Arizona, Part 1

So we just got home Sunday night from a "vacation". Hubby had to go to Arizona for work, so we decided to extend it out so we had two weekends to do some touristy things. Our first mistake was flying Allegiant Air. Ok, so it wasn't a total mistake, I mean, who can deny a $29-each-way-flight? Well, there were some catches, like $30 per checked bag, and also that you are obliged to pick your seats for $16 per seat, per way. But we still got a great deal. Which sort of soothed the 2 hour delays going and coming. Sort of.

While we were waiting to depart in the airport, Spazzy The Two Year Old caught an airport worker lady's attention. This lady was nice enough, first commenting on her terrible cough and making sure I gave her some meds for the flight. But then she started talking to Spazzy with the most annoying baby talk I think I've ever heard. I would be safe to say that it would be the kind of baby talk you would stop doing to a baby at, oh, 1 month old max. And she didn't get a clue that it was upsetting Spazzy (thus making life harder for me). And she didn't stop there. She said, "Mom and Dad, can I sing her a little song?" Being that I am usually only rude and confrontational with people in my head, with imaginary replies that I never act on, I nicely said yes to her request, though I was horrified that a stranger was going to sing in front of all these people waiting to get on the same plane as us. I sooooo hate having attention cast in our direction, I'm very self conscious and like to blend in, not stand out.

Well, Crazy Airport Lady's song started, and it was baaaaaad. The voice was bad. The song was nerdy and very newborn-babyish. And it required Spazzy to "wave bye byyyyye". But Spazzy hid under her Cookie Monster (her ugly blue blanket she calls Cookie Monster that is a permanent fixture around her body), and would have none of this interaction the lady so desperately wanted with her. She kept singing the last line over and over, for her to wave bye-byyyyyyye. Spazzy started screaming from under Cookie Monster. The lady still wouldn't get a clue. Finally, I said, "You know, she doesn't feel good, she's been sick and she's a very shy girl." The lady was perplexed that this song works with her grandchild, but not my child. Finally, she left....yes, singing. "Bye byyyyyyyyye". About 20 minutes later, I was strolling Spazzy through the airport for the 39th time that evening, and who should we run into but Crazy Airport Singer Lady! Spazzy screams at the sight of her and CASL starts singing again! I pushed the stroller faster trying to get out of there, this time not even acknowleging the CASL.

Finally, we were cleared to board the plane, after being in the airport for 4 hours. During the flight, Spazzy feel asleep (thankfully, because she thought it was fun to kick the seat in front of her), but "because Allegiant Air is a Vegas-based airline, we are going to do a raffle to win prizes!" screamed the over-zealous flight attendant on the blow-your-ears-out PA system. It was so loud, that I actually acted like a toddler myself and covered my ears and rolled my eyes and made gasping noises. After that was over, luckily Spazzy was still asleep, the toddler across the aisle from me started howling and pummeling his parents. They seemed to be clueless as to how to entertain him. Being more worried about my own discomfort if my toddler woke up, I started trying to entertain this child to get him to pipe down. It worked. But this wasn't me relaxing on the plane with a sleeping toddler. This was work. And I was doing his parents' work! Still, I was too terrified of Spazzy waking up to stop entertaining this boy.

Two hours later, we landed and made our way to the car rental line. It seems like we attract crazy people to talk to us. I don't know why. We don't stare, we don't call attention to ourselves, we don't even make eye contact. But somehow the only drunk woman in the tiny Mesa airport, who by the way dressed and looked like a man, complete with a Hooters baseball cap to to pull off the look, tried to befriend my husband in line. She was loud. She was opinionated. She dropped the F bomb in between each and every word. She had no sense of personal space. And did I mention she was sloshed? She was also named April. She really looked more like an Arnold to me.

We eventually got our rental car, left April/Arnold in the dust, and added another loud-mouthed, opinionated traveler to our group of five. Her name was Fergie. Fergie Garmin....give a give a give a give a Garrrrmin. I shouldn't harp on Fergie, she did get us to Panda Express in a jiffy, Starbucks when we needed it, and most importantly she found an In n Out Burger! But she did try to kill us once. Driving up to the steep road to the Prescott Resort, she commanded us to take a right....right off a cliff! And once she was very emphatic that we had arrived at our destination, when it was just a empty lot in the desert with a lone saguaro cactus and not the steakhouse we thought we were going to. She also woke Spazzy up with her commands, or forgot to command us at all. We think Fergie is the great-grandmother of the Garmins.

