RSS

Icelandic Trifecta

We’re making our way to Corsica through July. First stop: Iceland.

I’m usually so clear about where to go and what to see when we travel. Not so with our visit to the Land of Fire and Ice. There are so many options, many of them far flung, and I’m completely baffled. I just don’t know where to start.

To narrow our choices, we focus on the number three. Three days to:

  • drive the Golden Circle (including three stops);
  • hike above the Skógafoss waterfall (divided into three legs);
  • and, visit the Blue Lagoon (for three activities).

Iceland suffers frequent gloomy weather but the sun — the midnight sun — which stays up for twenty-three hours, welcomes us. At eleven at night, after an extended sunset, it slips below the horizon and hangs there, allowing an hour or so of dusk, until rising once again. “You’re very lucky,” several told us. “These are the most beautiful days of summer so far.”

Settling into Reykjavik, the country’s capital, we have first impressions:

  • There are few trees but hitchhikers abound (I can’t remember the last time I saw one in the US).
  • Most buildings look like they were built yesterday. Many, especially residences, are sheathed in corrugated steel. Because it withstands the harsh climate and is plentiful and cheap, Icelanders use it like New Englanders use wood shingles. I find the houses charming, especially those of the white-trimmed tomato red and forest green variety.
  • Most in the service industry are young. Very young. Under 25 young.
  • The bright purple and white lupines that line roads and blankets meadows are reminiscent of Provence’s lavender fields.
  • The island is no bargain. You pay dearly for its treasure: one and a half to two times US prices. Our simple airport hotel is $147, and our Reykjavik hostel (called a guesthouse in Iceland) is $150 a night. It’s clean, the shared bathroom is across the hall, the staff is friendly and the breakfast is hardy. But still, it’s pricey for basic lodging.
  1. The Golden Circle

On day one, we drive the Golden Circle to see its three main sights. It loops 300 kilometers from Reykjavík into central Iceland, and is a great alternative to driving the island’s perimeter — a full week’s endeavor. We’re alarmed by sheep grazing dangerously close to the road and pass field after field of sturdy Icelandic horses, many pony-sized, with adorable faces, thick, mop top bangs and long, shaggy manes. In a flash, I’m Arya in Game of Thrones (some of which is filmed here), mounting her trusty steed, taking off into deep, verdant waterfall-lined valleys.

Our first stop is Þingvellir national park, where Iceland’s Parliament of chieftains first met in 930 AD. It’s also where the North American and Eurasian continental plates meet. As they slowly drift apart, they’ve created the Silfra fissure, the only place in the world where you can see such a crack in the earth above sea level.

Our next stop is Haukadalur, haunting geothermal grounds with steam rising from vents in mud pools. Geysir, the original and now dormant geyser, gave its the name to all those that followed. The Strokkur spout is still active and shoots steam and boiling water one hundred feet high, erupting every six minutes or so amid the smell of rotten eggs.

Stop three on the Golden Circle is the spectacular Gullfoss waterfall. The wide, powerful Hvítá river turns a corner and crashes over cliffs into a ravine, creating Iceland’s answer to Niagara Falls. The roaring cascade of water generates thick mist and rainbows a-plenty.

  1. The Hike

Day two has us up at 5:30 am (I was going to say dawn, but that would have been five hours earlier) for the two-hour drive to the Fimmvörduháls (five cairn trail) above Skogar on the southern coast. We continue the theme of threes with the trek section names: Waterfall Way, The Ashtray, and Godaland.

Let’s cut to the chase: it’s the most beautiful day hike we’ve ever done.

waterfall hikeWe take the steep stairs alongside Skógafoss, an elegant two hundred foot waterfall, follow the river that feeds twenty-two powerful chutes whose elevations attest to our ascent. We hike at a brisk pace, the GR20 and Corsica in mind. It’s a steady climb with occasional steep rises but there is one scary scramble where the path becomes a tight ledge above a ravine. It’s tough to enjoy the cascade thundering across the way as we side step along. We hear the successive falls before we see them — the powerful roar of water falling off a cliff — and then feel the mist. The lush chasm of each fall looks positively tropical; we could easily be in Hawaii or Tahiti. We leave the waterfalls behind once we cross the rickety bridge over the Skóga river. Part two of the hike stretches before us: the desolate, cratered moonscape of the Ashtray. We’re buffeted by fierce winds as we approach the Eyjafjallajökull and Mýrdalsjökull glaciers and the still steaming, red-hued volcano that erupted in 2010. After four hours to climb 2,400 feet, we decide to turn around. Part three of the hike, called Godaland, and the descent into “fairytale” Pórsmörk will certainly bring us back to Iceland. On our return, we’ll be sure to bring our tent and sleeping bags so we can do the hike to the end.

