Travel Angst

It’s rather odd that I’ve got an entry on the difficulties of vacation in the middle of…my vacation…but the truth is, up to now any traveling I’ve done has been nicely planned and packaged for me by someone else. In all my years of living abroad even, visiting overseas, and just generally celebrating Guy Fawkes Day (oh wait, what?), I have never fully realized how much of a heart attack planning to have fun can be.

It started with the vague notion upon arrival in France that I should go to Paris…but no, not Paris; I’ve already been there, really (oh, dear)…so maybe someplace new. I’ve never been to Spain, but Italy is closer, and I’ve got this suspicion in the back of my mind that I really do like Italy the best of any place I’ve traveled on the Med – no matter what their calcio teams do to me – but then again, I should try to stick to speaking French. Oh, but Prague…no, Prague is too far away. Be reasonable. And London’s right out; no need confusing the issue with Channels and English and I’ll be there in a few months anyways. So where, then? I thought Geneva, but that’s not really French enough, and then I thought Strasbourg, a nice city in France, but that’s a really German-sounding name, and the architecture is positively Prussian. After a lot of hesitation (as per usual), I concluded that what I really wanted was Corsica. To own it. No, sorry: it would be fantastic to visit to France’s secret in the middle of the sea, Napoleon’s birthplace, full of beaches and mountains and unspoiled towns, and surrounded by azure water.

But…getting there’s the problem. It always is, I suppose. In this case, it’s an overnight ferry to Corsica, and before that a bus or a train, or a plane in place of the ferry, which would mean more money but less travel time. I decided I needed a travel agent.

To illustrate how clueless I am, I was hesitant to go to a travel agent because I thought you had to pay them. How else will they make their money? I don’t really know, but it’s not from tourons like me. What I should have been worried about, though, was the fact that French travel agents speak French. This is the only reason that delaying my travel plans until the last possible minute could possibly be construed as a good thing…my French skills are now developed enough so that I only had one “not-a-clue” moment: the agent said she couldn’t get me a bed on the overnight ferry because they only had “foot-toils” left. I eventually figured out that she was using the euphemism for those musty polyester chairs found most often on airplanes. I told her I’d have to think it over. I made a hasty call to the States to get some advice from a more seasoned traveler. Hi, Mom!

After much moping, hyperventilating, and dithering, I came to the sad conclusion that Corsica was too expensive and too confusing for a trip of only three days. However, potential husbands listen up: I’ve found a nice 5-star hotel by the beach and I think if we rent a nice Audi for getting around the island unhampered by public transportation, I might be convinced to stay home and watch the kids every once in a while.

Boo. So, before succumbing entirely to spoiled brattiness, I discovered the city of Lyon. Actually, it’s kind of hard to miss: it’s two hours from Aix by TGV, Isabelle used to live there, and Wikipedia claims that it’s the 3rd largest city in France. Also, it’s got a fierce name. Also, I’ve never been there…a winning combination. Also, better food than Paris (maybe), better history (not sure about this), and better shopping (okay, no). Late Monday night, I emailed a hotel (in French…did anyone else know Gmail has foreign language spell-checker? I love Gmail…) and begged for a room for the weekend, for Bastille Day weekend. Major holidays and masses of French revelers wanting to stick people’s heads on pikes doesn’t stop me.

I have yet to uncover the correct combination of trains, planes, buses, and boats necessary for hyperbolically getting to La Résidence, and am already thinking cheaply ahead to how I’ll manage to get to the hotel, find the perfect places to eat, see a bunch of ruins and museums, and so on…mother and father, you know you’ve given me this disease.

But I’ll traverse those bridges when I come to them. And heaven knows, I can handle bridges…hailing from a city with more bridges than Venice. No, don’t encourage me. I said I wasn’t going to Italy…