Paris and the Volcano

Newly added to the list of Nightmare Scenarios for Travelers: “Stranded for days due to Icelandic volcano eruption.”

And I thought my holiday train woes back in December were bad. Turns out they were nothing compared to the recent (and in many cases, on-going) experience of thousands of travelers who have been stuck in place ever since Eyjafjallajökull decided to spew ash over much of Europe. The cost, stress, and disappointment of canceled plans that resulted from this volcanic activity are enough to make any traveler – even one not currently stuck on the road – weep.

Is there a silver lining in all of this airspace mayhem? I liked how New York Times Op-Ed Contributor Seth Stevenson heralded an "Escape From the Jet Age," by reveling in the scenery we can enjoy and the people we come across when not cruising at 30,000 feet. And when I heard that even President Obama’s all-mighty Air Force One couldn’t fly to Poland due to the ash, I thought it was a nice reminder that no matter who we are, no matter how much access, power, or money we have, we are all at the mercy of Mother Nature.

Of course, it’s easy to look for a silver lining from the comfort of your own unaffected-by-ash home. It would be more interesting to know what (if any) silver linings stranded travelers themselves have been able to find. In any case, I hope if you went to Paris for vacation, and now find yourself stuck there because of the volcano, that you'll quickly head to the nearest café, order a carafe of French wine, and reflect on those who are less fortunate than yourself. Think about those who are stuck trying to get to the French capital, and have, unlike yourself, been denied the perfectly divine pleasure of enjoying Paris on a beautiful Spring day.

The Great European Travel Disaster of 2009

It is not a good time for European travel. The Eurostar has stopped service indefinitely, other rail companies are experiencing major delays, roads are unplowed, accidents abound, and flights now come with many hours spent waiting at the airport. It seems the sudden cold snap followed by decent snowfall has caught a lot of the continent by surprise, upending the holiday plans of thousands of travelers. Add to that the various strikes or threats of strikes that are affecting transportation networks and you've got one big end-of-the-year mess that seems to have left no previously perfectly-timed itinerary untouched.

My sister and I got our own taste of The Great European Travel Disaster of 2009 this weekend. It started with a train reservation on Belgian rail line, Thalys, that was set to leave Brussels' Gare du Midi at 8:50am Saturday morning. Delay after delay found us leaving approximately 20 mintues behind schedule. Not bad, but not ideal either. Unfortunately, it was only a harbinger of things to come. As we kept an eye on the developing Eurostar story and unchanging weather forecasts, we hoped our return to Brussels would not be affected. But upon arrival at Amstedam Centraal Station we quickly heard rumors of no trains coming in and no trains going out. A frantic hour later we somehow managed to learn that our train would be leaving shortly from platform 11a. Running through the station and up to the platform, dragging bags and fellow passengers we passed information to mid-stride, we found our seats and thanked our lucky stars.

The biggest problem we discovered when trying to get back to Brussels was a lack of accurate information. At the Amsterdam station all of the information signs read "no information currently available." Everyone we talked to said "No Thalys." No Thalys right now, or ever? Turns out, it was only delayed by about 40 minutes, a hiccup that should not have caused the uncertainty and panic we witnessed and felt. But without information, the imagination runs wild, usually to the worst-case scenario. Our train had problems on the tracks, and some passengers had to stand for lack of seats, but we finally made it to Brussels, albeit two hours behind schedule. Our next train ride is set for tomorrow, on the Thalys from Brussels to Paris. We're crossing our fingers.

Worst Corkscrew Ever

In all my years of wine bottle opening I had never seen this happen. The screw was in the cork, the cork was starting to dislodge when, snap! The corkscrew broke in two, leaving a good chunk of screw firmly wedged in the cork. Now what? I really, really wanted to drink that wine, which I had purchased only hours earlier at my neighborhood fromagerie in the hopes of pairing it with the evening's dinner. But without a back-up corkscrew, and with all the stores in Brussels already closed for the night, there was nothing I could do but grab a beer out of the fridge and wait for tomorrow.

Tomorrow arrived, I purchased a new corkscrew, and set about salvaging the bottle. With some help from a marvelously capable butter knife, and a lot of patience - I worked on this thing for a good 15 minutes, photography time not included - the screw finally came loose. Wielding the new, and hopefully less breakable, corkscrew I removed what was left of the cork and finally got to sit back and enjoy a glass of chilled white wine. Because I had used the Worst Corkscrew Ever It took me two days to do what normally would take mere seconds. Lesson learned: one corkscrew in the house is never enough. Always have a back-up.