  1. The Blue Lagoon

Joe bathrobeWe save our trip to the Blue Lagoon for our third and final day. We stick to a three-pronged plan: soak sore hiking muscles in its warm, milky blue waters; enjoy facial masks; and, have lunch at the Lava restaurant. It’s an expensive outing in line with the costs of the rest of the country. We pre-book the package that included a bathrobe, flip-flops, a drink, unlimited facial masks, and a reservation at the restaurant with a glass of champagne. I fear the attraction will be kitschy but it’s far from it. Yes, we join a United Nations of tourists, from grandparents to babies in water wings, but it’s a very nice spa – beautifully designed, well organized and spotless. It’s not overly crowded since they limit the number of visitors. The levels of silica in the geothermal water can turn hair to straw, especially blonds like us, so we layer on conditioner in the locker rooms.

The lagoon is ethereal with steam rising from one hundred degree pools and visitors drifting through the water, faces masked in silica mud and algae cream. We soak for two hours, sip drinks at the swim-up bar, and repeatedly slather our faces with masks. (I know several who would pay to see my typically buttoned-up Joe sport a facial treatment!) Hair conditioned, skin tightened and fingertips like prunes, we retreat to the chic Lava restaurant for lunch. Delicious food, sophisticated decor, friendly service, and champagne. All enjoyed in our fluffy white bathrobes. What’s not to love?

Who gets sunburned in Iceland? Apparently, we do, after our hike and a day at the Blue Lagoon. Our badges of honor evident on our faces, we continue on to Paris.

 

 
2 Comments

Posted by on July 13, 2016 in baby boomer, GR20, hiking, Travel, turning 60

 

Tags: , , , , , , ,

Turning 60

Turning 60

Long ago I learned that a trip on the horizon keeps me happy. If there are no definite travel plans, no future dates inked on my calendar, I’m blue, untethered, uneasy. Buying guidebooks, planning an itinerary, and mapping out details give me a high of the healthiest kind. The prospect of getting away, the break from routine, the novel—it all keeps me connected and curiously, sane.

So while most people celebrate their sixtieth birthday with a dinner, cruise or weekend at a spa, the prospect of turning sixty, within eleven days of each other, made my husband Joe and me restless and hungry for adventure. We wanted to challenge what it means to be sixty years old and so we opted for a trip to Corsica, to hike what is considered Europe’s toughest long distance footpath.

Turning sixty is an anniversary some find terrifying. For us, it meant retirement, the end of our workaday lives and the beginning of journeys curbed only by our wallets and the bounds of our bodies. It also meant celebrating a high school romance that grew into thirty-five years of marriage. We were ready to mark milestones thirty-five and sixty, eager to begin the next phase of our life.

We envisioned our journey to Corsica for almost four years. The planning started while we backpacked through Europe on an adult gap year—our Senior Year Abroad—in 2012. That particular journey was thirty years in the making and required selling the house, the car, and most of our possessions, as well as quitting our jobs. This next step in our adventure progression required fewer leaps of faith since we both retired days before we left the US, and no longer had a house to sell.

What is the appeal of these outdoor challenges? It would be simple to say nature’s beauty, but in reality, it’s so much more. It’s the brisk morning air, the solitude, the sense of freedom and timelessness; it’s how our muscles ache, in a good way, at the end of a long day. Certainly we hike for the views, but it’s also for the chance to be alone with our thoughts, for the opportunity to meet interesting, like-minded people, for the photos, and yes, for the effort. Completing a particularly difficult hike goes a long way towards gratifying our competitive sides.

But the true allure of an extended trek to places inaccessible by vehicles and technology is what it does for our minds. It’s a detox during which we leave contemporary clutter behind. We think clearly, without distraction, about what’s most important, with no alarms, no deadlines, no beeps, no bells. We put one foot in front of the other and stress and anxiety wither as we share the same wild wonders together.

While we’re dedicated day walkers and have done multi-day stretches of hiking and camping in the Grand Canyon and Yosemite national parks, a two-week trek across difficult terrain will be a daunting physical challenge that sets a new, much higher, bar for us.

