Travel Companion

This little green apple was supposed to be my breakfast on the train to Venice, but it made the round trip to Graz uneaten, and then rolled around my bag in Munich, Paris, Vic-sur-Cere, and back to Paris. I lifted it to my mouth on the day I was leaving for San Francisco, and then hesitated. My petite apfel/mela/pomme had made it this far; if I took it home, would it be the most well-traveled apple in the world? I may never know, but now I can't bear to eat it, either.

Room With a View (Almost)

One of the disadvantages of traveling alone is that most of the single rooms are in the back of the hotel, as was the case with every single place I stayed on this trip, although it didn't really matter much, since I was rarely ever in any of them except for a few hours of sleep. As I was packing up on my last night (or should I say, earliest hours of the morning) in Paris, I noticed that one of the little half-sized windows in my room opened up to a tiny terrace, so I decided to climb out and have a look. And there, between the chimney pots, were the towers of Notre Dame. I love surprises, and Paris is always full of them...

La Meute (The Pack)

It's Saturday night, my last night in Paris, and my trip abroad is going out with a bang. It's a miracle, really, to reunite all the members of the original "Pack," the group of friends that often dined and vacationed together back when I lived in Paris. Everyone who wasn't married then is married now, and that makes for a lot of kids, too.

We eat pizza (the thin-crusted French kind that often has a egg on it, yum), drink wine, and catch up on the last eight years, which is how long it's been since I last saw these friends. And as it turns out, the last time they all saw each other, all together. You can show me all the masterpieces and wonders of the world, but nothing beats the moments spent with friends. It doesn't get better than this, and I savor every second...

Tempus Fugit

Back in Paris early Thursday morning, with only three days left to cram everything in, I try to map out a plan that will allow me to do all the things I want to do without doing myself in. I check in to my charming little Left Bank hotel and then head straight for the Musée Cluny, where I buy a 2-day museum pass. Sadly, the gallo-roman baths are closed for renovation, so I pay my respects to the Lady and the Unicorn and move on to the Musée d'Orsay, one of the best museums you could ever hope to visit.

First stop, a quick lunch at the Café des Hauteurs, which will always be one of my favorite dining spots in Paris. Even better, I get to sit right under the clock. Then, time to see some old friends: Toulouse-Lautrec's Le Lit, Henri-Edmond Cross' Les Cyprès à Cagnes, and the art nouveau furnishings of Hector Guimard, to name a few. The Orsay houses a truly amazing collection, but the space itself is a work of art -- a transformed train station, full of light. The hours slip by, and I have barely enough time to scurry across the Seine for my last art stop of the day.

The Musée de l'Orangerie was finally reopened a couple of years ago after closing for massive renovations, which were long stalled by the discovery of an ancient defensive wall in the basement. I can't say I like the new look: the old exterior has cleaned up nicely, but the raw concrete interior leaves me unimpressed. However, the naturally-lit oval rooms which house Monet's Nymphéas are just as the master himself specified (here's a virtual visit). They're beautiful. Downstairs, I fall in love with the paintings of Marie Laurencin, whose work I haven't seen before.


The museum is closing, and I run for the metro so that I won't be late for dinner at Philippe and Nicole's (Stéphane's uncle and aunt). They've graciously invited me and I'm treated like royalty; cousin Bertrand is there as well, and we eat and eat, and talk and talk, and drink and drink until the wee hours of the morning, it seems. It's wonderful, and I'm so busy enjoying it that I forget to take any pictures, but there are many photos of Bertrand's recent wedding to peruse. Thankfully, Philippe gives me ride back to the hotel, as I doubt I could have figured out the Plan de Metro at this point. In the night sky, the Eiffel Tower is lit up in blue, and I feel like I'm in a watercolor by Chagall...

I have an ambitious plan for Friday, so I'm up early in order to be at the Louvre when it opens. I haven't been here since I.M.Pei's Pyramid was installed so it's a whole new place: clean, well-lit, overwhelming, and unbelievably crowded. I'm shocked to see a Starbucks coffee, here, inside the Louvre: what is the world coming to? Trying to comprehend the floor plan is an exercise in futility, so I finally give in and take an hour-and-a-half-long guided tour. It's barely a taste, but it gives me a lay of the land, and I get to see the 12th Century moats which were recently uncovered. Later, I go back to find the favorites that I've missed. I don't even try to get close to the Mona Lisa, but I sit for an hour at the feet of the Winged Victory of Samothrace.

