American Club and the new city

We went to an "American Club" potluck meeting the other night. We met a lot of nice people. Universally, they said Lyon was really the best place to be and were surprised we had picked it without years of research. Most had been in France for a long time. There were "newcomers" who had been in France for 3 years. Lots of couples had one French member and many of them had oodles of travel experience and had lived in many countries. One guy named Brian talked to Monica and she told him how we were getting along. We have our Metro cards, checking account, she's in a great dance group, Dave's joined a gym by his work, etc. When she told him we had been here for almost 3 weeks, he nearly spit out his drink! "THREE WEEKS? I was still in survival mode at three weeks!" So, I guess we have been assimilating pretty well. But a lot of it has been pretty easy actually and people here have really tried hard to help us. When pressed about the culture shock, we said um, none? This is kind of what we expected. Perhaps we need to be here longer before we go crazy. For dessert someone had baked chocolate chip cookies and one woman just started gabbling "Oh my GOD! You can't get these here! Oh my GAWD!" Taking a bite, she was clearly transported. Oops, I had just eaten one without realizing what I was depriving people of. Quickly, I concealed the cookie crumbs on my dessert plate with a piece of strawberry tart.

We keep discovering cute little neighborhoods and places to visit. This picture is from a creperie in Old Lyon. Every time I went to take a picture the woman who ran the place would duck down. Then she'd pop back up as I lowered the camera. Camera back up, woman back down, camera down, woman pops up. Monica was very proud of me that I didn't torture her more than necessary. But, I was tempted... Old Lyon would be very cool to live in - they have small, pedestrian-only streets and tiny shops and restaurants. Of course the rent is triple what we pay now and I shudder to think what the insulation or plumbing is like. I think we'll just stay where we are for now.



Our apartment is in the newer part of the city which is more modern and car-oriented. For example, I don't see the typical bank/bare breasts linkage you see so often in Paris or Old Lyon. Normally, if you're looking for a pharmacy you look for a blinking green cross and if you are looking for a bank you look for a statue with bare breasts. Why? I can't explain the green cross, but my bank theory is that nothing projects longevity and city roots like a great big old statue of a partially clothed woman. Nevermind that it was erected last year - it looks like it has been there forever. Well, in the NEW part of the city our bank branch looks more like a Subway restaurant. Clearly not all things new are better. How will I find a bank branch now?

Lunch and other food

At the office I ask what people typically do for lunch. Francois, who is like the CEO of the Lyon office, invites me to join him and Michael Kaplan from San Jose for lunch nearby. We jump in his car and he rips around the block to the far side of the office complex where we eat at a little industrial cafeteria. But, this is the French version of the industrial cafeteria. There is a wine dispenser and carafes. There are "petit pain" (little buns) which are traditional because in France every meal comes with bread. However, I notice nobody takes the bread here because they charge for it. Pocketbook trumps tradition. We're late and the chicken is gone so I take my second choice of the three entrees - the rabbit. Other signs we're in France are the little dishes of pate in the appetizer section as well as an abundance of desserts. They love dessert here.

As an aside on bread, it seems to follow completely different rules from all other food. Owen's theory of n+1 pieces of bread is definitely not true here, but then again the French have no qualms about reusing a bread basket and just adding more to fill it back up. They wouldn't do that with other food items would they?. Bread you take from the basket goes right on the table - no plate, no napkin - just directly on the table. While you use a fork and knife on salad and french fries, bread is ripped apart with bare hands and it's perfectly fine to soak up leftover sauce on your plate with a piece of bread. It's like culinary evolution has left bread behind here.

My coworkers wolf down their meals in nothing flat. What happened to the 2-hour French lunch break? Gone apparently in this part of Lyon. Finally, I notice people paying using tear-off coupons. What is this? It's the purest form of tax dodge I've seen in a long time is what it is. Employees buy the coupons at 50% of face value and the company pays the other half. 90% or more of restaurants honor them like cash. The ironic thing? There is a nice cafe right next to the office that doesn't take the coupons. That's why everyone drives around to the far side to eat.

Lyon is supposed to be the capital of French cuisine and also home to the world's most famous chef Paul Bocuse (google "most famous chef alive" if you leave off the alive he's listed after Julia Child), so we expected to get plenty of great food while we lived here. But you still have to be a bit wary - nothing is automatic, and chain restaurants are invading - McDonalds, Quick, and others we didn't know were chains. When we first visited France one of our memories was that the cheap table wine was as good as California wines. Definitely not the case now. We're not sure if CA wine has gotten better or low-end French wine has gotten worse. Definitely there is plenty of really cheap wine here - eating out with my coworkers at Croc-dile wine is dispensed freely at the same beverage buffet as water and Coke. My coworkers warn me about it - "be careful. This is suitable for flushing the toilet." - but they still fill a pitcher and drink a glass or two (although they might also order a bottled beer).

One of our favorite wines at home is Cote-du-Rhone and, wonder-of-wonders, we are in the Rhone-Alps region and one of the 2 default red wines is Cote-du-Rhone. Hurrah! We're overjoyed as we order a $2 bottle with our meals only to look at each other after tasting it... This isn't as good as we remembered it being. It's still a lot better than something like 2-buck chuck, but once we start to spend a little more we get something to close your eyes and smile over. Ah! Now THAT'S more like it.

