Across the Pyrenees

On Monday, I walked from France to Spain across the Pyrenees. No big deal.
41,638 steps.
15 miles.
24 kilometers
I walked up the equivalent of 441 staircases according to my Fitbit. We climbed from 450 feet (137 meters) above sea level to 4600 feet (1402 meters).

We left St. Jean Pied de Port a little before nine. We carried water, an orange and a ham and cheese sandwich hastily made by the lady behind the bar. 

Maurice, Earl and me - optimistic and fresh

Cloud cover as we started kept the temperatures cool.

We walked through one of the city gates on our way out of town

The town really runs on tourism for the hikers of El Camino.

The ubiquitous camino sign -- along with hiking boots and a walking stick

As soon as we got out of town, we faced a very steep climb up.

It's hard to capture the steepness of a climb

A woman walking in front of us with two walking sticks had stopped twice on the incline before we passed her. I told her I didn't think it was all like this, but I might have given her false hope. It was a very tough day of hiking.
Of course, I run. And I had run 7.5 miles a couple of days the week before. I thought I could probably do 15 miles hiking. I did, but it was not easy.
A young man who hiked with us for awhile said in his British accent, "It's just walking, innit?" Just walking but in extreme conditions.

A sideways hay field

Even as we climbed higher, the farmers continued to plow fields on slopes, planting and harvesting despite the mountains.

Sheep on the move

I loved watching a farmer move a flock of sheep down the road from one pasture to another. He drove his truck ahead of them (a little white van) and the sheep dog came behind, keeping all the sheep in line. Then we had to be careful where we stepped because of little black sheep pellets all over the road.
So apparently, I'm doing this again today, so I'll just leave you with some pictures.

Yikes. I got sweaty

Foxglove

In need of a trim

The edge of the world

El Camino

Yesterday we drove about four hours from our region in France to St Jean Pied de Port, one of the most frequent places for hikers or pilgrims to begin El Camino de Santiago. This is a pilgrimage to the church in Santiago along the Atlantic. But there are many paths across France and other places in Europe that lead here. 

Last year we hiked part of the Way in France. 

If you’re unfamiliar with it, there’s a great movie starring Martin Sheen called The Way. As a matter of fact, it starts right in this town. 

The entire hike from here is about 500 miles or 800 km. We’re only hiking for a week, about 100 miles. 

It was great to meet up with Linda and Maurice so we can hike and enjoy each other’s friendship. 

Maurice does all the planning of hotels and hiking paths. It’s like being on a tour. We just show up. So nice. 

Last night we walked around town a bit. This is a medieval village, but only because the nearby town of the same name was razed by Richard the Lionhearted in 1177 and they had to rebuild in the Middle Ages. So strange to think I’m in a place with that history.

Earl and Maurice ready for their hike

Clock tower and city wall

This T-shirt made me laugh. Obviously a take off of the Beatles Abbey Road, but as pilgrims on the trail 

Wish us luck. Or as they say here Bonne Camino. 

French Forms

The morning was punctuated by rain on one side and high wind on the other,
but the bridge, the river and the mountains persuaded me to go for a run anyway. 

Just when you think you're out of the French form business for another year, with both a driver's license and a carte de sejour tucked in my wallet, a minor accident and a car purchase send us back up to our necks in forms in French.
Truthfully, the forms aren't so bad, it's trying to figure out what to do with them. Can I take a picture and email them? Do I need to fax them (are there still fax machines)? Should they be mailed?
During the past month, since our departure from the apartment we thought we would be in all year,  we lived on a narrow street where cars insist on driving quickly. I was sitting at my computer by the window on the road, preparing for my class to start at noon when a car zoomed past and I heard a crunch. I just had a feeling.
I walked out of the house and saw something strange hanging off the front of the car. The headlight. Pretty sure it's not supposed to look like that.
A car was parking in front of our car, so I waited until the woman got out.
She was nice about it. She had cut too close as she tried to park.