To be continued....

Fergie-licious

I Think I Ate A.....(meow)

So, we left off with the Cabo story yesterday. As I was saying, we were strolling down the street and decided to just wing it and find a restaurant on our own. As we were approaching the Hacienda del Cuervo, there was a lively mariachi band playing at the entrance to beckon us to come in. We hesitated, but after glancing at the daily special posted, we decided the price was great, the atmosphere looked great, and the band was great. How bad could it be? And we might have a new favorite restaurant logged in our travel memories.

We were quickly ushered through an open air courtyard and seated. There were about 30 tables and exactly three of them had customers seated; including us. We ordered the special right away (3 tacos, chicken, beef, fish and one beer: $5) and as we waited for them, I looked over to the nearest occupied table and the American couple seated was arguing with the server about his bill. Details are sketchy, but American couple was standing their ground, despite the 9 mafia-looking servers standing to the side, hands behind their backs, watching the patrons every move, and taking turns approaching the table to find out why they were being so "difficult".

Suddenly, the happy, festive music stopped. I looked to the entrance of the courtyard where they had been playing, and realized, they weren't the Hacienda del Cuervo band; they were roving from one eatery to the next. For some reason, it gave me a crystal clear signal that things were not as they appeared on the other side of the courtyard gate.

It was very quiet, and the two other tables of customers had very worried expressions. I looked at Hubby and said, "Let's get outta here. I have a creepy feeling." If it weren't for the beers we were drinking and the food we'd already ordered (oh, and a dozen mafioso looking dudes staring at us), we'd have bailed.

Then came the bizarro exchange. One of the waiters, very young, maybe 15ish, came to the table and Hubby asked him a question. Bizarro laughed really, really hard. Hubby laughed along with him, to sort of soften the awkwardness of what we thought was a language barrier. Bizarro's eyes suddenly turned e-vil and he mocked Hubby's laugh, as if Hubby had been firstly mocking his laugh. Un. comfortable. Bizarro walked away, El Ticked Off-o.

Our food arrived and the presentation was actually good. There were three rolled tacos, stacked and garnished in such a way that would make Ramsay proud. Bizarro had a weird smirk on his face while he gave us our food, however. I tried to brush it off and chalk him up as "not right". Now, there were supposed to be three kinds of meat, chicken, fish and beef. The first one I took a bite of was stark white meat. I chewed, and chewed and chewed. The mafia was watching every bite we took...(*imagine crickets chirping*) More chewing, no swallowing. It was not fish. But it definitely wasn't chicken. Or even pork. I looked at Hubby. He was still chewing his first bite as well. We had panicked faces, but decided to try the next taco. I had to discreetly spit my food into my napkin. I just couldn't swallow it, it was like a tough piece of steak that just wouldn't go away.

I bit into the next taco, and the meat was identical looking. I cut open the third taco. Identical stark white, stringy meat. We chugged our beers, and asked for the check. They totally overcharged us by double, but we were so uncomfortable and sick to our stomachs, that we just paid and left. The whole time, the servers and kitchen crew were standing on the stairs watching us. It was the craziest restaurant experience I've ever had, and I just had a terrible feeling I couldn't shake the rest of the trip.

Later that night, we finally discussed it. It was like the experience was too hideous to talk about for several hours. We analyzed the white meat. We went over and over what meat it couldn't be, because of the missing obvious characteristics of poultry or fish. It was unidentifiable. There was no other meat like it that we've ever had.

And that is when we decided, it was probably cat.

PS. If you click on the link, you'll see the restaurant is now out of business. Hmmm...wonder why?

PPS. Who here thinks I did eat a cat? Could anyone help soothe my soul by telling me another less repulsive possibility?

Preview of Toulouse--Doorways and Courtyards

Hôtel d'Assézat was built in the second half of the XVIth century for Pierre Assézat, a prosperous merchant in the pastel trade that flourished at the time.


When you walk in the courtyard door, this is what you see:




When you turn to leave, walking back out of the door, this is your view. I thought La Belette Rouge would especially love my timing of this photo op! Can you guess why?

Here is a photo of a courtyard and building that I unknowingly stole:

We entered the courtyard, snapped photos, and then the police yelled at us to leave. I can't remember what exactly this government building is. Maybe someone can help me remember?

