Flying High

Karen, Hunt (sporting that
devil-may-care smile), Orell, and Tracy

We had dinner last night with our traveling buddies and discussed how great our recent trip was. Orell had created a fabulous and artistic photo book of our time abroad, and she managed to make us all look pretty good, except for the shot of Hunt wearing his white salt mine coveralls which he refused to close properly, giving the impression that his fly was open about 14 inches. I believe this was all part of some cunning plan, though for the life of me I cannot figure it out.

The four of us reminisced about the trip from start to finish, we talked about our experiences getting through customs, we moved on to discuss the new airport security measures, and then we hit upon the real highlight of international travel--unlimited and personalized movie-watching!

I absolutely adore the in-flight entertainment (IFE) available today where passengers can view movies, television shows, and documentaries using their own personal systems. All flights do not have these. Some only offer the cheaper IFE option of looking out the window. But all international flights today provide movies, and the best flights make these available to passengers on their own little screens. That means you can stop your film anytime and head to the galley to get a candy bar or some cookies to enhance your movie-viewing pleasure. Wow! This even beats watching movies at home where your family and friends might complain if you stop the movie to take a walk around the room to stretch your legs.

Our family loves movies. Being fairly weird people, we've never owned a real television capable of showing real television. We just watch movies on various monitors. Well, except in 1999 when we were offered free cable for two weeks when the Texas Rangers were playing in the American League championship series. Boy, did we watch non-stop television those two glorious weeks! Before we knew it the cables were pulled, the Rangers lost, and all we had left were happy memories and 843 cable holes. 

Maybe because we don't have a TV or maybe because we are, indeed, weird, we take our movie-viewing seriously. Lights out and no talking. When the boys were growing up they'd never let their friends talk when they watched movies with us. I mean no talking, not even during the opening credits. When their friends cried, "Musicals melt children's brains!", my kids turned a deaf ear. I'd later hear from the parents about how traumatized their kids were by this behavior--and also by the amount of ice cream we piled into each bowl--but they kept watching movies with us. And our kids never budged.

Being movie-purists, as we fondly call our idiosyncrasy, we can never just "go to a movie." No. It takes precision planning. No weekday afternoons when retirees fill the audience, retirees who have an aversion to whispering. Never on Friday or Saturday nights which are date nights when people try to get to know each other better. (We once sat in front of a couple on their first date who were saying things like "How many sisters do you have?" and "Do you like pizza?" During the movie!) Never on Sunday afternoons which seem to attract loud curly-haired children. Never at premiers or on holiday weekends. You simply cannot keep a theater full of people quiet. We know. We have tried. Once when I was trying to shush a dozen gang members--they certainly looked like gang members--I was called a very bad name and told to shut up. I did. Now I generally choose to watch movies at home where no one ever calls me bad names (except maybe under their breaths.)

Even better than watching movies at home, though, is watching movies 50,000 feet above the ground. No one talks. Food arrives, trash disappears. No sharing the remote control. Film after film after film, all guilt free. Yes, having my own in-flight entertainment is the best. And getting there is pretty fun, too. 

With Apologies to the Germans

Driving to Paris I finally did it—I exceeded 100 mph! What a feeling! My need to do this disturbs me some, and I wish I understood it. I fear it has something to do with living with a pig for 2 weeks, but I am not sure.

I miss our little rental car. I really enjoyed driving a standard shift because it made me feel as though I had achieved something by just arriving. And I suppose I had. I also liked driving a red car which matched most of my travel clothes and was easy to find in parking lots. But what I really liked most about that car was the wonderful “D” sticker on the back.

Back in 1969 officials in Europe were finding it harder and harder to determine a car's origin because there were so many languages involved and so many countries involved. After a particularly difficult day when he had to ask in Finnish, Portuguese, and Irish, “No, where is your CAR from?” a border guard threw up his hands in despair and shouted, “Too many languages. Too many countries.” Luckily for him—and us—a United Nations official was nearby and heard his anguish and took this plea for help straight to the the UN General Assembly. An emergency session was held, and, after a heated debate, the UN came up with the idea of adding a sticker to the vehicles with a country code so officials could know, without asking, from whence the vehicle came.

Or something like that.

The Sticker on the Back

Our sticker, which we fondly called The Sticker on the Back, was invaluable because it identified us as Germans, the “D” representing Deutschland. It was not so much that we wanted to be identified as Germans as it was that we didn't want to be known as Americans. Do not get me wrong. I love America and am fiercely patriotic—so much so that I worry that I will tarnish America's reputation while I am abroad.

Once at a West End play in London, as soon as the lights dimmed and the overture began, our family did what every dedicated theatre-going family does: we rushed forward to grab better seats. In this case the prized seats were in the middle of the fifth row and we each had to step across about a dozen pairs of legs to get to them. Thinking quickly, and fearful we'd be discovered to be Americans, I simply whispered my apologies to each person as we passed using my handy Australian accent, “Crikey, mate. Sorry, mate. Cheers, mate.” No doubt I single-handedly prevented an international incident right then and there between us and a few bruised-toe Brits because who can yell at an Australian with that great accent?

Guten Tag. Ich bin ein Deutscher.