I told her I had to get inside to teach so she gave me her name and number and said she would be back home, just down the street from me, at 6.
In between classes, I contacted a few French friends. I barely know what to do in an American accident, much less a French one.
One friend sent me a form to be filled out. It's an "amiable" form, which means both drivers agree on what happened.
But the woman didn't get home at 6 or 7 or... well, I quit watching for her and texted. We agreed to meet the next day at 4 at her place.
So she cordially offered me coffee, but I declined and we filled out the necessary forms. It was Friday afternoon. I had no idea what to do with the forms. She suggested I call our insurance company, which is also our bank. I tried but got stuck in the "Press 1 for xxx" and "press 2 for xxx." Speaking French to a person on the phone is hard enough. Figuring out what a machine says is even more difficult. I decided to head to the bank branch 30 minutes away on Monday.
Come Monday, I checked the hours and saw that the branch is closed Monday. I knew Wednesday was a holiday, so my only option was Tuesday.
The bank was open until 5:20 p.m. and my last class ended at 4. I would have time to drive half an hour before it closed.
Then I got there at 4:40 and saw that it was closing early (exceptionelle) at 4:50. I barely made it. The woman who helped me, after a 5-minute wait, had no idea what to do with the form. The bank does not have an insurance branch. She searched online. Then she went to her manager's office and he suggested they would send it for me. So whether it was mailed, emailed, faxed or simply struck in a drawer, I have no idea.
The car accident reminded me that I had never received my carte grise for the car. The carte grise is like the registration. Our friend who sold us the car did all the French paperwork online, but we never got the form.
I hopped online and claimed that it was lost, even though we had never received it. They asked for 99 euros, which I paid, and said they were processing the request. Then I got an email that listed about 10 documents I need to send in before I can get my carte grise.
It's all a little overwhelming. I need to print out the forms and mail them in.
Technically, it's illegal for us to drive the car without the carte grise, so we need to be super careful not to get pulled over before we receive the paperwork.
But, the good news is, that my husband has safely returned to France, so anything I'm dealing with now is not on my own.
The weather was so cold today, I feel like I might be in a Nordic country rather than the south of France, with temperature in the 30s (4 C) and high winds that endanger pedestrians from flying market umbrellas.

These fabrics are beautiful, but expensive. They said they were hand-loomed. 

No matter, we're still enjoying life.
As for our living arrangements, they become more nomadic by the week, so I promise an update soon.

Oh, the Places You'll Go!

"Oh, the Places You'll Go!" as Dr. Seuss might say.
Yesterday I went on an 18-mile bike ride (that's 28 kilometers for those using metric measurements) with a French friend. It adds an element of skill to try to maintain a conversation in French along with riding up steep hills in the countryside. (She speaks excellent English so we only speak French to help me practice my language skills.)
The places we came across within a 10-miles radius of my adopted home. I had never been to the village of Montazels, but a climb up a fairly steep hill took me to the charming village. My friend pointed out a former chateau, but all I saw was a petanque pitch. Apparently, you can only see the chateau from below.
We stopped for a picturesque selfie.

That's the chateau behind us up on the hill and you can see mountains beyond in the split of the nearby mountains.
Next we coasted down the hill into Couiza where I caught a glimpse of another chateau I'd never seen. Duc de Joyeuse is a bed and breakfast now.

This isn't a great picture, but the sky sure is beautiful.
And in the other direction is the expected row of plane trees.

We saw so many gorgeous landscapes, but I couldn't stop all the time to take pictures.
I did get a shot of some poppies blooming. Yes, it's the beginning of poppy season here.

And this garden is very well maintained.
We stopped for coffee and pain au raisin, because what's the point of riding through the French countryside if you can't enjoy a pastry and coffee.
What a lovely morning exploring and enjoying life in France!