Move Blues

Moving overseas sucks. There, I said it. I know, I know, that is definitely not the impression you get from reading any one of the many blogs or articles that espouse the virtues of life lived abroad. The way we all talk you’d think it was nothing but rainbows and butterflies from sun-up to sundown over here. Moving overseas gives you enriching cultural discoveries, a chance at fulfilling self-discovery, and excitement and adventure at every turn! What a load of crap. Sometimes, it just plain sucks, with a large part of the suckiness coming from the frustration of trying to accomplish seemingly simple tasks in a culture/societal structure/system/language you’re unfamiliar with.

Take buying public transportation tickets in Belgium, for example. Unless you have a Belgian bank card, the only way to get tickets out of the machines or from the drivers is with coins. First of all, a system that only accepts Belgian cards in a city that is home to people from all EU and NATO countries is utterly ridiculous. But secondly, if you don’t know right away that you have to hoard your change like Uncle Scrooge just to get around this place, you will at some point find yourself stranded.

Like the woman on the bus the other morning who was trying to get to the airport. She only had a 50 euro bill. As she stood pleading with the bus driver in broken English, almost in tears, with no one helping her, all of my own frustrations from the past month rose to the surface. I approached the driver who proceeded to rant at me about her needing correct change. In an annoyed, but calm, tone I replied, “Je l’ai,” “I have it,” plopped down four euros in coins, gave the bus driver my best evil eye, gave the girl a look that I think said “It sucks, but we’ll live,” and turned around to the stares of an entire busload of groggy morning commuters. It was a small victory, and it felt good.

My own frustrations about moving to Belgium have largely centered on trying to get Internet access. One month in and I still don’t have it at home, despite giving constant effort to the pursuit. It’s a long story, but all you need to know is that trying to get Internet in Brussels has resulted in paying for a year when I only need six months, a modem lost in the mail, a land line that no longer works, and phone calls in vain (and in French, Dutch AND English) to the local company’s technical team.

Ok, so obviously I was a bit harsh at the beginning; moving overseas doesn’t actually suck. I love it, others love it, and I wouldn’t give up the experience for anything in the world, especially not Internet access. Moving overseas does give you enriching cultural discoveries, a chance at fulfilling self-discovery, and excitement and adventure at every turn, but sometimes the whole runaround that inevitably accompanies such a move just makes you want to crawl under the covers and never come back out. Sometimes, you just want things to be easy again. Moving overseas is not all rainbows and butterflies, and it doesn’t always have a four euro solution.

Timing is Everything

It’s a conundrum all travelers will eventually have to face: book early, or wait to the last minute? Which form of trip planning will give you the best deals? There are those who swear it’s the early bird who catches the worm, while others will tell you it’s the last minute purchases that offer the biggest travel savings. As far as I’m concerned, both options can work to your advantage. You just have to know when to use them.

I recently got burned by waiting until the last minute to make important travel arrangements. When a friend told me she would be in Paris the weekend of September 12-13 I said, “Great! I’ll meet you there,” thinking I could wait until I was settled into life in Brussels before looking at ticket options and making my decision. By the time I got around to researching prices, round-trips were already too pricey for my weekend travel budget. To make matters worse, the train reservation sites were all advertising great Brussels – Paris deals…if you booked a month or more in advance. Nevertheless, there are travel websites out there that consistently offer great last minute deals. For example I’ve had success finding impressively low prices on normally out-of-range hotels with lastminute.com’s French site.

The Parisian weekend disappointment taught me a good lesson: if you have your heart set on a certain trip, book early. Start looking more than a month out, and if you see a price your comfortable with, go for it. What’s more, from what I can tell, booking early for train travel in Europe is almost always the way to get a good deal. On the other hand, if the mood to get out of town tomorrow strikes you, and you’re less concerned with the location than with the price, booking last minute doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll pay a fortune for your impulses. Have a few go-to discount travel sites on hand, be flexible, and get excited when you book a fabulous weekend jaunt without breaking the bank.

What’s your preferred travel style: book early, or buy last minute?

Tomorrow is Another Day

No matter how much you plan, no matter your best intentions, if you travel, someday, somewhere, something is bound to go wrong. You'll miss a flight, or get lost in a new city, or lose something of value, or get sick; the possibilities are endless. Merde happens. Like most travelers, I have a regular encyclopedia of experiences that were none too pleasant at the time. Is it just me, or do mishaps seems amplified in stressfulness when they happen while traveling? To ease the pain, there's something that everyone tells themselves while living through an unplanned travel detour: this will be really funny tomorrow.