By now it's 6pm, so I hoof it across Les Halles, stopping for a $10 cup of coffee (not Starbucks) in front of the amusing Stravinsky Fountain by Niki de Saint Phalle before heading into the Centre George Pompidou. None of the temporary exhibits make me jump for joy, but I've always loved this quirky space and its commanding view of Paris. At 9pm, I'm once again closing down a museum. I stop for dinner at a wonderful, tourist-free place recommended by Philippe and Nicole, which luckily for me, is just steps from my hotel. Tomorrow, I think I might sleep in a little...

Dirty Laundry

There's only one problem with traveling as lightly as I have on this trip: the laundry. The hotel in Austria was willing to take care of it, for just over $7 per tee shirt and only slightly less for a pair of undies. I'm pretty sure I didn't even pay that much for either of those items to begin with... Someone found the only self-serve laundromat in town, but I never got over there, so now I'll have to do a wash in Auvergne, in a village where I know there's no laundromat.

Annie kindly offers me her machine, and as I hang my things to dry on the line behind the house, I try to hide my utilitarian undies behind the longer items. I know they'll be a source of humiliation, because they don't meet the French standard for la séduction, and this was always a running joke at my expense. Unfortunately, Annie beats me up the hill when the clothes are dry and says, "Ahh, toujours des culottes Petit Bateau!" ("Still wearing little girl underwear!", i.e., sturdy, full coverage, basic colors...) I say, "Hey! At least one of those has some lace on it..." Everyone laughs.

Later, when we go swimming, 69-year-old Annie does an impressive slight-of-hand poolside change out of her clothes and into her swimsuit. As I pick up her undies to put into the beach bag, I marvel: they are a practically weightless confection of fine lace and satin, truly a thing of beauty. She says nonchalantly, "Oh, la, la, I'll be so glad when thongs go out of style; they're really uncomfortable." Note to self: hit the end-of-summer sales when you get back to Paris...

La Famille

Here's the real reason I made this trip: to see my extended family in France, which includes Chloé and Wynham's nearly-94-year-old great-grandmother (Mamie), and their selfless grandmother, Annie. I am welcomed with open arms, and I'm so glad to see that the passage of time hasn't played any tricks on me; everything seems just as it was last time I visited eight years ago, except that the linden tree which was a sapling then now shades the entire front yard at Annie's house...

I know, as the French say, that it's not always a good idea to "look backwards," but there are certain aspects of my life in France that I really miss: the slow unrolling of hours in the countryside, the reverence for even the simplest meal, and mainly, mostly, the people there that I love so much. I choke back a few tears when I leave, but I am so, so glad that I came to visit...

Night and Day

We may have missed the fireworks, but the Eiffel Tower
is still magnificent, night or day...

One Day Everything Went Wrong

It must have been an omen: everyone was downstairs in the lobby, the taxis were waiting to take us all to the airport, and one girl was missing. When I called her room, she said -- well, I won't tell you what she said -- but it was obvious that she was still sound asleep. As it turned out, it didn't really matter, because the choir conductor and I had both misread our reservations, and we arrived 4 hours before our scheduled flights.

I go to the desk to see if we might be able to get an earlier connection, as we're cutting it close to be in Paris and checked in to our hotel before the Bastille Day fireworks at the Eiffel Tower. Yes, we can connect earlier, through Frankfurt, but it only gains us 45 minutes and it will cost 100 Euros to change our flight, so I agree when the man behind the desk says, "Better off to wait for your flight and spend your money at the restaurant upstairs..." That, it turns out, was my first big mistake of the day...

The flight to Frankfurt takes off without fanfare, all of Chloé's friends aboard, and not long after we board our own flight to Stuttgart. That's when the sky opens up right above our heads -- thunder and lightning and torrential downpours -- and we sit in the plane for an hour and a half before I concede that we've missed our connection to Paris, the last one from Stuggart for the day. But there's hope...

We can connect through Munich (the pilot calls ground control to assure there are seats), so we jump out of the puddle jumper into the pouring rain and run to change our tickets. Unfortunately, we can't do this at the gate, only at the ticket counter, and by the time we get there we're eligible only for the waiting list, so they won't guarantee Paris seats either. We do make it back through security and onto the Munich flight, but by the time we get there, the next Paris flight is full, so we have to wait two and a half hours for the next. Wouldn't you know, the last flight to Paris is late, so we arrive there just as the fireworks begin.