I love the Toulouse style! Here are some good examples of the famous Toulouse brickwork in Place de la Trinite and St. Etienne.

Preview of Toulouse--Pont des Catalans (or Our Bridge)

I'm going to give you a tour of Toulouse each day before we go back to Toulouse (in about 7 weeks). The first place I want to take you is over the Pont des Catalans (Catalans Bridge). This is our bridge, because when we lived in Toulouse, this was the bridge we crossed on foot about a million times. I love this bridge because it took us to our dear friends' home, past the ever-present men playing petanque, just next to the Canal de Brienne. I love this bridge because it led us once a week to our laundry mat, where the owners, a couple, faithfully worked hard each day, ironing other people's pants and manning the quirky machines in the un-airconditioned, cramped quarters. Since we didn't have a car, we loaded our dirty laundry for the week into our suitcases...and pulled. I knew every pothole, every bump, even each dog-pile (until it disintegrated and a new one replaced it), because we made the trip so many times.

The bridge goes over the beloved Garonne River, my son's middle name-sake. When I was in labor and they told me to focus on something, it was our bridge that I walked back and forth on in my mind, trying to make myself go to a Happy Place. It worked.

The bridge was the low-tech "GPS" for finding our neighborhood. We could find home easily, in those first confusing weeks of being in a new city, using the bridge as our reference point.

Walking across the bridge on warm summer mornings, looking to the right and seeing the silhouette of Les Jacobins is etched in my brain forever. Watching sunsets from the bridge is something I never got tired of. Seeing it lit up at night gave me a great feeling; knowing I lived just beyond The Bridge, Our Bridge.

Stay tuned for more Toulouse photos, A Preview of our upcoming trip in March/April 2008

Quick In-N-Out Burger

On our vacation last week, we had to hit the In-N-Out Burger as many times as possible to get our fix. It's been 9 months since I had one. For the non-Californians out there, this is only the best burger joint....um...ever! Never frozen meat, no gristle, fresh ingredients and only burgers, shakes and fries on the menu. There is even a secret menu that is no longer a secret, since it's now posted on their website. But if you don't know the not-so-secret lingo, you'll never be able to order a burger Animal Style, or a 4x4 burger or a have a Neopolitan. No matter, any burger you order will be delish and you'll be addicted like me and wonder why this wonderful chain hasn't spread into my neck of the woods yet.

Because I couldn't eat at In-N-Out for every meal, I made it my mission to view the drive-up line at every In-N-Out Burger we passed on our trip. Because I have never seen one that didn't have a line of cars out into the street. It's that good.

On the other side of the world, to where I will be going in a couple months, there is a place that looks similar to an In-N-Out, but is the worst burger joint...um...ever! Quick. Or "qweek" as the Frenchies say. My experience at Quick has never been good, and the photos of the burgers on their website is proof that I speak truth.

What is up with their burger names? Xtralong Giant? I don't want to eat a burger that is described as Extra Long, because long should not EVEN be a consideration when ordering a burger. There is also a Long Fish, Long Bacon and Long Chicken. I prefer In-N-Out's description, burgers that are "stacked high on a freshly baked bun". Doesn't that sound nicer and more appetizing?

Though, as much as I love In-N-Out, I won't be trying the 100x100 burger. And you definitely won't be getting any blog posts from Quick on our upcoming trip to France. Unless I decide to do a shock and awe post. Nahhhh....

"Rice-A-Roni....

....the San Francisco Treat!" Funny, I've passed through it tons of times, going over the Golden Gate and Bay bridges, had layovers there more times than I want to count, but I had never actually spent any time down in the touristy Pier 39/Fisherman's Wharf. We had a great day with beautiful weather (as you can see) and had a nice little visit.
Boudin looked like it had great bread, but the name really put me off, since in France, boudin is blood sausage. Blech!
I didn't buy any crepes because they were spendy! And I have a great recipe from my French aunt and I have Nutella at home. But I loved the little creperie and had fun watching them make them.
The next time I'm in SF will be during a layover on our way to France!

"Where Am I?"

Away from Home

Any guesses as to where I went to take this photo last Thursday? :)

My Own Personal Seinfeld Moment

The other day, La Belette Rouge posted about the probability of her getting to fly Business Class on her flight to Paris in July. In tribute to her post, I would like to tell you my experience of a trans-Atlantic flight on Business Class.