Though difficult to believe at the time, I've found this statement to be largely, incredibly true. The stories my friends and I tell over, and over, and over again - the ones that get bigger and better and funnier each time we tell them - are the stories of events that totally sucked at the time. With the luxury of distance, disasters are the best on-the-road stories a traveler could hope for. The time my friends and I booked an early morning train from Cannes to Strasbourg, all separately missed our alarms, frenetically scrambled to get to the station with seconds to spare, had to leave one person behind at the station because she forgot her passport (which we needed to be able to use our eurorail passes), and spent the long ride north comforting yours truly who was so distraught she spent almost the entire first leg of the ride in the shaky, disgusting train bathroom getting sick, has turned into one of our favorite laugh-generating "remember when?" stories.

Why do travel disasters make for the best post-travel stories? Is it because everyone loves a tragedy, or at least one that eventually turns out ok? No one was every seriously hurt during my travel mishaps. We all survived, and if anything, came out stronger on the other end. Maybe it's because these events are sort of a badge of honor. Later, you can say, "yeah, I was practically hugging that toilette on the train, and I lived to tell the tale!" Or, "yeah, I stayed in a really bad hostel, it was awesome!" Of course, you weren't laughing at the time. You were freaking out, overly stressed, frustrated, or angry, or scared...and telling yourself it would be funny tomorrow.

An Ode to My Backpack

Remember that day back in the summer of 2001 when I picked you out of a wall of backpacks at REI? I do. It was a big purchase for a 20-year old college student, but one that would pay immeasurable returns. You were red and black with a multitude of pockets and straps and hooks fit to hold everything I would need to see the world. I was apprehensive and excited about being a young traveler about to set off on her own. Our first stop was France, and for five years after that we never slowed down.

Our travels took us to edgy Barcelona, rainy London, and large portions of Ireland, Scotland, Italy and France. We saw Roman ruins, Gothic cathedrals and rolling countrysides, all the while surviving an endless stream of bad hostels, long, uphill walks (I'll admit, I didn't really like you much during those), and sleepless overnight trains. You were smaller than most traveling backpacks, and therefore taught me to live minimally. I was always thankful that you were thin enough to fit through public transportation turnstiles and never hit innocent passengers while walking down the aisles of trains. I used you as a pillow, a foot rest, and as a hiding place for my emergency stash of snacks. You even posed with me in my all-time favorite travel photo; the one that, for me, defines an entire period of my life. Sitting on that ledge in Florence, looking out at the Italian countryside, life had never felt so exhilarating.


A good backpack like yourself can be a traveler's best friend. It's our constant companion, it carries all we own in the world, it serves multiple purposes, and it's always there when we need it. Needless to say, I'll forever regret storing you in the 4-plex's basement instead of my locked, second-floor unit. Maybe then you wouldn't have been stolen by the intruder who entered the building to take a bike, some electronics, and a beloved backpack. He or she even tore off your Air France identity tag, which had proudly survived years of comings and goings. I'm sorry. You were the perfect travel partner for an apprehensive and excited young traveler setting off on her own. I wish you could see me now.

On Public Transportation

I do some of my best thinking while riding the DC subway. There's just something about zipping along underneath the city and all its distractions that entices me to let my mind wander, if only for a few stops. All topics are fair game during these subterranean daydreams, but while taking last night's trip I couldn't help thinking about the metro system itself. More specifically, I realized for the first time that I have never been asked to show proof of purchase while riding DC rail or bus lines. No one has ever asked to see my ticket. This might not seem like a big deal, except that my travels through Europe are a regular treasure trove of encounters with the transport police. Why doesn't the same thing happen here?

There was the time in 2001, when some friends and I decided to take the train from Cannes to Barcelona over Thanksgiving weekend. Once across the border, it was quickly discovered by a less than friendly controller that we didn't have the correct tickets for the train. After what seemed like an eternity of listening to a man yell at me in a language I didn't understand, we decided to make a run for it. When his back was turned and the train had stopped, we bolted...and found the tickets he was asking for in a backpack pocket later that day. A few years later, transit authorities asked to see my tramway pass a couple of times in Bratislava, and I paid a $20 fine in Prague when the patrolmen discovered I didn't have the correct ticket. If you spend any amount of time in Paris, you're bound to have someone ask to see your ticket. The controllers will come into the metro cars, create human barricades in the metro passageways, and board buses in an effort to root out the cheaters. I find French policy of any kind to be incredibly intimidating, so I always had my ticket at the ready. And though I never ran into controls in the London Underground, the system's confounding layout and bizarrely creative station names are enough to keep any traveler on his or her toes.