Huge in France on Netflix

I've been boring my local friends by telling them they should watch Huge in France, so I thought I'd spread the word to you.
Maybe my views are not pure since I am an American living in France, but the show has made me laugh as a French comedian travels to LA to reunite with his teenage son. He keeps telling people that he's famous in France, he's the French Jerry Seinfeld, but no one seems to care because he is not famous in LA.
Some of the situations are so French that I just chuckle.
He's trying to convince his son to spend time with him, so he suggests a meal. Or even a coffee. Or even a coffee while they walk like all the Americans do.
That is so American. I got a coffee to go from the new coffee truck this morning. It has a lid and everything. As I walked down the street to my apartment, a Frenchman standing by his window commented on my coffee.
What can I say? "I'm just like an American, walking and drinking coffee," I said to him in French, even though, I am really an American, but the French can't really tell if my accent is British or Australian or American.

The guy who stars in the show is a French actor you will have seen in so many French movies, if you have watched French movies. His name is Gad Elmaleh. And in America, he introduces himself as "C'est Gad," which translates to "It's Gad." Okay, that also reminds me of the time Tucker was two and he came down the stairs at our house in Michigan and said, "Here's Tucker."
But Gad is used to being recognized. He gets no recognition in the States.
The movie I most remember the actor from is The Valet where he plays the role of a valet who pretends to have an affair with a model to save a French businessman from his wife's wrath. (Also a fun movie.)
Anyway, in one of the episodes of Huge in France, they return to Paris, and the scenery is beautiful. There's Notre Dame in its full glory, and I realized that movies will be recognized henceforth as pre and post-fire in Notre Dame. Unlike the Twin Towers, which are there and then gone. the remaining shell of Notre Dame will be quite obvious in films. That made me sad.
Only the first season of Huge in France is out, and the teenage son is a bit of a conceited monster and the wife is also unlikable, but I know Gad will prevail eventually. I watched to the end of the first season.
In one episode, Gad says to his son's friend, that he wishes he could hug him, but he didn't really know how to do it American-style. Again, in France he would have simply kissed the guy's cheeks. The young man tries to show him how to do an American hug, but one extra pat on the back "made it weird." Gad has a lot to learn about America.
Jerry Seinfeld makes some guest appearances. Maybe you'll learn a little something about life in France too.
Check it out and think of me, struggling to fit in on the opposite side of the ocean.

Mourning the Loss of Notre Dame

As I prepare to go to bed tonight, flames are still shooting from the top of Notre Dame. The spire has collapsed and the roof of the nave has fallen in.
On Friday, as I walked from our hotel to the train station, I crossed a bridge and saw the beautiful cathedral. I took a picture. It was the last picture I took in Paris.

I can't believe that it will never be the same. 

While Earl and I were spending a few days in Paris, we found ourselves strolling around Notre Dame several times. 

I asked Earl if he had been inside and was surprised to find that he hadn't. I've even attended Mass at Notre Dame. 

We stopped to look at the bells displayed in a line outside. 

New ones were purchased to replace these in celebration of the 850th anniversary. 

850 years! I can't even fathom something that old. 

Our country won't be 800 years old until 2576.

Me trying to coyly pose along with crowds of other people in front of Notre Dame. 

My morning run took me past Notre Dame

You can see the scaffolding around the church where they were working on it. 

I hope that they find the fire was caused by a mistake in the work going on rather than an act of terrorism.

At the same time, I try to imagine a worker with a power tool in hand who started a fire that destroyed an iconic building. That just seems too mundane. 

Paris will never be the same. 

L'Atelier des Lumières - Van Gogh

Last year, as I reviewed some of the best things we had done in France, I included two visits to Carrières de Lumières and L'Atelier des Lumières, huge art installations that projected artwork onto walls and played music to go along with art. One was near Nimes in the South of France and the other in Paris. You can read my blog posts about them here and here.
When I learned that the exhibit this year would be Van Gogh, I had to go. Since Earl was flying out of Paris, we made a mini-vacation out of it with two nights in Paris.
I bought the tickets for the art show ahead of time, which was a wise choice because the tickets were sold out when we arrived in line. We went for the earliest show at 10 a.m. People seemed anxious about getting in, but there really was no rush because you can stay as long as you want, and there are plenty of places to watch the show.
We got in quite early and I had told Earl that I had been there before and didn't like the view from the balcony. As we perched on a round wooden seat, a guard came by and told us the best view was from the balcony, and there were comfortable seats. We decided to move to the balcony, but I should have listened to my own advice.
We could get some panoramic pictures from up high, but watching from the balcony was kind of removed from being down on the floor in the midst of the color, feeling the images move around me and getting a bit dizzy, as if the colors really were washing over me.

