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...

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...

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...

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...

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...

Sweet Home Alabama

Circling for a landing at the airport of the town where I grew up always gives me the same lump in my throat. If you haven't seen it, you would never believe the clay dirt could be so red. I feel like I have this iron-rich soil running through my veins, and I realize it's true: you can take the girl out of the South, but you can't take the South out of the girl.

The older kids have come with me to celebrate Thanksgiving with my grandparents, and my brother and his wife will arrive soon, too. A real family homecoming. Family is what brings me back over and over, but I have to admit the countryside calls to me, too, in a way it never did when I first left for California twenty-five years ago.

The changing seasons, the cotton fields, the magnolias, the biscuits with ham and red-eye gravy, the slower pace of things, and the genteel way of most Southerners -- I miss them all; they're part of what makes me who I am. And while I wouldn't trade the life I have now, it's good to know that whenever you really want to, you can go home again.