Maybe public transportation controls only happen where they need to happen. I've never seen turnstile jumpers in DC, but it was an almost daily sight in Paris. That might explain the organized effort to check travelers for tickets. Or maybe the DC system simply doesn' t have the funding to pay transit police. Considering the price hikes and service cuts we've been seeing, I wouldn't be surprised. I just don't understand how, after over two years of total time spent living in Washington and taking public transportation, I could have managed to have my ticket checked a total of zero times when in Europe it was simply business as usual. Why the difference? What am I missing? Then again, seeing as how some of those foreign encounters were less than pleasant, maybe I shouldn't question the tranquility of the DC subway.

Have Bike, Will Do Stunts

In my never ending quest to bring you all the latest in Vélib news (see here and here), I give you this: Le Vélib Extreme. But first, a little background. In 2007, the city of Paris launched a public bike sharing program called Vélib. The mayor ordered bike stations placed in neighborhoods all across the arrondissements and bike lanes marked into the roadways. His landscape-changing initiative has been immensely popular, as anyone who has ever tried to find an available bike on a warm spring day in Paris can tell you. They're used for commuting, errand running, carrying home fresh purchases from the market, leisurely rides along the banks of the Seine, and...daredevil tricks?

This is where Le Vélib Extreme comes in. Apparently, it's the latest craze to hit Paris (Remember Tectonick? That dance was huge last spring), and it involves using the city bikes in ways I'm pretty sure local officials never intended. Thumping down steep stairwells, catching air off jumps, popping wheelies and doing a host of other things I don't have the correct bike vocabulary to describe. Of course, I've read about Le Vélib Extreme from a variety of sources, but they all cite the same video, and said video calls the underground bike movement Vélib Freeride, so it's difficult to get a real grasp on what's really going on here. Are a lot of bikes being used for clandestine activities? Or is this an isolated incident blown up in the media? Frankly, the only extreme Vélib activity I ever witnessed involved late night rides home after too many glasses of wine.

In any case, what does seem to be true about the Vélib program is that for all its popularity, it's suffered some serious setbacks in it's short 18 month life. Vandalism and theft have hit hard. More than half of the bikes have gone missing; others have had tires slashed. Some have turned up halfway across the globe. But don't expect the bikes of Paris to disappear completely. City officials have agreed to pay the company that supplies the two-wheelers for some of the replacements. Plus, users who don't return their borrowed bikes are charged a hefty deposit fee. None of the articles I found mentioned this fact, but it would be interesting to see if that money has helped cover some of the losses. Most importantly, the pedal movement has been warmly embraced by the Parisian community at large making it difficult to conceive of its ever disappearing.

I was a huge fan of Vélib during my time in Paris, and I hope I get a chance to ride those awesomely clunky, basket-wielding, geek-chic bikes again. As far as Le Vélib Extreme goes, if you know anything more about this possible phenomenon, let me know. Drunk biking doesn't count.

Freedom Fromage

I almost didn't believe this story the first time I heard it. A 300% duty on France's prized Roquefort? That can't be true. Oh, but it is. The news of a last minute War on Cheese declared by the Bush administration started out as a small, nearly overlooked sound bite. Now that the DC power transition is complete and things have settled down, the Roquefort issue is growing into a big stinking mess. With an insanely high duty now in effect, the U.S. market for this, the most famous of the blue cheeses, has been effectively shut down. French officials, American gastronomes and villagers from the tiny provincial town that has been the sole owner of the rights to produce Roquefort since 1411 are crying foul.

The reason for the duty? Payback for years of European Union refusal to import American beef that has been treated with growth hormones. If that sounds childish to you, it's because it is. Frankly, I think the Europeans have a right to avoid beef that they feel might not be safe. But forget the Europeans, what about us? The poor Americans who have now been told they can't eat a delicious French cheese? It's not like the ban on American beef prevents Europeans from eating any beef at all. They still produce their own supply of steaks, ribs and burgers. Not to mention the fact that they can import from other non-growth hormone sources. And it's not that we don't want to eat Roquefort the way Europeans don't want to eat growth hormone beef. Au contraire! Plenty of Americans love digging into that blue, moldy goodness. I'm not a huge fan of it myself, but I love other French cheeses enough to fully understand the attachment one can have to one's favorite aged dairy product. Americans do not (cannot, actually) produce their own Roquefort. If we can't get it from France, we simply can't get it at all.