A panoramic view from the balcony

A photo I took on the floor when we stayed for the second airing of the Van Gogh exhibit

More irises

A shot of Starry Night from the balcony

The sun over the bare trees

One of the special things about the exhibit is that the creators find motion in the pictures and add that to the artwork.
I tried to record a few short videos that show the motion.

After the Van Gogh, there was a Japanese Dream exhibit. I captured part of that from the floor, which is where I recommend you plant yourself if you make it to the exhibit.

These look 3D, don't they?

Earl enjoyed the show, but admitted he preferred the giant limestone cave where the exhibit takes place in the South of France. Perhaps we'll get a chance to see it there again if we have any visitors this year.
Well worth the cost of 14.90 Euros for the ticket. Go if you can.

Dodging A Bullet

We've all read news stories about a business going under and wondered what happened to the people who had tickets for the cruise or the flight, but Earl and I had never faced that ourselves -- until this week.
Earl was scheduled to fly back to the States next month on Wow Air. That's the cheap airline that lands in Iceland, and they went belly-up on Thursday, leaving him holding useless tickets.
We hadn't heard about Wow Air until our friend Najah flew over last year. She drove from Columbus to Pittsburgh and flew Pittsburgh to Reykjavik to Paris.

Iceland looks a bit bleak

When Earl needed to go home quickly last August (the height of airfare costs from Europe to the States) he flew Wow. Then when I rushed home in February, going one way, the cost was cheapest again on Wow.
I returned on Norwegian, another low cost airfare.
Our experiences were fine, although, at one point when they announced, is there a doctor on board, I thought, "Really, would a doctor fly Wow Air?"
Unlike most airlines, Wow did not have in-seat entertainment. Maybe it seems spoiled to want to have movie and TV choices on an 8 or 9-hour flight, but it sure does make the flights go faster.
When we learned on Thursday about the death of Wow Air, we wondered if we should have been more aware. I had seen an article with the headline like "Why It's Safe to Fly on Wow Air" and I tried to click on it but I was blocked because I didn't have a subscription to The Guardian. That just made me think, huh, I wonder if we shouldn't be flying on Wow.
There was some muttering about financing, but other articles assured that the funding always comes through at the end through Iceland.
So we obliviously scheduled a flight on Wow.
When we saw through our online news that the company had gone under, we regretted not buying the flight insurance. Then we hopped on and rearranged another flight for Earl. We figured that everyone would be looking for replacement flights.
On Travelocity, we found a flight that was even cheaper than the Wow Air flight. So we booked it (he will have to pay for checked luggage since he's taking his backpack home for a hiking trip) but we felt fortunate to be able to schedule so last minute for $631 (561 euros).
Then we had to worry about how to get our money back. CNN told us we were basically screwed. We could file with the company but we would become one of many creditors asking for our money back. Another article suggested that credit card companies might have been keep track of the shaky finances of the airline and have held back money instead of paying upfront.
Earl contacted our credit card company the next day and they said the money would be refunded within 7 days! What a relief, and a reminder that using the right credit card company is important.
So no more WOW, but I'm convinced that we'll be better off choosing a specific airline and flying with them every time to earn points.
And will we be using that credit card again? Yep, whenever we book travel, count on us using our Sapphire card.