Friends considered tagging along, but one thing and then another got in their way, so off we’ve gone on our own. Just us, in hiking boots—two for the road, as usual—lugging brand new backpacks, a tent, sleeping bags and trekking poles, to tackle a one hundred and eighteen mile trail, the GR20, on a rugged island in the Mediterranean.

The Grande Randonnée (GR) hike number twenty bisects Corsica diagonally and follows its mountain spine, from the northwest to the southeast corner. It’s one of hundreds of GRs, meaning “big hikes,” in French. They crisscross Europe, primarily in Belgium, France, the Netherlands and Spain. Although not well known in the US, if you ask a European hiker about challenging trails, The Twenty always comes up. In Corsican, its name is Fra li monti, “across the mountains.” Rocky terrain, scree-strewn granite slabs and steep inclines, some of which require chains to ascend, have earned the trail its reputation as arduous and relentless.

Trails are blazed with the distinctive mark of a white stripe above a red one and are maintained in France by the Fédération Française de la Randonnée. We’d hiked pieces of other GR footpaths, including rambles around the Hexagon and seventy-five miles of the Tour du Mont Blanc (TMB) through France, Italy and Switzerland, to circle the highest peak in Europe. The TMB was a difficult, sometimes grueling hike. But at the end of each day, bruised and battered, we had a hot restaurant meal, soft mattress and warm blanket waiting for us in a hotel. Granted, some of our overnight accommodations were simple, rustic hiker inns with showers and toilets down the hall, but there was a certain level of comfort we knew to expect. Not so with our Mediterranean adventure; we will be roughing it for two weeks.

We signed with British company, KE Adventure Travel, in large part because we couldn’t find a US-based outfitter that does the Twenty. Yes, we are hikers—but we’re not well-schooled in camping—so we’re going into the wilderness under the direction of a seasoned team that secures permits, reserves campsites and shelters and will be responsible for feeding us. And most important of all, we’ll be part of a group with a guide who ensures we don’t get lost.

Joe and I accumulate hikes like others collect fine wine. Thus, our trip planning always includes researching the best walks in the area. We hate to pass up a good trail, and just like our decision to go to Corsica, we often build an entire trip around a particular track.

Friends and family often ask, “Why Corsica?”

The birthplace of Napoleon is an island in the Mediterranean, one of the thirteen regions of France. It boasts delicious food, garrulous people, white sandy beaches and several top-notch boutique hotels. The island has been on our travel list for years and discovering the existence of the GR20 quickly bumped it to the top. The derring-do hiking tales of a retired British Army General we met on our European sabbatical sealed the deal. He raved about The Twenty and at the end of our conversation commanded, “You absolutely must do it.” The General was not a man to be ignored. Corsica was definitely in our future.

Over the course of a fortnight, we’ll camp, bunk in coed, dorm-style rustic réfuges on platforms in our sleeping bags, and on a few lucky, luxurious nights, stay in gîtes d’étape—small, private hostels with actual beds. Yes, the physical and mental challenges of the GR20 will be significantly greater than those of anything we’ve undertaken before. This outdoor escapade will test our 60 year-old hiking mettle, not to mention our thighs, and stretch the limits of our “senior” resolve.

Come along for the journey. Join us for The Twenty.

(More to follow…)

 

 

 

Tags: , , , , , ,

Interviewed by the Boom Sex Doctors

This might be my most unusual interview venue. It was fun!
Ep. 115: Marianne Bohr on the power of travel – The Boom Doctors
http://theboomdoctors.com/2016/04/23/ep-115-marianne-bohr-on-the-power-of-travel-the-boom-doctors/

AIRDATE: 5/9

 
1 Comment

Posted by on April 26, 2016 in Travel, Uncategorized

 

Tags: , , , ,

Our Longest Day

 

I thought our room was on the first floor. She said premier étage, didn’t she? Why do we need the elevator? Because in France, the first floor is on the second floor. We talked about it in class, but now you’ll remember.

Our coach puts dozens of kilometers of narrow country roads behind us, weaving past stone buildings in various states of disrepair. They’ve been here for centuries — long before World War II came close to obliterating them all. Houses, barns, stables, outbuildings, storage sheds, churches. Some appear to have come through the war unscathed, their bucolic charm intact. Others lie in pieces, barely recognizable under gold and milky lichen, thick grasses and specks of blue spring wildflowers. Who were the people who lived here during the war? French country homes are rarely sold, customarily passed down through families, so it’s likely those who live here now, lived here in the 1940s, or at least their forebears did. Stories of Allied sacrifice and bravery were shared across generations, thus, many yards fly both French and American flags.