The duty didn't stop at Roquefort. Lots of other edible treats from Europe - Irish oatmeal, foie gras, Italian sparkling water - have also had their prices artificially raised. Not as much as Roquefort, but raised just the same. Why punish the American consumer? We're just trying to diversify our diets. Besides, this totally lame, "nah nah nah boo boo" move isn't winning us any points for maturity around the world. As far as I'm concerned, the last thing this country needs is to get on someone's badside for something so silly as a food fight.

Flying the Friendly Skies

One of the things I like most about travel is that it provides a constant stream of new experiences. Even the most habitual of activities can offer differing results depending on the country, language or time of year they take place in. Take flying, for example. Since my first flight at the ripe old age of five, I've been on countless airplanes, but had never flown on Christmas Day. After last year's disastrous attempt at going home for the holidays on the day before Christmas Eve, during which my first plane was delayed because of fog, my second plane was delayed because of snow, I sprinted from one end of Chicago's O'Hare airport to the other in full winter get-up while dragging two heavy carry-ons, and became one of the only people in the history of aviation to be allowed to board the plane after its door has been shut, I decided to never again fly on one of the busiest travel days of the year. So, I booked a ticket for the 25th and set out to discover what it would be like to spend a major holiday on the road.

I knew I had made the right decision when travelers across the country started dealing with cancellations and sleepness nights at the airport two days before Christmas. Instead of joining in their misery as I had last year, I spent the 23rd and 24th doing a little shopping and relaxing before the big day. When Christmas morning finally arrived, I packed up my things, hopped on the metro, and arrived at a very quiet and calm Ronald Reagan National Airport. No long lines at check-in or security, no stressed out travelers trying desperately to get home, no delays because of weather. Nothing but smooth sailing. And because it was Christmas Day, everyone from the gate agents to the passengers themselves seemed to be in an unusually cheery mood. I even got to know many of my fellow travelers as we were all looking to chat and enjoy the company of others during the holiday.

The best part of the trip came at the end. As we were making our final descent into Minneapolis I snapped out of my iPod daze to notice that a lot of people were taking pictures out the plane windows. Turning to look, I realized what all the fuss was about. The sky was filled with one of the most beautiful sunsets I had ever seen. Everything was bright red, and when the clouds finally parted, we could see the perfectly snowy, perfectly Christmasy landscape below. I grabbed my own camera and caught some nice shots of the city all aglow on Christmas Day. We were home, and December 25th officially became my favorite day to travel.

The Unfriendly Skies

I would love international travel so much more if it didn't require plane rides. While some people enjoy traveling by air - they're amazed at the miracle of flight, or maybe they just like having some quiet reading/music listening/nap time to themselves - I can barely even tolerate it. Yesterday's Paris-Newark-Newark-Minneapolis itinerary provided a friendly reminder of this unfortunate fact as I struggled to get through the long voyage home. The sad and slightly embarrassing truth is that I'm just not good at riding in an airplane. Oh sure, I'm great at buying tickets, packing light, getting quickly and painlessly through check-in and security, and navigating through new or unfamiliar airports, but it all goes downhill the moment the plane leaves the gate. I took my first flight when I was five years old, when, upon landing, I promptly threw up. Things haven't gotten much better from there.

My failings as an airline passenger take on many forms. First, at 5 feet 8 inches tall, I'm always uncomfortable in my seat. Even aisle seats are uncomfortable, and as an energetic movement-loving person, I just don't like being confined to a chair for hours on end regardless of the leg room situation. Speaking of my body, flying turns it into one beauty disaster after another. My hair gets filled with abnormal amounts of static from the dry cabin air, my eyes get red and puffy for the same reason, I alternate from shivering cold to sweaty and hot no matter how much I add or remove layers, and swear I gain two pounds on every leg of the trip. I don't like breathing stale airplane air, I don't like much of the food they serve on board, and I'm physically incapable of sleeping in a seated position. Then there is the fear factor. Flying scares me. I'm that white-knuckled girl gripping the arm rest for her dear life during takeoff and landing. Every bump or shake of the plane conjures up images of it bursting into flames and falling out of the sky. If all of that weren't enough to make flying an unpleasant proposition, I also easily get airsick. My first flight set in motion a life-long pattern of airborne nausea and even the occasional losing of the lunch. Yes, some people actually do use the barf bags.

A more rational person might take a look at that list of cons and decide that maybe she should just stay away from airplanes altogether. After all, that's a whole lot of unpleasantness wrapped into a few short hours for one person to have to deal with. But I've never given a second's thought to taking a flight. I love to travel, and I'm not going to let yucky food, dry air or even a fear of death by falling from 30,000 feet stop me from doing it. I might be the least enthusiastic airline passenger ever, but I'm big into traveling. If I have to fly to experience new cultures, meet new people, and have see new things, then so be it. As for the airsickness, I sincerely apologize to anyone who has had to sit next to me during one of my incidents. I fully realize that I am in no way doing my part to make this whole flying thing any more pleasant.