Flying A New Airline -- Norwegian

When I discovered the inexpensive flight from Tampa to London, it felt like Christmas morning. A direct flight from Tampa to London for $175 (153 Euros).  I splurged on the upgrade so that I could take a checked bag, pick a seat and get two meals on the plane for about $250. Still, an amazing price on Norwegian Air.
I visited Mom and Dad, and they are about an hour and a half from either Tampa or Orlando. The dilemma was that I flew in on Friday afternoon and took off in a rental car at 4 p.m. The car was already expensive and I didn't dare splurge on late check in, so I had to be back at the airport by 4 p.m. The problem? My flight didn't leave until 10:50 p.m.
So I was looking at a 6-hour wait at Tampa.
For my carry-on bag, I had switched to Earl's backpack because he hopes to go hiking when he flies back to the States next month. The backpack has no wheels and is a bit unwieldy, especially since it is made to fit a man who is a foot taller than me. But it weighed only 30 pounds, rather than the 40 pounds I was allowed to check. Once I got it onto my back, I was fine to walk from the car to the terminal.

Backpacking woman -- feels less cosmopolitan

The problem, this flight to London was the only flight out of Tampa for Norwegian that day. The check in didn't open until after 6, which left me holding the bag. I couldn't check the backpack and wander about the airport, smelling perfume and sipping coffee. I'm not sure if I'd flown another, more traditional airline, like American, whether I could have checked my bags six hours early or if they would have made me wait until closer to the flight time. Nevertheless, I ended up sitting in a row of seats across from the counter waiting. Norwegian also didn't allow online check in, so I if I hadn't checked a bag, I still would have needed to wait to get my boarding pass from the desk.
I met a few other people waiting for Norwegian to open. At one point, I needed to use the bathroom and didn't want to carry the backpack along with my carry-on bag.  The nice British man had dozed off, so I asked a woman who was waiting for Norwegian if she would watch my backpack while I went to the restroom. The door was within sight, I wasn't making a run across the airport, but the woman refused. Perhaps that's the smart thing to do, but the exchange woke up the British man who said he would watch my bag. And later, I watched his while he went to the bathroom.
I reached someone on the Norwegian app and they said that the check in would open three hours before the flight.
Once the check in began, apparently, people in line strategically pick which counter attendant they want to talk to. I was oblivious, in my own American way, assuming everyone would be equally helpful.
So I got the very gruff man who took the backpack, no problem, then said I had to weigh both my carry-on bag and my personal item and they had to way less than 10 kilograms. 10 kilograms is 22 pounds. I knew that my carry-on suitcase alone was 25 pounds, which is a normal allowance. Add my purse, which held my computer and the total weight was 18 kilograms, 39 pounds. The attendant suggested I could pay $15 per kilogram that the bag was overweight. Eight kilograms times $15 is $120. I was not going to eat that cost.
I always feel like the weight thing is unfair. My husband weighs nearly a hundred pounds more than me -- shouldn't I get to take extra baggage to make up for the weight I'm not using.
Anyway, I asked whether I could move things from my carry-on to my checked bag, since it was underweight. The man agreed and wanted me to do it while I stood in line. That's the worst. Now I have to open my suitcase and start making decisions. I moved a folder of papers (paper generally gets heavy) that I use for teaching, and I stuck a pair of boots on the top of the backpack. Then I struggled to get the backpack closed again. The attendant ended up helping me and didn't weight the bags again. But just in case he planned to, I had taken my computer out and set it on the floor in front of the check in. I figured that would help with the weight issue and then I would surreptitiously slide it into my purse again after the weighing. Instead, he waved me on and I scooped up my laptop.
So let the luggage thing be a warning to you if you plan to try Norwegian Air -- the carry-on for the overhead bins, and the personal item that goes under the seat in front of me had to weight less than 22 pound together.
I finally could move on to take the shuttle to the gate. The security guards were testy. I overhead them discussing whether overtime would be given. The TSA Pre check area wasn't open, much to the consternation of some pre-screened passengers. I went through the machine and they patted down my arm.
Then I found that my carry-on bag needed to be checked by hand. The guard (this one was nice)  gingerly moved things around in the suitcase, plunging his hand down between the (luckily) clean clothes.
"There's an umbrella down there," I said.
"No, I can see the umbrella. This is something like a bag of candy."
"Black jelly beans!" I said. Earl's favorite. I had stashed a bag in my suitcase.
"Yes! Where are they?" He explained that jelly beans are dense and hard to see through on an x-ray machine.
I reached in and got them. He took a cloth and rubbed it again several spots on the jelly bean bag.
"It tested positive," he said and set off an alarm that brought another agent.
"Positive for what?" I asked, imagining that jelly beans were about to send me to the Homeland Security secret office where I wouldn't be heard from for weeks.
The security guard assured me that it could be lotion, or anything that set it off.
Another guard arrived, looked at a machine and declared it "Not a match."
Ok, I was allowed to go on my way.
"Want me to lift the bag down for you?" the guard asked. "It's pretty heavy."
"Shh," I warned him. "Don't let on that it's heavy."
Finally, I was free to wander about the airport terminal until it was time to board the plane.
But I got a coffee at Starbucks, my last until the holidays next year, and I sat down to watch another episode of the Great British Baking Show.
The flight from Tampa to London was uneventful, which is the best you can ask for from a flight. I am never crunched for space because I'm short, but I did feel like there is less leg room. My husband would have had a very hard time in theses seats.
And the airplane did have screens with movies, television and games, but I have to say that they weren't as up-to-date as we might see on a mainstream airline.  And the food wasn't worth the time. 