Driving last month with our handy “D” on the back, we felt immune to the stares and jeers sent our way in Stresa, Italy, when we accidentally went the wrong direction on a one-way street. And as heinous as this act might seem, at least we didn't mean to do it. You'd have thought, however, that we'd damaged some priceless artifact by the reactions of the other drivers with their frantic arm waving and yelling. Two police officers joined in the mayhem and, I fear, added some name-calling. But guess what? All those people thought they were yelling at Germans! Ha!

Later in Perpignan, France, we took a little too long to walk across a lane in a parking lot, which made a driver mad enough to stop, roll down his car window, and yell at us. I smiled and yelled back, “Bonjour Monsieur,” and toasted him in a friendly way with my McDonald's coffee cup. This made him really mad, and a tirade began which I cannot repeat here, mainly because I didn't understand the French. But I can say this: a happy Frenchman he was not! So, assessing the situation at hand, I dashed for the car and stood by The Sticker on the Back and began speaking German in a loud voice. I truly hated to sacrifice the reputation of Germany to protect the reputation of America, but you sometimes do what you have to do.

I sure miss that “D”.

Welcome to Heaven!

Well, we left Farmville earlier than expected. Our friends had been turned away at the Moroccan port of entry because they were driving an ambulance and foreign ambulances are not allowed in Morocco. What? All those medical supplies, all those blankets, all that clothing would never make it to the mountain Berbers who so desperately needed them. It was really sad and somewhat incomprehensible for all concerned.

So we bid adieu to Petunia, Lucy, Loupy, Sally, Mega, and Astrilla. I didn't even bother saying goodbye to the cats because, for one thing, they are cats. For another, they are so feral as to not even be named at Farmville, so I couldn't really say goodbye, could I? (Please do not judge someone until you have walked in their blue wellies.) The problem with leaving early from the farm was that Hunt was still doing work in the area. So many internment camps, so little time, etc., etc. So we packed our bags and moved our headquarters a few miles away to the city of Prades. And entered heaven.

Getting to heaven was somewhat tricky. We had a true Robert Frost moment as we sat poring over the map. Drive due west on the fairly straight and oft-traveled road or turn south and catch that cute little squiggly thing, the one “bent in the undergrowth”? Well, it wasn't bent from undergrowth, it was bent because it went over the Pyrenees, hugging the sides of the mountains in its desperate attempt to avoid sliding into the chasms below. We chose the road less taken. I rode on the death-side of the car, closest to eternity, and every time Hunt saw a beautiful tree or crag or waterfall or bug or whatever, he'd say, "Hey look at that," and turn the wheel slightly in the direction he was looking! It was a hair-raising, nail-biting, hyper-ventilating drive, though admittedly beautiful with all the colorful fall trees and tiny villages. And I am glad we survived so I could post a few pictures.

Goodbye civilization

Imagine crossing these by foot

DEATH staring up at me

The leaves were just beginning to turn

The pinnacle of our treacherous
winding mountain road

Hunt said something about how fabulous and exhilarating the drive was, and I replied with something about ripping a certain someone's heart out. But it was so long ago, I hardly remember. No matter. The important thing is that we arrived safely in Prades: Heaven in France.

We checked immediately into our B&B and were delighted at how charming and welcoming it was.

Angela and some of her paintings

Our proprietress, Angela, hailed from England, which was a wonderful thing because, one, her English was better than mine, and two, she brewed delicious tea which she served us straight away. (PG Tips, no less!) And she was friendly and very funny.  

Her house was decorated in antiques, lavish colors, and her own marvelous paintings.

Tea was served by the fire
in the front sitting room

Our very own chaise
lounge in our beautiful red room

View to the back garden
(and the Pyrenees)
from our room

Our bathroom had a 7' tub
and shower with
a view of Mount Canigou

Angela suggested a restaurant, and we went for a celebratory meal, Hunt celebrating his recent finds at the Rivesaltes internment camp site and me celebrating a pig-free evening. And what a meal it was!

Salad with melted goat's cheese atop
grilled eggplant, tomatoes, and red bell peppers

Grilled mussels

I regret that this sea bass had but one life to give for my supper

Hunt's grilled octopus and other interesting things

Our Floating Island had baked meringue 'floating' in vanilla custard and was garnished with toasted almonds, caramel sauce, and a cookie

Prades, France.
Welcome to heaven!

Viva la France!

You know those people at the airport who are lucky enough to snag those comfy chairs? Well, that's me right now. Sipping a Starbucks latte.

We woke up at the crack of dawn to drive to Charles de Gaulle (CDG) and get the car turned in, knowing we had an ordeal ahead of us. The last time we turned in a car at CDG we were also on a sabbatical trip, that time with the boys. It was crazy, and not crazy fun. We simply couldn't find the turn-in location. It was about 5 am with few people to ask, but we did ask two police officers and a taxi driver. We finally arrived after over an hour of searching, and as Hunt tussled with luggage and boys, my conversation with the agent went something like this:

Me: We need to turn in our car.

He: (yelling in English) Speak French!

Me: I'm sorry. I do not speak French. We need to turn in our car.

He: (yelling in English) Speak French!

Me: There is no need to be angry. We just want to turn in the car.

He: (yelling in English) I am not angry!

Me: Well, there is no need to yell.

He: (really yelling now) I am not yelling!

And so it went.

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