Crisis (Mis)Management

Everyone has a travel horror story. A missed connection here, a stolen passport there; things that can derail an otherwise perfectly well-organized itinerary are lurking around every corner. And because travel hiccups are bound to happen to the best of us sooner or later, the true test of a traveler is not how he or she avoids such mishaps, but how he or she reacts to them. One of the easiest ways to react to a bad travel situation is to blame the entire city, state, or country for the problem. It's the, "I got pickpocketed in Rome, therefore Italy is a terrible place to visit," rationalization. It might not be the best way to deal with a crisis, but as an incident today with Air France showed me, it's certainly one of the easiest.

Boarding the plane from Toulon back to Paris should have been a simple proposition. On the way down to Toulon, the gate agent didn't so much as look at our identification before giving a "bon voyage!" and sending us on our way. But the woman who greeted (and I use that term lightly) us this morning must have woken up on the wrong side of the bed. I won't get into all the gritty details, but suffice it to say, we were not allowed to board the plane, we were forced to pay an additional fare, and despite the fact that they could have held the aircraft until the five minute it took to exit security, pay the fare, and return to the gate had passed, the plane was sent on without us. Now, if you've spent any time in France, you can easily picture the woman we were dealing with here: physically unable to smile, gives the infamous Gallic shrug, makes a "Pffft" sound with her mouth, and haughtily declares any solution other than the ridiculous one she is hell-bent on make as "impossible." How do you say "customer service" in French?

So, here's where it gets tricky. My reaction to this undeniably frustrating travel experience amounted to a condemnation of the entire country of France. It was the "I got screwed over by Air France, France is a terrible place to visit," rationalization. In fact, when the gate agent's colleague who witnessed the entire scene asked me, "Other than this incident, do you like being in France?" I curtly replied, "Today is not the day to ask me that, Monsieur. I'm afraid you won't like the answer." And it's true, he wouldn't have. I couldn't stop going on about how this incident demonstrated how everything here is a disaster. I even condemned Air France in its entirety ("Worst airline ever!"), all because of the actions of one lousy person. After arriving in Paris and calming myself down, I realized how amazing it is that one bad experience can seemingly taint a day, week or even years of good ones. As travelers, we should fight this urge to base our opinions so rashly on a single bit of information. Yes, bumps along the travel road will happen, and yes, they can leave you with a very bad taste in your mouth, but you will (hopefully) find better times ahead. And surely your bad experience cannot necessarily be indicative of the experience you and everyone else will always have in any given city, state or country, can it? No, it cannot. The man in the airport bar who so kindly served me a delectable, buttery croissant and a rich chocolat chaud in my hour of need helped prove this point.

In Your Own Words

Travelers like to document their experiences. They put stickers on their suitcases, they take photos of famous monuments, and they save things like restaurant cards, matchbooks and ticket stubs. Many of them also keep journals, which are a great way to track all of the emotions, strange happenings and chance encounters that occur while traveling. Now, I've never been big on regrets; what's done is done and even if it turned out badly you can still learn and grow from the event. But I have to say that I'm starting to regret not having kept a journal during my time in Paris. Without a written account to refresh my memory, I worry that all those emotions, strange happenings and chance encounters will slowly, sadly slip away from me.

Now, I know what you're thinking: "But you did keep a journal, you have your blog!" I thought that too at one time. In fact, my blog is the reason why I didn't keep a journal. I thought a written journal in addition to a blog would be repetitive. Wouldn't I already have a record of everything online? Why would I need to write it down again on a piece of paper? And my reasoning would have been correct...if I had created a different kind of blog. Parisian Spring is, by design, relatively unpersonal. It's also low on details about daily activities. I wanted to blog that would discuss cultural differences, traveling issues, and sightseeing in France. Details such as the names of people I met and what I ate for breakfast on the morning of May 23 were left out. That kind of information isn't very interesting to others, but it is to me, and I wish I had kept a record of it.

I have a small collection of journals from other travel adventures and they are among my most prized possessions. Every once in a while I take them off the shelf and sift through to reminisce about times spent on the road. I like being reminded of what I was thinking, feeling and enjoying during those unique periods in my life. If you're planning a trip, whether it be for one year or one week, consider taking along a pen and some paper. Journaling is a great way to start or end your day. It helps you organize your thoughts, and the end result is a fantastic self-made souvenir. I don't at all regret the style I chose for my blog. It works for me, and I've enjoyed everything about working on it. But I do regret not taking along a traditional paper journal. The next time I prepare for a trip, a smart, spiral-bound book with plenty of blank pages will be the first thing I buy.