Nope. Not even the Ghiradelli chocolate in the cup got eaten. 

Chicken, mushy broccoli along with instant mashed potatoes for dinner. It was after 11. I shouldn't have taken the few bites I ate, but since it was Norwegian, maybe I should just be grateful they weren't serving smoked trout or Tørrfisk. 

The next morning, breakfast was a piece of ham sandwich.

Okay, the coffee and orange juice made it worthwhile

Just ham bread and some wilted lettuce, along with a pre-wrapped Sara Lee pound cake that is in our kitchen now. The coffee and orange juice were necessary though.
So my recommendation, if you fly Norwegian, watch the weight of your carry-on and under seat bag. Don't buy the meals.
I landed in London Gatwick airport with three hours to kill before my flight to Toulouse. I wandered around in search of a crumpet. I never found any. Crumpets are similar to English muffins but better. The Brits I asked were astounded that we didn't have crumpets in the States. We're deprived, I guess.

A man in a kilt -- always worth a picture. Yes, those are two bottles of liquor in his hands. 

The flight from London to Toulouse was only an hour and 20 minutes, and when I wandered through security, there was my husband waiting with a bouquet of tulips.
Unfortunately, I couldn't tilt my head back to kiss him because his backpack against my neck prevented me looking up, so it was an awkward hello kiss.
We're back in the groove of spending time together and enjoying it.

Me and my guy

Since I returned (only three days ago) we've had adventures already. Can't wait to share them with you -- soon. 

FranceBookTours -- Are We French Yet?

Make sure you scroll down to the bottom to enter the giveaway!
You know that I'm going to devour a book that tells the story of two Americans moving to France. It's the same life I've been dreaming about for so long, and now am living myself. I love to see what experiences other expats have, so Keith Van Sickle did not disappoint.

I read this book on the plane as we jetted toward France. I love the adventures, the scrapes, the experiences that Keith and his wife Val shared as they tried to fit into their new life in France.

So much of it was familiar. Life is the same, but so many things are different.
They share their experiences of meeting French people and the overwhelming idea of how to integrate. It reminded me of a story that the blogger Corey Amaro told on Tongue in Cheek where she went to a French party and there were no chairs, so she sat on the floor. I imagine how mortified her French husband must have been. And Keith's stories are similar, showing how wrong assumptions can lead to mortification when in French company.
Trying to learn real French is another chapter that Keith wrote about, and I can relate. I thought I knew French, and then I moved here.
Moving to a new country is always a challenge, and I loved sharing the adventures of Keith Van Sickle and his wife Val. I imagine that every book  he writes, as each year passes, he will feel more and more like a true Frenchman.
Anyone who enjoys indulging in a new life is sure to eat up the adventures of Are We French Yet? by Keith Van Sickle.