The year was 2005, the plane was an Airbus long haul craft operated by Lufthansa, the destination was Rome. The origin was somewhere on the West Coast. We were a family of four, traveling with a so-called Friend. :)

We invited Friend to come with us on this trip, as she usually traveled with us, and she happily discovered that she had enough miles to fly Business Class.

When we got to the airport, she tried to convince the gal at the counter to upgrade our family, so we could be with her in luxury. The lady said sure. But it would cost us dearly. $850. Per person! Each way.

As we boarded the flight, said our goodbye's to Friend and parted ways, she assured us she would come back and check on us. Incidentally, we were in the 2nd row behind The Curtain, which separated the classy people from the sardines (us). That meant that we were literally just a few steps away from Friend, with The Curtain being a one-way prison door to be used only by Biz Class who wanted to come see how bad it was back here and laugh at Family of Four having a nightmare flight. (No, she did not laugh, really).

But I was impressed with Lufthansa. They were efficient, clean and the seats weren't as bad as the hellish flight to Paris on Air Canada a few years before. (LBR described our flight exactly in her post). Lufthansa fed us well, we had good movies, and it was so far the best long haul flight we'd had.

Six hours into the flight, Friend decided to get out of her cocoon and come check on us. She made the 9 steps trek down into the belly of the beast (Coach) and with a smile asked how our dinner was. I raved about the Greek Pasta for dinner, we said the seats were not bad, and "by the way, I thought you were coming to check on us like 5 hours ago?" She smiled and said she had been busy with dinner. "So what did you have for dinner?" I asked.

She hesitated. Then she said, "Well.....um....Snow crab." Snow crab?! I said, disgusted, because I love snow crab!

Then she said, "Well, that was the starter. Then I had...." and she proceeded to tell me all the courses presented, and "did I mention they dressed my table with linens and china?" Thank you, dear Friend, for mentioning that as well. I really hated my arm-rest tray that had a coffee ring from the previous flight still on it. I could have used that linen table cloth.

Then she said, "I have a present for you." And she handed me a pair of long, blue, thick Lufthansa socks. I asked where they came from and she said, "Oh, in my goody-bag I got when I boarded. I thought you might need them back here." Goody bag??? I snatched them from her and promptly stuck my lower class feet into them and decided that I was definitely made for Biz Class.
I needed to take some meds and could not get the flight attendant's attention to ask for some water, to Friend said she'd go get me some from her section. She popped back through The Curtain with a glass of water for me. A GLASS, a real glass. I began to laugh and said, "We're gonna get busted for being caught with this!"

After I gulped it down, she took it and said, "Ok, I'll go back to my seat now, but I'll make sure and send you back some of the warm, fresh baked cookies when they're ready."

Well, we never got them (I think she passed out in her cocoon seat) and when we landed in Frankfurt we made our way through customs and to our gate to wait the 2 hours until the connecting flight to Rome was ready for boarding. We sat down on uncomfortable (efficient)German airport chairs, feeling like death because of the flight and the fact that our bodies were screaming out "It's 2am!", when Friend announces with a look of guilt upon her face, "Um, could you watch my stuff, I'm gonna go into The Lounge." What is THE LOUNGE? I knew nothing of a so-called Lounge, other than where we were supposed to lounge, and we were already there.

"Well, they have a Business Class lounge for those flying in Biz Class. Do you want me to get you some coffee in there?"

I think that at that point, I decided that we never should have invited Friend on the trip at all, and how could she ditch us for The Lounge, after just having 12 hours of pure luxury?!
She came back about an hour later bearing gifts for the kids. She brought gummy bears and cookies. Then she handed me her boarding pass and said, "They didn't check my ID at all. Take this and go inside! I left early so you could go!" She was so excited for me to go in, but I was terrified. What if they caught me? Would I get arrested by the Airport Police and be deported without my family?
I walked to the inconspicuous door that led to The Lounge. When I opened the door, there was a marble floor and seated at the desk was a lady with perfect makeup and a French Twist. I showed her the pass and she smiled and pointed the way. I opened the huge double doors and as I entered The Lounge, I swear I heard a choir singing "Ahhhhhhhhhhh!" It was fabulous! It was all leather! There was a cookie buffet and espresso machines and a bar! There was a sign pointing the way to the showers! Whaaaa?!

I got a cappuccino, and sat down in one of the leather chairs that instantly began to massage my poor, sore, Coach Class bum.

