamed at him and told him to bug off.
Poor Amy couldn’t move. She stayed on that ladder, clinging to the rungs for a long time before I could make my annoying brother go away. Once he left with his heckling laughter, I talked Amy down one rung at a time. She crumpled to the ground, patting the earth like a lost pet that had returned. I’d never seen her so shaken.
“Lisa,” she had said with a quivering voice, “promise me you’ll never make me climb up a ladder again for
“Are you okay?” Amy asked as we walked the short distance back to our hotel.
I nodded. “Just thinking. Taking it all in.”
“Do you want to see something else now? Or should we go back to our room and call it a day?”
“It’s such a calm evening, after the wind this afternoon. What about taking a boat ride?”
“I’m in,” Amy said.
“Let’s hope you’re not all the way in,” I said.
She didn’t catch my attempt to compete with her earlier joke, so I explained it to her. “You’re in, but not all theway in because if you were all the way in, that would make you in Seine.”
Apparently her earlier pun now escaped her, and she looked confused.
“Never mind.” I remembered how my dad used to say that if you had to explain a joke, it wasn’t really a joke, and therefore it didn’t bear repeating.
Retracing our steps to the Pont Royal, Amy and I walked down the steps to the river level and bought two tickets for a ride in a covered passenger boat. The bench seat we selected near the front accommodated the two of us with room to spare. Only a few others joined us for our evening cruise. By the way they were dressed, several of the passengers looked as if they were commuting or on their way to meet someone for dinner. This certainly was a leisurely way to go.
“It looks different from this level, doesn’t it?” Amy said.
“What looks different?”
“Paris. The city. The buildings. You have to look up to see anything, and none of it appears the same as it did when we were viewing it from our hotel window.”
“You know, I read in one of the guide books that if you want to get a unique view of Paris, you can take a tour of the sewers.”
“You can’t be serious,” Amy said. “That’s not my idea of a good time.”
“Mine either.”
“I like this speed.” Amy leaned back and gazed out the glass top of the boat to view the bridge we were motoring under. “I want to see as much as we can of Paris. Just not from the heights or the depths.”
“Heights?”
“I don’t do heights. You know that.”
I tried to remember if I knew that Amy had a thing about heights. It had been years since she and I had done anything that required significant elevation. She hadn’t expressed any fear when we boarded the plane or when she looked out the hotel room window.
Her next sentence began with, “Ever since your brother Will …” and then a distinct memory returned to me.
Amy and I were nine or ten years old. We were playing outside at my house when Amy threw my brother’s football onto the roof. The football got stuck at the edge along the gutter. Will brought out a ladder, and then he made Amy climb up it to retrieve the football. She accepted the task, but then my brother shook the ladder and teased her.
I yelled at him to stop. Amy froze and clung to the rungs, unable to move up or down. After I threatened to tell on him, Will finally stopped shaking the ladder. It still took a lot of coaxing before Amy tapped the football loose, and it tumbled to the ground.
Hanging on for dear life, she called down something that made Will crack up. “Gravity always works, doesn’t it?”
I knew she was afraid. But it did seem odd for her tobe thinking of scientific principles at such a moment.
“Come on, Isaac Newton,” Will called up to her. “I have to put away the ladder.” Then he gave the ladder another shake.
I screamed at him and told him to bug off.
Poor Amy couldn’t move. She stayed on that ladder, clinging to the rungs for a long time before I could make my annoying brother go away. Once he left with his heckling laughter, I talked Amy down one rung at a time. She crumpled to the ground, patting the earth like a lost pet that had returned. I’d never seen her so shaken.
“Lisa,” she had said with a quivering voice, “promise me you’ll never make me climb up a ladder again for
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