Madame Bohr, it feels like we’re at the seashore. We ARE at the seashore. We’re in Normandy, close to the D-day BEACHES. Don’t you remember what Nathalie told us and what we discussed this morning? D-day, Jour-J to the French, took place on the English Channel, La Manche. You’ll see where the battles were fought as soon as we get off the bus.

I find the beaches of Northern France melancholy by nature: cold, gray, rocky. Add the D-day landings and my heart wants to break. There’s salt in the air, and humidity. Remarkable humidity. Seagulls scream overhead. The landscape at Pointe du Hoc, virtually untouched since 1944 and pockmarked with deep bomb craters, is dotted with dense, low-slung bushes of tightly packed yellow beach blooms. A tiny ginger-breasted European robin twitches its head in the brush, trilling morning song. The inexorable persistence of nature on such a blood-soaked bluff. Do my spring-breakers understand what happened here seventy years ago? For that matter, do I or any of us truly understand?

It’s an emotionally gloomy day, despite blue skies and a crisp wind. We arrive at the Normandy American Cemetery and the yellow roses have changed to spiky mauve and burgundy heather. I’ve visited this sacred spot multiple times, yet it never fails to make me cry. How could it not? Seeing the black and white photographs of the fresh, young faces of men – boys, actually – displayed on the walls of the Visitors Center is all it takes. I reiterate Nathalie’s suggestion that each student find a soldier from Maryland, or the state in which he or she was born, take a picture of the grave marker and research him when they return home. Say a prayer, be grateful, say thank you to him and his family.

They gaze out over Omaha Beach to the English Channel and I wonder what they’re thinking, dreaming. Are they imagining a war that seems so very long ago? What was I thinking at their age? As I recall, it was always about the future. About all that lay ahead. Life yet to unfold. Now, however, with decades and so many of life’s major decisions behind me, I’m in the present, appreciating the privilege of sharing history with students, watching it come alive in their eyes. As we stand on this promontory where what happened changed the world, my wish for my charges, as it is for my children: put the important things in relief and let the trivial falls aside. Appreciate what they have and what was secured for them on this cliff in France.

***

The end of our nine-day trip looms.

There has been plenty of hilarity and silliness followed by moments of reflection and illumination. I was enchanted, smitten, after my first taste of France. Have my students fallen in love as well? Have they caught the very same Francophile bug?

Are we taking the metro or the RER into Paris? Bravo! You know the difference.

Our final evening in Paris. A cruise on the Seine. Notre Dame soars, the river banks crawl with revelers, the Eiffel Tower glitters. My students shout with glee, their voices echoing, each time we glide under one of Paris’ many bridges.

I’ve never laughed so hard. I can’t believe I ate chicken liver. I really can’t believe I actually liked it! This is the best meal I’ve ever had. I’ll remember this trip for the rest of my life. I’ll never forget how beautiful Paris is. I’m so sad we leave tomorrow. I want to stay. When I come back to France…

French music to my ears.

 

 

Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Vous Avez La Patate?

Our shower only has half a door! Are all bathrooms like that in France? The whole floor is soaked! How much butter is in this croissant? Is it okay if I add more?

Our Loire Valley tour continues. Each morning as we load the bus, our guide asks how we are. Ça va? Vous avez la patate? Vous avez la pêche? Vous avez la banane? Do you have the potato; the peach; the banana? Each is a clever way to ask: Are you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed today? Oui, j’ai la patate. Every language has its apt idioms.

Students scrutinize the fashion of their French peers. While I see few differences, they are keenly aware of every one and school me on the distinctions. Their shoes. They just look like sneakers to me. Their jeans. Everyone wears skinny jeans, even the boys. Their jackets. They’re longer and actually match their outfits. Their hair. The guys have a lot of quiffs. What’s a quiff? It’s like a whoosh or a puff. Oh, you mean like a pompadour. My fashion eyes are definitely too old.

The students negotiate the topiary labyrinth at Chenonceau, more interested in the grounds than the interior of the chateau. While they visit the donkey farm to the side of the sycamore-lined entryway, I discover an elegant orangery-style restaurant tucked behind the cafe. I’m off in a daydream, imagining a romantic dinner with my husband in the not-too-distant future. Although this is my fourth visit to the castle (my first was in ‘78 with Joe, as students freezing on motorbikes), Chenonceau never fails to charm. I send my stateside travel partner a text: We must return and stay at one of the village’s ivy-covered inns; Chenonceau now has a gourmet restaurant!