But I could not fully relax. I felt out of place. I was ragged from 12 hours of coach, and I couldn't help feeling completely guilty sitting in luxury while Hubby and kids were out in the torture chamber, heads bobbing violently because the body was on Pacific Standard Time.

I think I lasted all of 8 minutes. I walked out, cursing rich people and diligent Mileage Plus hoarders who didn't make the mistake of prematurely cashing in their miles for a coach class ticket to Cabo.
I got a taste of Business Class. It's something I can't forget now. It's something that I will dwell on the entire flight this coming spring, when we are squished in like sardines, with no warm cookies to console us and no eye-masks so we can at least try to go to a Happy Place in our minds and shut out the annoying seat-neighbors.

I will, however, accrue miles on this flight and then have enough to go to Hawaii. Coach Class.

Meme

I got tagged by the LBR to do a Four by Four Meme. Et voila...

What four things did you love most about living in France?

1. I LOVED the outdoor markets. The produce is so gorgeous and 9 times out of 10 tastes even better than it looks! I also love that fact that if I wanted (never did) I could buy a live chicken in a cage and then kill it myself for dinner. No thanks. But I appreciate that the offer is there!
2. I loved the rituals of the meals. Always aperitif first, (drinks, olives, chips, nuts, etc) then the meal (my favorite part is the cheese course and dessert!) and then coffees after. ALWAYS.
3. I loved the countryside when the sunflowers were in full bloom. Ahhhhh.....
4. I loved the tradition of taking a coffee break (or beer break) in a cafe and just drinking in France.

What four most memorable jobs you have had?

1. My very first job was at a little "French" restaurant, in a little strip mall, in our little town. It had the ambiance of an office with some tables dressed in linens. I don't think the owners had ever been to France, though they did own a local vineyard. I was 16 and I was hired as a dishwasher because I was too young to serve alcohol. One night, the owner/cook got furious that his ugly tomato garnish came back in the kitchen untouched (the meal itself eaten) and he freaked out and put it on the next plate going out! I quit that night.
2. My second job moved up a few notches. McDo! I actually learned a great work ethic there that I kept for my future jobs.
3. As a 'tween, my friend and I needed some cash, so we spent all day long in the hot sun picking strawberries at the local farm. We thought for sure we had hit the jackpot and earned perhapas hundreds. We got about $1.49 each.
4. I still dream about 20's era job....I'm filing and filing my night away....as a manicurist!

Four quirky things about the way I eat (and drink)

1. I don't know if this qualifies for quirky, but I absolutely cannot NOT have a sweet (preferably chocolate) and coffee after a meal! Is this what happens when we get older? Or is this a side effect of living in France?
2. I don't eat this anymore, but as a kid/teen/young adult I created this sandwich and ate it all the time: Peanut butter, mozzerella cheese and Cheetos. Don't think I can do this nowadays.
3. I love pancakes with syrup, but I cannot pour the syrup all over the pancakes. I have to pour a bit on each bite, so the pancakes don't get soggy.
4. I wipe my fingers off with each bite of pizza. I use like 90 napkins per pizza-eating session. Seems a lot more than everyone else, when I look at the pile of used napkins.

What are your four favorite foods?

1. Chocolate
2. Pastries
3. Pasta
4. Cheese

Four recipes you cook all the time?

1. Goat Cheese Rosemary Tart (Emeril)
2. Various Pasta Dishes
3. Peanut Butter and Butter Sandwiches
4. Cranberry Spinach Salad
   
   

Four people who I'd like to participate in this Même?

1. Hidden Zipper
2. French for Awhile
3. Chronques des Appalaches
4. Florida to France
   

Hey Rach, Can I have My Job Back?

Everyone who knows me in real life can attest to the fact that I have always wanted Rachael Ray's $40 a Day job, and let me emphasize it was well before her TV personality existed. And I wouldn't use lame-o words either, to make you hate me hoping I would eat some bad escargot on the Paris episode!
In my circle of friends and acquaintances, I am known for being the Unpaid Travel Agent. I have people calling me and asking for help with trips and even though it takes a lot of time, I just love it!
I even tried to make some money at it, and failed. Before I was HTML savvy, a relative made a "travel advice" website for me. But I just couldn't figure out how I would charge people for advice that I thought should be helpful and budget conscious. Then I, embarrassingly, got roped into a "Become a Travel Agent from Home" scheme that I am only divulging to you all because I remain anonymous. (Funny that the company fell through just days after they received my $69. )
I also wrote for Epinions.com when it was just a baby. And that is where I actually did make money! I made exactly $440.06 total from writing travel reviews. I even used my I'm-a-paid-travel-reviewer clout one time on an airline when they refused to change our seat assignment so my then 3-year old daughter wasn't sitting 40 rows behind me next to a stranger.