Entry-Form

= Global giveaway open internationally. 5 participants will each win an ecopy of this book

The End of the Year in the States -- 2018

My first year abroad ended with me in the States.

Florida

We flew to Florida on October 30 in time for my dad's surgery. For six months, he had been dealing with a sore on his foot that would not heal and they found infection in the bone. We feared that he might lose his foot. I couldn't imagine how depressed he must be, sitting in the house and going to doctor visits rather than playing golf four times a week. Mom seemed a bit overwhelmed too, giving him IV antibiotic treatments three times a day.

Within 24 hours of arriving home, Mom had instructed me on how to give the antibiotics. That left her schedule a bit more free. Then Dad had surgery to open arteries in his lower leg to help improve the blood flow. We hoped the surgery would lead to the wound healing.
After a week in Florida, we drove up to Ohio to see the kids and some friends.

 We helped Spencer choose a used car to replace the one that was totaled in the accident. With a car, he could get a job with more consistent pay rather than working on lawns with his roommate. After about 10 days of juggling paperwork in Ohio, we returned to Florida.
Returning didn't seem like a big culture shock. It felt like I'd never left, except that my favorite drink at Starbucks was too sweet now.
The kids were thrilled to see us, but they quickly returned to their own lives.
So we came back to Florida to keep Dad company as he continued to heal. We puttered around like real retirees for about a month, getting ready for Christmas, and the week before Christmas, Dad played about 15 holes of golf with Earl. He was nearly healed.
We lucked into a housesit in Columbus from December 20 to January 7, so we had our own place while we visited Columbus. Spencer and Tucker came to spend the night on Christmas Eve, and we gathered for  a New Year's meal and to watch the Ohio State bowl game. I loved being together again.
But I realized that the kids might wish I was there so they could drop by whenever they wanted, but they weren't going to change their lives and their schedules to fit me in. They all had their own interests and busy schedules.
So on January 6, we had a family meal together, celebrating Grace's birthday 3 weeks early, and I kissed them all goodbye.

One family photo

Celebrating Grace's birthday with Tucker, Spencer and her boyfriend Jack. 

Ouch. That hurts every time.
I knew I would see Tucker again because he flew down to Florida for a long weekend with my parents. And he was here on Monday, less than a week ago, when the doctor declared my dad cleared from treatment. His foot was healed.
We toasted with champagne.
And Tucker played two rounds of golf with Dad that weekend.

Dad back on the golf course

Tucker on the golf course

Monday evening, we drove Tucker to the airport. It felt like my entire body was slouching, every organ joining in with a downward motion as I realized that I was leaving my youngest, and all of them, behind again.
I worried that I might have already broken our relationship by selling their childhood home and moving to France.
Our goodbye at the airport was punctuated by kisses and hugs, and one more hug and a last, desperate look into his eyes so that I could convey how much he means, whether I'm there or not, and we drove back to Mom and Dad's as I felt my organs twisted tighter and tighter like a wet towel being rung out.

One last photo before he returned to Ohio. Me, crying on the inside

Being in France, being away, I'm caught up in the adventure of it all. The leaving part though, that's hard -- every time.
And tomorrow, we say goodbye to Mom and Dad as we drive to the Orlando airport to fly to Paris. But we are so happy that we were here, for the longest stay that I've had since I moved away from home after college.
And Dad is well. They are both healthy.
Sure, we'll be far away, but they know that we can get on a plane and be here in just a little over the amount of time it used to take to drive from Ohio to Florida.
And somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, I'll shrug off the sadness of leaving people behind and start looking toward the sunrise as we arrive in France.

Tehcnically, a sunset, but you get the idea.