Better Safe Than Sorry

A blogger's best friend is her computer. She uses it everyday, takes it everywhere; it's her connection to the blogosphere and it helps her pursue her passion for sending random, hopefully thoughtful musings out into cyberspace. Which is why when her computer almost dies, so does the blogger. No, my computer hasn't died...yet. But I did have an uncomfortably close brush with the unthinkable this week and now I'm on a mission to ensure that you never have to live through the terror that is a near hard drive meltdown.

Looking back, the warning signs that something was amiss actually appeared quite some time ago. My computer suddenly became very slow. Slow to start up, slow to shut down, and occasionally even slow to open programs. DVDs started freezing up. By the time I moved to Minneapolis my patience with my laptop was wearing thin. Then, disaster struck. Turning on the computer resulted in nothing but a sad, little flashing cursur in the upper left-hand corner. I tried to reboot. Strange noises started emanating from the speakers. Panic swept over me. Had I just lost all my writings, all the photos I'd taken during my travels, and my means managing nearly everything in my 21st century life? Finally it booted, but then I put my USB flash drive in and everything froze. I needed help.

A frantic trip to Best Buy garnered surprising news. Yes, the computer's hard drive might be on its last legs, but it would work for now. The real problem lay in the USB flash drive, which had completely crashed. Even the Geek Squad couldn't revive it. Thankfully, I did a lot of double saving, so I didn't lose too much data. In fact, the death of the flash drive turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Losing the little guy gave me a taste of what an entire hard drive crash would feel like, and I knew that the horrible, gut-wrenching realization that information is gone forever would be so much worse if it was an entire computer's worth of data. The crisis spurred me to do something I should have been doing for years: back up my work. I bought an $80 external hard drive and promptly loaded it up with all 10 gigs of my electronic life. If you can't live without your computer but are not backing up, what are you waiting for? Protect your data by investing in an external hard drive. Remember, your computer is your friend. If anything every happened to it you'd never forgive yourself.

Flying Can be Dangerous for Your Health

Jet lag is totally kicking my ass. Here I was, all excited to get home and run around visiting all my friends and family members, and what do I get instead? A 9pm bedtime, a 3am wakeup call, and an airplane air-induced cold that just won't go away. I've still managed to squeeze in a fair amount of activities, but I definitely haven't had the stamina or the all-day energy I planned on. One week after my return to the US I find myself wondering what I could possibly do to put this travel tiredness to rest.

Take last weekend, for example. After Saturday's afternoon baseball game, a friend and I went out for dinner and drinks. I thought it was the beginning of a very late night. I thought we would bar hop downtown and spend hours catching up. Instead, I was dead tired by 9:30 and sleeping like a baby soon thereafter. The rest of the weekend was filled with midday naps and medication efforts aimed at getting rid of my scratchy throat and cloudy head. Today I canceled evening plans with a friend, and instead of a dinnertime concert, I suggested a lunch meeting with another for tomorrow. Did I ride in the plane, or get hit by it?

Jet lag is extremely frustrating. All you want to do is pack your schedule with fun, welcome home events, but all your body wants to do is lay down and rest. And doesn't it seem that jet lag only rears its ugly head after the return trip? Maybe it's just me, but the first leg of a flight hardly ever wears me out. It's the last leg - no matter how long after the first - that gets me every time. My first week in Paris was filled with boundless energy, not chronic sleepiness. No readjusting of the internal clock needed; I was on Paris time the minute my feet hit the ground running. Minneapolis time has been a bit more elusive, but I'm willing to give it another week. If things don't improve, I just might be forced to go back to Paris.

How the Other Half Lives

Spending most of my time in the travel blog universe has allowed me to forget that there are people out there like Stanley Fish of The New York Times who - horror of all horrors! - actually don't enjoy traveling. Check out his frank opinion piece, which sheds some light on why not everyone decides to pack up and ship out on a regular basis.

The Eyes Have It

If you spend some time in Paris, you might start to get the feeling you're being watched. No, it's not because Paris is filled with cameras like London (it's not) or because the gargoyles on Notre Dame magically come to life and follow your every move (they don't, but they kind of look like they could), the answer is a bit simpler than all that. You'll feel like you're being watched because Parisians stare. In the metro, on the streets, at restaurants and cafés; wherever you go, whatever you do, they will be watching.