We run to get a taxi; there's still hope that we could catch the tail end of the fireworks if we move quickly. But there's a problem: the taxi driver is happy to take our money, but not take us into Paris -- he categorically refuses to enter the city. So for $85, we're dropped off at 11:30pm, 4km from our hotel. We walk, with baggage, over cobblestones, against massive crowds of people who all got to enjoy the fireworks, dammit, and don't get to our overpriced hotel until nearly 1am.

It's surprisingly rundown, dirty, and noisy, and we have to lean way out over the balcony to see the Tour Eiffel, although none of that would have mattered nearly so much if we'd been there for the extravaganza. We have to get up at 5:30am to go to another airport to catch our flight to central France; I'm taking it all in stride until the woman at the front desk (who has check us in and out) says, "Well, you really didn't stay long, did you?" Yes, and that makes this the most expensive night in a hotel I've ever spent in my life. For several seconds, long chains of expletives run through my brain, but then I remind myself that these are the perils of travel.

Some days (and nights), it seems, nothing goes right...

Cultural Exchange

Anyone who knows Chloé knows that she takes her assignments very seriously, so it should be no surprise that when her choir director told the girls to "mingle with the other groups," she got right on it... The young men's choirs from South Africa seemed to be especially favored by Les Etoiles, and Benjamin here is no exception. All I can say is, I'm glad that communication via Facebook is totally free, because I couldn't afford the phone bill (and to think, I was worried about the boys in France -- at least that country is occasionally on my itinerary...)!

Veni, Vidi, Venezia

Of course it's insane, but the idea has been brewing in my mind for weeks, so I decide to "seize the day" and see if I can catch a train to Venice, since the girls are completely occupied for the day and have no need of the extraneous parents like me (I try to enlist a couple of the other moms, but apparently, no one is as crazy as I am). At the train station, I'm the first in the queue; I buy a round trip ticket (surprisingly inexpensive) and by 7am I'm southward bound on the express line to Venice.

Riding trains through Europe is still one of my favorite pastimes. Watching the countryside hurtle by is such a visual treat, and I love the rhythmic rocking of the train on the tracks. Gentle, rounded hills give way to ever-widening valleys sprinkled with unspoiled villages. Suddenly I see them -- the craggy, mile-high Alps which separate Austria from Italy. At 11am, we cross the border and make our first stop at Tarvisio. The differences are instantly noticeable; where else in the world but Italy would the young man serving coffee on a train be dressed in Dolce & Gabbana?

The world flattens out again, and by lunchtime we're in Venice. When I come out of Santa Lucia station and cross the bridge, the hordes of tourists turn right, so I, of course, turn left. In five minutes, I am completely lost. This is how I love to travel, sinking into the cultural quicksand and then digging my way out (maps are strictly forbidden outside hotel rooms). Being mistaken for a local anywhere I go is my personal badge of honor, and this happens almost immediately here (much to my surprise). I am in a state of bliss.

I weave my way through deserted streets along empty canals, slowly making my roundabout way to the Piazza San Marco, which, sadly, is now flooded with cruise-ship-cheesy-souvenir-buying tourists. I feel claustrophobic, so I immediately head over the Grand Canal and pay visits to the Galleria dell'Accademia, where I see some wildly avant-garde works of 15th Century artist Giovanni Bellini) and the Collection Peggy Guggenheim, which houses one of my favorite paintings -- The Empire of Light by Magritte.

Once I've done that, my feet are completely blistered. I stop to buy some little glass pendants (for the girls back in Graz) in a tiny backwater shop, far less expensive than the tourist traps on the Ponte di Rialto. I ask the shop owner to recommend a place for dinner that is equally off the beaten path, and she suggests a place where "the Venetians love to dine."

After getting utterly lost again (still no map), I find the osteria she has named around 9pm. I don't have to catch my night train until 1am or so and I'm wondering how to kill time between then and now, but as it turns out, that's not a problem. I find myself the only non-Italian speaker in this 14-table restaurant, and everyone is unbelievably charming. The evening stretches itself out, and suddenly it's after midnight. I run to catch a vaporreto on the Grand Canal, and after an hour's struggle with the snooty Italian Night Car ladies, I finally make it to my sleeping berth. I'm exhausted from the joy and excitement of a perfect day and I can assure you, my dreams are sweet.