I made homemade destination packets for friends going to Hawaii, and they actually used them and said it really made their trip! Recently I helped a dear friend's sister (who I only know through e-mail) with her first trip to Paris. I got the nicest thank-you and I really do feel there is more happiness in giving, especially when it involves travel.

I'm no longer wishing to make money with travel advice, that was just an early-Internet-Days dream. I moved on to Ebay and found myself a little niche there back then. But speaking of Epinions, I haven't been back to that site in years to write anything. So, inspired by speaking about it in this post, I opened up my account, and after plugging in 100 different passwords I possibly could have used back in 1999, I finally found the winning number.

I have been reading my stuff and I have a mixture of feelings about it. Now that I am writing again, I find that I wrote about many of the same feelings and experiences that I have here. Some of the phrases are the same, some are how I wanted to portray it 8 years ago but didn't have the articulation that I do now (not that I am articulate, just more-so than back then.) I have the same sense of humor, the same pet-peeves and the same passions, only maybe more balanced nowadays.

And so back to Rachael, I still believe she stole my job idea. And you would have liked me! I would never have tried to force you to say "EVOO" and I still would have taken you to Paris, sure, but I would also take you to lesser-known places that I fell in love with and that is where I'd make you a nice comfy spot to watch and dream and you would quickly fall in love with those places too....

And so, with that in mind, let me leave you with a YouTube video I found of Carcassonne. It is hours from Paris, but the charm of this Cité leaves the City of Lights in the dust...in my Epinion anyway.

Trip Preparation: Panic Mode Begins

“Oh my gosh, we need to find the freeway now! We are in a bad neighborhood!” I snapped to my friend who was with me in the car. We traveled to a large city in our state. I was there to get eye surgery the next day and she was with me since Hubby couldn’t get time off work. We decided to take in a movie the night before, but we couldn’t find parking in a safe area. There were sketchy people on the dark corners and no other cars around. I wanted to get out of there fast.

My friend, who I’ve been close to for years but never traveled with, was silent. Then she said, “Wow, I’m worried now. If you’re scared, it must be bad!” She explained to me that she assumed I wasn’t afraid of anything when traveling. Mouth hanging open in astonishment, I said, “What would make you think that?”

“Because you’ve been all over the U.S. and to Europe.“

I said, “And that means…that I’m not afraid of anything when I’m there?“

She said, “Right. You seem so confident.”

Sheesh, what picture was I painting of myself to my friends who got left behind in our little town while we went abroad?

Yeah, I may seem confident when I try to conjure up new destinations. I talk about it with my friends until they get sick of me. I push my husband relentlessly to dream about it too, and I try to make him realize why we’ll just die if we don’t go to such and such a place. And then, he‘ll finally agree and we’ll set some dates and buy some tickets, and that is when all the self-assurance ends. Because at that point, my mind switches into “what-if” mode and I begin to panic. All the things that could go wrong. All the reasons why we shouldn’t have chosen that place after all.

Maybe this is because the very first time I went to France, I had rose colored glasses on in my planning phase and they only came off the morning we left for the airport. My hubby wasn’t able to go with us to France, because he was working and schooling. My 2 year old and I were joining my grandma, who bought us the tickets and my mom and my 14 year old sister.
Hubby drove us to the airport and as reality set in that I was leaving the country for the first time (and with a toddler but without my husband), my guts started twisting. After several stops along the way, we finally made it to the airport. I began to snivel and hang on to my husbands neck in the lobby like I was in some sort of 1940's black and white film, where the couple are next to the train that's about to depart, clinging to the last few lingering seconds together. Then the sobbing ensued. This was so unlike me, displaying loud, uncontrolled emotional turbulence in front of a lot of strangers in a public place! Where was this bravado I thought I had, or had so successfully portrayed to my friend?

After boarding, we flew…and flew…and flew….and flew, and I realized just how far away “across the pond” really was. I didn’t sleep, I didn’t eat, I became giddy (in a bad way) when I checked the time and saw we still had hours to go. My head was beginning to sound the knell of an impending migraine, as is usually the case when anything requiring mental clarity occurs.