The chateau boasts two magnificent gardens designed by the two women in King Henri II’s life: one by the mistress and one by the wife. I choose the one that’s more shaded and compact, that of her majesty, Catherine de Medici. Daffodils, hyacinths and other early spring blossoms have made their way into full color, so different from the austere, pallid portraits of the queen inside the castle. The persona I assume is Diane de Poitiers, however, the beautiful, fashionista mistress of the king, twenty years his senior. The original cougar, I think with a chuckle; a fitting observation by a woman who just turned sixty. One day, some day, I’ll morph into Diane at a costume ball, despite the fact that her calculating ruthlessness is about as distant from my personality as I can fathom. But that’s what masquerades are about, no doubt.

The gardens are now under a soft, spring drizzle. I envision royal steeds trotting up the sandy lane to deposit me at Chenonceau’s drawbridge from a gilded coach. But I’m brusquely yanked back to the present as a student calls from behind a colossal planter: What time do we have to be back on the bus, Madame Bohr? Are we late?

My travelers are astounded by the size of the four chateaux we’ve visited. Wait ‘til we see Versailles, I say. Versailles? I can’t wait to go to Versailles. Part of Kim Kardashian’s wedding was there! Some things my students say make me less proud than others.

***

We’ve made it to gentle, lovely Normandy and Brittany. Apples and butter, Camembert and cows. We’re in the land of crêpes and galettes. No drama, no high emotions today, not until we reach the D-Day beaches tomorrow. For now, I revel in the calm of Mont St. Michel’s cloister, an oasis in this spikey medieval stronghold and pilgrimage destination jutting out into the English Channel.

This place looks like a French Hogwarts, and this would be the dining hall. Perfect. Dozens of seagulls soaring overhead — look how cute they are up close! So, Mont St Michel was first built in the 700s? That’s over 1,000 years ago! Your math skills astound me, I confess.

 What would our nine days be without a rude French waiter – actually quite difficult to find these days. Monsieur Méchant, my students call him. They’re using one of our vocabulary words! Mr. Mean.

While they’ve learned to appreciate some French delicacies (poulet confit, profiteroles, pork rillettes, chicken liver pate, un croque monsieur), they occasionally fall back on the familiar.

That may be the worst sandwich I’ve ever had. Ah, so you’ve learned an important lesson, non? Never order a baguette called The American in France!

We amble down the steep, corkscrewed lanes of the abbey and then through the village below. As I point out the rustic Mère Poulard bistro, famous for its fluffy omelettes Normandes, we manage to bump, very literally, into a working film crew. They push us aside. Make way for the star.

Hey, they’re shooting a film – wow, a French actress! Do you know her, Madame Bohr? I think it’s just a commercial or there would be more cameras, right?

We stand and watch two takes, gawking from the sides of the cobblestoned footpath, as the thirty-something beauty performs a soliloquy on a cell phone. Our brush with Gallic fame for the day. I Google the actress that evening – redheaded French actress with blue eyes. How many could there be? And there she is: Audrey Fleurot, of Les Intouchables, Midnight in Paris and a yet-unknown film shot on Mont St. Michel.

I had no idea you spoke so much French, Madame Bohr. You can ask directions and read the signs and talk to our guides and order food. And you can even order wine.

Thank God for that. J’ai la patate.

 
 

Tags: , , , , , , , ,

A Rainbow Over Chambord

How ya gonna keep ‘em down on the farm after they’ve seen Paree? Wide-eyed wonder abounds as we tour the City of Light and then head for the Loire Valley.

I saw the Eiffel Tower first! Look, Notre Dame! OMG, Nutella! Nutella crêpes! Nutella milkshakes! Is she a supermodel? She’s definitely a supermodel. He must be French. He’s wearing a scarf.

Having endlessly extolled the virtues of a genuine French baguette – crunchy on the outside, chewy in the middle, ever so slightly burned on the bottom — I suppose I’m to blame for two students buying two-foot long baguettes and downing them as we stroll the boulevards. All part of the culinary adventure that is France.

I thought the Mona Lisa would be bigger. That statue’s just famous ‘cuz she has no arms. Hot chocolate is only 2 euros! And they serve it with whipped cream! I definitely want to study in Paris. I just love the Seine. Can we do a boat tour?