Musical, Magical, Murinsel

This amazing island in the Mur, designed by New York architect/artist Vito Acconci, is an amphitheatre, a cafe, a playground, and a bridge. Unlike my initial reaction to the Kunsthaus, I take an immediate liking to this structure -- it's interesting to look at and highly practical, and doesn't conflict with it's surroundings. Locals joke that if the Murinsel breaks free, we'll all end up in Slovenia, but hey, what a ride that would be!

Les Etoiles have an evening performance here, and the amphitheatre is filled to overflowing. Once the scheduled show is over, they begin singing improptu with a group of Croatian girls, angelic voices raised in a unified chorus of Dona Nobis Pacem. A keyboard is brought out, the music continues, other voices join in -- and the effect is absolutely magical.

It's a once-in-a-lifetime experience in an unbelievable location, and I know they will never forget it. Isn't that why we're here?

When Angels Sing

When I consider the time and effort it's taken to get Les Etoiles to the World Choir Games, it breaks my heart that they don't qualify for the final round of competition. The other choirs in their category are vast and varied, the winning group featuring more than seventy girls and an extremely experimental repertoire.

But nothing can change the exhiliration we in the audience felt when they sang. The dresses were beautiful, the pitch, perfect, and the voices, heavenly (see video). I'm pretty sure most of the moms were teary-eyed; I was. And although they won't be going home with medals, the girls of Les Etoiles will have something better: memories of an experience they'll always remember.

Kooky Kunsthaus

When I first laid eyes on the Kunsthaus Graz from high above town, I must admit I had an allergic reaction to its quirky form. Seemingly so out of place in the historical center of town, it feels almost like an insult to the senses. But as the days pass, I begin to soften and my tolerance for its out-of-place appearance mounts. Once I actually go visit, I'm smitten.

Inside, the strange ventricles reveal themselves as windows -- portals to the sky. Moving walkways move visitors up an incline, and the exhibits are small enough to be digestible. At the moment, articles by the late Italian designer Joe Colombo are being showcased. Every graphic designer I know had one of his rolling plastic tabourets at one point or another. When I see his Total Furnishing Unit, I want to move in.

The Kunsthaus, nicknamed the "Friendly Alien", has grown on me to such an extent that when I leave, I'm tempted to blow my luggage weight limit with books about the place. I grudgingly control myself, remembering that the internet is weightless and infinitely accessible. A web visit won't be the same, but at least it won't break my back. I only hope the locals love it as much as I do...

Forks and Knives

One of the benefits of travelling in a group is making new friends. The very first day in Graz drew together a group of talented, creative and intelligent mothers (and a dad or two), and I've really enjoyed getting to know these people. Mostly this revolved around meal times, as we peered at maps, searching for the ubiquitous symbol of the crossed fork and knife. Dining is still an adventure, as we try to guess different dishes by their placement on the printed menu. Apparently, big brown beans drenched in pumpkin seed oil are a specialty of the region...

Hübsche Blumen

The Pauper and the Princess

Call it ironic or whatever you wish, but there's just something plain wrong with this picture. Explain to me how I had to pay 50% more for my "single" room than I paid for Chloé’s"double" which she's sharing with another singer. Honestly, it just doesn't add up. My room is the last room at the end of a looong hall with a lovely view of the air shaft, which you have to stand on a chair to see...

...While her room is undeniably palatial and fit for a future empress, complete with chandelier, large marble bathroom, and views up and down the grand boulevard.

There's actually a golden crown affixed to the double doors that lead to her Kaiser Suite. This has most assuredly given her diva complex a healthy boost; she's barely acknowledged my presence since we've arrived. Well obviously, I can't sit in my room to mope about it, so you'll probably find me strolling along the Sackstrasse...

Let the Games Begin

The sound of Les Etoiles echoed through the atrium of the hotel as they practiced this morning, in preparation for the first day of the World Choir Games here in Graz. There are so many countries represented; I don't think any of the girls (or their parents) realized the magnitude of this event.

You can see them walking by in the Opening Day parade...

after they chatted up the guys in a choir from South Africa...

...and before they all fell asleep at the table!