I remember the moment we were finally approaching Amsterdam, and I couldn’t believe that I was actually seeing Europe with my very own small town eyes. A couple of European men behind me began to talk to each other in English. They’d both been in Seattle and they were comparing notes. One said, “Could you believe the way people drink coffee there?” The other said, “All I saw were paper cups in people’s hands! It was so weird!” I thought they were weird for thinking that was weird. It wasn’t until later I found out why.

When we got off the aircraft in Amsterdam, I realized that Europe smelled different. A mixture of cigarettes, body odor, pastries, coffee…it made me feel like I was watching a movie I’d seen before, but I was suddenly transported into. I was experiencing what I’d only observed and dreamed of before. I knew I was in Europe, finally.

I never what-if’ed most of the things that happened, though. We almost missed our connecting flight to Toulouse because my grandmother had a harmonica in her purse wrapped in about 29 rubber bands. The way it was laying against the other harmonica made it look like a gun in the X-ray machine. Skipping boring but scary-to-me details, we made it to the plane anyway. I remember it was a City Hopper and I laughed every time they said it because it sounded like “See-Tee Hope Err”.
By this time, my head was in full-on-migraine, I stunk of B.O. (I now realize that this always happens to me the second I enter Europe and could anyone please tell me why???), and I was 15 hours past a nap, and in ready-to-vomit-any-second mode. I couldn’t get my seatbelt fastened (paybacks for earlier sarcastic remarks) and the perfectly-perfect flight attendant, with a perfect smile, had to lean over me to fasten it. I knew I smelled not pretty, so I turned about 5 shades of red and held my breath.

As my head bobbed up, down and around during the flight (because I was finally falling asleep) my daughter got into her backpack of surprises and opened up the Hello Kitty baby nail polishes I brought. Smelling lacquer wafting through the air, it jolted me out of my fleeting slumber, only to return again for 2 more seconds of sleep until my throbbing head bobbed and weaved and then smashed into the seat in front of me. I think this routine lasted about 2 hours. Two hours that felt like 20.

We finally arrived in Toulouse and were greeted by my uncle. I desperately needed to use the restroom to change out of my dirty, toddler defiled shorts and into my extra pants. I went to the bathroom and noticed the stall doors were solid marble. I walked into one in the center of the row of 15 vacant ones and fumbled with the latch for way too long and decided since practically no one was even in the airport anyway, I’d just prop the door closed as I changed.

Right at the moment that I was bent over, in a precarious position with one foot in the new jeans, the other foot on top of my shoe so I wouldn’t step onto the bathroom floor, a French lady came flying into the restroom and decided to shove open my door, even though there were multitudes of other stalls that were empty. She slammed the marble door into the top of my skull and when I yelped and fell backwards towards the toilet, she screamed at me, “Well why didn’t you lock it? It’s your fault, you should have locked the door!!!!” And then she said some other things I didn’t understand. Probably just as well.

So I said something I‘ve kicked myself for, for years now, “Oh je suis desolee, je suis desolee.”

So we left the airport and made the drive out into the country to my family’s house, I bathed in a tub with a shower head but no curtain, took some migraine medicine and fell fast asleep. About 4pm I awoke and decided I better call my hubby. My uncle set the call up and exited the room. When Hubby answered the phone I was bawling so hard that he couldn’t understand me. “I *gulp* want *hiccup* *gulp* to *sniff* go home *snort* *sob*!”

He lovingly laughed and assured me I was ok and made me promise to make the best of it. I cried and tried to convince him to buy a ticket and come. He couldn’t. He didn’t even have his passport.
I turned to look at my surroundings and realized that the shutters were wide open. And everyone was sitting outside, just in front of them, having coffee. They all heard the Big Brave Traveler’s true colors.
I waited as long as I could to join them, quite mortified of my unsophisticated howling. As I went out and sat down, Uncle said, “Hey, why don’t you come with me to the cave in the village. We need to get some wine.”
That trip to the wine store, filling up our gas-can-like container with wine from a hose in the wall of the cafe, and the dinner al fresco in front of my relatives 18th century farmhouse was the recipe for my mental well-being. I was suddenly done being homesick. And I had 3 glorious weeks ahead of me.

And now, let the panicking begin, because I just wouldn’t be me if I didn’t do it this time.