Time to leave the hurly burly of the city and her anxiety-producing, camo-clad, machine gun-wielding guards, for the hinterlands. So many chateaux, churches and country pleasures await.

Why don’t Chartres’ spires match? Is the stained glass really 1,000 years old? Did people actually live in these chateaux? It’s freezing inside! But look at the size of the fireplaces.

Just in time, we’ve escaped a quick spring squall in the mellow light of a salon de thé. In the shadow of romantic Chambord, I’m enjoying a crêpe with a student: crème de marron for me, caramel du beurre salé for him. We savor our final bites, the skies clear and a perfect arc en ciel materializes from one horizon to the other across the grounds of the chateau. Nathalie, our French tour director, stops at our table and suggests a title for my next book: “A Rainbow Over Chambord.” Pourquoi pas? Why not?

What are those huge trees? Why is their bark peeling so much? Are those trees in the square dead? They look like angry old people shaking their fists. Why do they cut off all their branches?

I recall the first time I saw the closely pruned – pollarded – French trees in the seventies. They made me sad, looking as if they’d been abused, the barren sentinels barred from reaching their natural height and breadth. But as I learned back then, such drastic cropping yields lush lollipop trees in summer, providing thick, summer greenery and dense, cooling shade. I explain to my students about the trees and this leads to discussions of French rationality and affinity for order, English versus French gardens, the philosophes, and the French penchant for debate. All because of an angry black tree in a village square.

I love this hotel! The one in Paris was way too modern. This one has charm. Our room is so cool. It has a back door! On peut sortir? Can we go out, Madame Bohr?

I steal away on my own after dinner – I leave through my own back door — to lose myself in reverie and take a solo look at the chateau. Azay-le-Rideau, built on a human scale, one of my favorites. Grand enough to be called a chateau yet small enough to be accessible. I imagine myself living there, tapestries warming the walls, carpets softening the floors, surrounded by a duck pond. On my own for a few minutes, I’m transported back to the ‘70s, conjuring the feelings of the romantic young student I was. Smitten then; I’m smitten now. My beloved France.

Once again, time to board the bus. This time amid uncontrolled giggling. “Qu’est-ce qui se passe?” What’s going on?” I ask. They can barely speak. “The bus driver. Peeing by the tree. I saw things I didn’t want to!” Cackles. Guffaws. Innocents abroad. Innocence in France.

 

 
1 Comment

Posted by on March 31, 2016 in France, Passion for French, Travel

 

Tags: , , , , , ,

The Travail of Traveling Abroad

It’s departure day, Friday, March 25, and our long-awaited trip to France is about to begin. We arrive at Dulles with our navy and silver Education First (EF) backpacks, excited but subdued. The violence in Belgium just days ago hovers. The exuberance of the youth I’m accompanying, however, quickly overcomes any pallor and my excitement rises. Delta whisks us from Dulles to JFK to begin the five-hour layover for our flight to Paris. My always-hungry adolescents make multiple trips down the interminable airport hallways in search of their next round of Panda Express, Shake Shack and Jamba Juice, despite my reminders that we’ll have dinner and breakfast on our flight.

While my charges explore, I stay put to watch a blood red sunset to the west. “It’s a beach sunset,” declares an adorable French youngster, face pressed against the terminal window. I’m grateful for his mellifluous chatter that readies my ear for the nine days of French to come.

We board the 767 and my Tylenol PM kicking in, I can’t wait to pass out for seven hours on my travel pillow, under a red felt blanket. My students are of a different mind. “OMG! Mockingjay!” “They have The Walking Dead. I can’t believe it!” “Look at all these movies!” “Are they FREE, Madame Bohr?” “I am so binge-watching all night!”

So much for my entreaties to get some sleep.

“You’ll all be walking zombies yourselves tomorrow morning,” I lament. Full bellies notwithstanding, they speculate about what’s for dinner and plan their watching strategies.

An overnight flight between us and the exuberance of the evening’s departure, I awaken semi-refreshed to glum faces, tussled hair and bleary eyes. We snake for well over two hours through the post-Brussels passport control maze at Charles de Gaulle and then finally, after spying and retrieving a temporarily lost suitcase that has inexplicably landed in a pile of unclaimed bags, exit the confines of the terminal for our entry into France.

Amid some moans, groans and yawns, I remind my fellow travelers that the English word travel comes from the French word travail. Work. Yes, travel can sometimes be a lot of work.

 
6 Comments

Posted by on March 29, 2016 in France, Passion for French, Travel

 

Tags: ,