Bier und Suppe

I am so bleary-eyed, beleaguered, and befuddled at this point, it's a wonder I can even sit up in my chair. Since the only German words I know are "please", "thank you", and my maiden name, the menu I'm staring at looks a lot like the Rosetta Stone, undeciphered. I know there's something for me to eat in this cafe, I just don't know how to ask for it.

The waiter seems nice, but he is definitely not going to help me out; he's enjoying my helpless expression. "Beer..." I say, and he says "Ja, bier." So far so good. "Soup?" I venture to ask, and he suddenly starts speaking quickly and pointing at the menu. I really want onion soup, which I think might be zwiebelsuppe, but I don't see that. He jabs his finger at something and I respond, "Ja," defeated.

The beer is cool and refreshing, the soup (even though it has mystery meat floating in it) is warm and nourishing. I'm ready to go lie down now, probably face flat, probably for 10 hours, but at least I know how to say "danke" as I get up to go. Maybe tomorrow I can play at being more like Jean-François Champollion...

If It's Tuesday, This Must Be Austria

One day's worth of pocket detritus shows what a crazy halfway-'round-the-world trip the last 48 hours have been. Planes, trains, and automobiles. This kind of travel must be an absolute nightmare for people who aren't very organized -- keeping track of our complicated itinerary is almost more than my weary brain can handle. But I was ever so happy that the metro tickets I'd saved in my wallet since 1997 still worked...

(B)link

Lufthansa's strike was a short-lived one, thank goodness, so we made it to Graz as planned (but just barely) on a razor thin connection in Stuttgart. It was such a close call, I'm convinced our feet didn't actually touch land. We arrived after the departure time for the next flight, but a gate attendant was waiting to whisk us from one tiny plane to another via two giant busses (talk about wasting gas!). All we saw of Stuttgart from the ground was this glimpse out the window...

Facebook Fix

What is the world coming to? It's 4am in Paris, France, and all Coco wants to do is chat in real time with her friends back home. Wait, I'm kinda doing the same thing... This is probably going to be a really long day, given that we just heard on Euronews that Lufthansa workers are on strike, and that's the airline which is supposed to be getting us to Austria. Of course, we'll keep you posted.

Jet Lag Stinks

You know it's 3:30 in the morning in a foreign country when the half-naked screaming chick (who looks and sounds more like a guy) on the French version of MTV actually seems entertaining. You know it's jet lag when you realize you've just put a blister reliever under your arms instead of deodorant. You can see how this could happen...

Circadian Slump

It goes without saying that being sleepless for 28+ hours can mess with your mind... If you add the drama of folks almost missing the plane because they can't get their bags packed and in the car on time, the day stretches to even greater lengths.

Encountering Paris again after an absence of eight years is simultaneously comforting and eerie, and my brain descends into a fog of forgetting and remembering all at once. Stephane, who has come to pick up Wynham, kindly offers to drop us girls off in the city, and Coco says "Champs Elysee" as I say "Musee D'Orsay". Coco spends less than 15 minutes spending 30€ on that crowded boulevard, while to my dismay, I realize that the National Museums are closed on Monday.

We cross the river and descend into the over-packed Forum Des Halles to catch the RER back to the airport -- it's hello-goodbye-hello-goodbye to Paris -- since we leave way too early in the morning for Graz, via Stuttgart.

We're still suffering sticker shock -- 2 chef salads, a glass of wine, and some sparkling water for dinner have set us back nearly $100 -- but there's definitely something to be said for being here, which seems better than being there or anywhere else for today. Tomorrow is another day, and another country, and perhaps we will be fully alert by then...

Packing Light

Honestly, I thought I'd win the respect and admiration of my friends for my packing skills, but they all look at me like I'm plain crazy. Two weeks in Europe with a 6"x12"x16" rolling carry-on? Impossible, they argue. Let's just say that my first European jaunt 25 years ago was a luggage disaster; I tried to take all my worldly possessions in a backpack that was larger than me, and couldn't even manage to get out of the Gatwick airport on my own without jettisoning most of what I'd packed.

Ever since then, I've been trying to follow Susan Heller's sage advice: "When preparing to travel, lay out all your clothes and all your money. Then take half the clothes and twice the money." Then, for good measure, I halve the clothes pile again. That leaves more room for books, which are my #1 essential item. Given the current exchange rate, I should probably also double the money again. Now if I could just convince Chloé to leave behind those fur-lined Ugg boots she believes are an imperative element of her summer travel wardrobe...