The reasons for this strange staring behavior remain a mystery. I've spent many a day on the metro simultaneously being stared down and trying to understand why I'm being stared down, but to no avail. I have, however, eliminated the possibility that Parisians stare because you're a tourist. There are plenty of times when I'm out in the city looking very un-touristy (alone, reading a newspaper or book in French, wearing clothes I bought in France, etc.) and I still bust numerous lookers. Not to mention the fact that French people themselves have told me that they feel the stares as well. While I haven't studied this phenomenon thoroughly enough to know all the answers, I have a hunch that it might have something to do with a general suspicion of others that I think exists in France and that I lightly touched on in another post.

Being stared at whenever you step out into society can be a bit disconcerting. It can make you feel self-concious, uncomfortable, or completely and utterly annoyed. What's more, many of the city's starers won't even look away when you meet their glance, but instead commence to look you up and down! What's an unwilling center of attention to do? You could give them a dirty look, ask "je peux vous aider?" (may I help you?), or simply try to ignore it. Or, you could join in the staring ritual, stare back, and enjoy the show. Whatever you choose to do when you feel their stares, just remember: its them, not you.

Going With the Flow

I haven't visited many of the classic Parisian sights since arriving here mid-February. Places like The Louvre, Montmartre, The Luxembourg Gardens and Notre Dame Cathedral have generally stayed off my radar. This is mainly because I've already seen them on prior visits, but it is also partially due to the fact that, this time around, I don't feel like just a visitor. I live here. I go to movies, shop at my local market, attend classes, workout at my local gym and spend time with friends. So, when I caught the sightseeing bug this week and decided I had to see the Musée d'Orsay again, I was really looking forward to playing the part of an American tourist.

Unfortunately, my museum visit was not to be. While trying to purchase advance tickets Thursday afternoon for Thursday evening, I was unceremoniously told that the museum personnel had gone on strike, and that only the ground floor would be open. Translation: no Impressionist paintings, which wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't for the tiny little fact that people go to the Musée d'Orsay specifically to see Impressionist paintings. To make things worse, when I didn't hear the man explain about the strike, la grève in French, because of some nearby noise, he felt the need to loudly shout, "Strike! Strike!" so that I, the poor little American tourist, would understand. Um, thank you very much Monsieur, but I've already spent a good deal of time in France. Trust me, I know what a grève is.

How could I not have known about a major museum strike, you ask? Well, it might have something to do with the fact that the strike was called that very same morning. Apparently, when it comes to visiting classic Parisian sights, my timing in terrible. Hopefully it will end soon and I will be free to admire the works of Renoir, Degas and Pissaro once again. Until then, I'll choose to regard my experience not as an inconvenience, but as an excellent first-hand exercise in local custom.

Historic Moment

Today I did something that I rarely if ever do. I deliberately put myself in a situation where I knew there would be a crowd of people, and potentially a very unfriendly crowd at that: I went to the Champs-Élysées to watch the Olympic Flame make it's way through Paris. How could I not? After hearing on the news last night that in London it had run into protests, extinguishing attempts, and man-handling policemen, I just knew this was something not to be missed; a once in a lifetime event. I'm no fan of crowds, but I made my way there anyways, and I don't regret it for one minute.

When you watch these types of big events on the news - flame runnings, marathons, the Tour de France - you get the feeling that there's a constant stream of excitement wherever people are present. Well, that's because the news clip they show is only a couple of seconds long. Yes, for a couple of seconds, it's very exciting. When the flame ran past my staked-out location there were cheers of praise from the Chinese mobs, shouts of "libéré le Tibet!" from the protesters, and oohs and ahhs of jaw-dropped amazement from the rest of us. French police and gendarmes were everywhere, the crowd was alive and calm at the same time. All in all, it was a pretty cool experience.

But the coolness lasted about 30 seconds, max. For the most part, we just waited around for something to happen. I got there early so as to snag a good spot. I was right up against the barrier, giving me the perfect angle from which to view the flame. It ran right in front of me! And to see that all I had to do was wait two hours in the cold, wind, and occasional rain along with hundreds of others who had the same crazy idea.

I wish I could show you a picture or a video of the flame as it passed in front of me, but my batteries died not two seconds before it arrived. All I have is a picture of the crowd and a massive French police motorcade. Talk about bad timing. On the other hand, maybe some things are better appreciated when you see them with your own eyes rather than through the lens of your camera. The image of the 2008 Olympic Flame might not be recorded on my digital memory chip, but it will be ingrained in my mind's memory for a long time to come.