Destinations

Tenth Trip to France

By Louis Borgenicht Our tenth trip to France began a day early with a sense of panic, second only to the time several years ago when I thought I had lost my passport as we were leaving for the airport. For the week prior to our departure I had been overworked trying to get every thing in shape for a ten-day vacation in Paris and ended up deeply sleep deprived, totally exhausted physically and mentally as we were leaving our house. In this state of total dissipation I could not recall where I has stashed my passport. The realization led to a deep sense of panic, sweating, screaming, swearing and an overwhelming sense of disaster. We would not be able to take the trip. My flailing around produced the misplaced item and I calmed down slowly.

This year, as Jody was showing our house sitter around I heard her shriek,"The back door is open." We have a precious cat named Zoe who is the apple of her eye. Zoe is five years old and has never been outside in her life. Open doors are anathema in our house; Jody has place glaring signs at the front and back door: Yo, make sure the door is shut.

But the back door was open and it had been my fault. If Zoe  was gone we would not be taking our trip. The three of ran outside calling for her and fearing the worst. I went back to look in the house and Zoe came casually ambling into the living room.

My ass and our trip was saved but not before Jody said in a tone of incredulous incredulity, "You don¹t know how close you came to being dead."

The next day, after a hug on our back doorstep, we boarded  the non-stop flight from Salt Lake City to Paris.

9/22/08

The flight was typical DeltaŠno panache and cramped seats.  The food was horrific, almost inedible. We made do with a box of sushi and some homemade chicken sandwiches. How hard, I thought, would it be for an American airline to show some pride and style, particularly when they have the corner on the market of a sterling flight: leaving at 5PM and arriving in Paris at 11AM.The result is minimal jet lag.

9.23.08

One of the gimmicks the Avid representative suggested when we rented out seven passenger diesel at the train station in Avignon was a GPS device. The cost was 10 euros a day. At the time it seemed an intriguing if possibly unnecessary toy for a week of traipsing around Provence. We did not  have passengers but our luggage made it necessary for us to rent something larger than the proverbial deux chevau.

Having set the home base for Le Lavandin, 1830 Chemin du  Val de Guilhaudm Pernes Les Fontaines we set off from the TGV station. Fifteen minutes later, after driving along the Rhone past the  Pont d¹Avignon a recollection from our childhoods (Sing: Sur le pont d¹Avognon on y danseŠ) to the suggestions of a baritone male voice suggesting that "in thirty yards turn left then right" we ended up I a parking lot.

Like a thermos that can keep liquids either hot or cold  (how does it know?) I was puzzled by the GPS. I know there is a satellite somew here able to keep tabs on where anyone is at any given moment but it is beyond comprehension that it actually can work well. It is a technological puzzlement.

Then there is the issue of the dude who gives you directions. Intuitively I wanted us to turn right, the map indicated that was the right direction, but he emphatically told us to go left. Once we did he said, in the same self-assured tone, "turn around." As I turned off the GPS in frustrated annoyance I wondered whether he narrated Books on Tape, perhaps Madame Bovary and whether he might sense, when your thoughts wandered. Would he say, "Now go back to chapter one."