Some other pleasant discoveries we've made here are the Lyonnais specialties. Each region of France has their specialties and sometimes you might not like your region's "thing." Our cheese here is St. Marcellin. You can get lots of other cheeses of course, but this is the local one and so we had to try it. It's delicious - a creamy white cheese that is a bit like brie, but slightly stronger tasting. I'm enjoying it plain (for dessert) or in sauces. The other weakness I have is the chevre salad - warm goat cheese on little toasts in the salad. You just can't go wrong with warm goat cheese in my book. I'm like Jason and bacon that way.

A Close Shave

(Dave here)

Almost as soon as we set up shop in Lyon I set out to get a haircut. Because of the holidays and the travel, I hadn't gotten around to it. Fortunately I saw a place near my bus transfer that offered a cut, a wash, and something-else-that-I-can't-figure-out all for 10Euro (about $14). Sounds like a deal. So after work I stopped in. The place is packed! An arab couple are cutting hair furiously as I take the last available waiting chair. Looking around at the waiting guys, I notice something disturbing. All their hair is shorter than I like my hair AFTER it's cut. Maybe they are already done? The guy in the chair has started with hair shorter than Joe Steele and the barber starts cutting his hair to the length of 3 day beard stubble. The top half is left longer and the bottom half is just, well, stubble. THEN he cuts the top half to the same length! Aah! What's going on here? Customer after customer get in the chair and leave with variations on stubble or barely-there hair. Maybe a local gang came in together? More customers come in and they all look like they had their hair cut this morning and they are back for more. It's not a gang. There are young and old men all turning their heads into sandpaper. I'm squirming in my chair. What have I gotten myself into? I had practiced saying "Cut my hair somewhat short." Now I think I need to say "Cut my hair really long!"

The woman motions me to the chair. Well, this is it. I'm not going to back out now. It's only hair for goodness sake, I can always wear a hat until the baldness goes away. Perhaps she sensed my fear or perhaps it is because I carefully avoided any word that could be confused with "short" or "close" or "shave" but I got a good haircut. I don't know what they or the other customers thought. Probably something like "Crazy foreigner! Look at that long hair. He'll be back tomorrow!"

Snowing in Lyon

Well they told us it snows in Lyon, and guess what? It does! It snowed yesterday and last night here! I've attached some pictures. You should have seen the snow. It's not like anything I've ever seen. The snowflakes were HUGE!!!! I actually captured them on film. It was so cool. And this morning everything is covered with a layer of beautiful white. It really is lovely. I felt bad for Dave this morning, having to go out in the cold to go to work. But he said the commute was very beautiful. Picture perfect moments everywhere. I wish I'd sent a camera with him. That's one of the big advantages of taking a bus to work. You get to relax and enjoy the view. I'm sitting in the house, cosy with candles on, enjoying the views from our balcony as I work on my computer. Hmmmm...Dave may have actually gotten the better deal :-)

To see pictures goto: http://new.photos.yahoo.com/album?c=travelingnuts&aid=576460762386685907&pid=&wtok=gLkWrM_lc95QXZT2rBSnVQ--&ts=1169640912&.src=ph

France on Sale

Ladies, can you imagine an entire COUNTRY on sale? Imagine everywhere you walk you see sale signs. Everything you desire on every street corner, in every store, in every window is on sale. And it's not Christmas so everyone is in a good mood. Everything is on sale and you aren't doing returns, you aren't trying to find the perfect gift for your long lost aunt who you are seeing for the first time in 20 years and the last time you saw her you grew to despise her because she called you a moron and traumatized you. Everything is on sale and the only person you have to shop for is you. Can you imagine?

Well, that is what happens in France twice a year. The government has set "sale" times for the stores and enforces them throughout the country. So nothing is ever on sale, except these 2 times, for one month each. But when it happens, OMG, it really happens. EVERYTHING is on sale!!!!

When we were in Tours, France, 2 years ago the sale started the Wed. we arrived. But we were only there for 4 days and didn't realize the significance of this event, so we didn't do any shopping. We noticed the signs and the crowds, but stayed far away from it all. We were bike riding though the Loire and had other things on our minds.

But this last Wed. the January sale started, and still not understanding the significance of it all, I innocently meandered into the nearest shopping mall. Keep in mind that I had no idea this sale would last for 4 weeks. I thought it was a one day sale only, and I thought there were probably lots of sales through the year. So, I had no idea how important this sale was to all the locals.

I had been to this mall before and it is really fabulous. Although it always has lots of people in it, it still usually looks very spacious and inviting. However, I walked through the sliding doors on Wed. and all I saw was a sea of people. Waves of heads bobbing up and down endlessly into the distance. Oh My! So, I took a deep breath, unbuttoned my warm coat so I wouldn't overheat, and headed into the mob.

But I forgot the mob very quickly. My curious eyes were soon filled with "Soldes" signs everywhere. Everywhere I looked all the beautiful things I had been admiring before were now on sale! In France, almost anything you buy is about 2-5 times more expensive than it would be in the USA, so I'm not often tempted by much. But on this day, OMG, I wanted everything. All those gorgeous French fashions, all those things I need to make our new place feel a bit more like home, all those sexy things for Dave. So I delved in, head first into the shopping fray.

It was blissful fun. I tried on shirts, skirts, and shoes, all of them were great, but nothing that I had to have. However, the thing I tried on the most were the coats. The French wear the most beautiful coats. Because it gets so cold, they have all sorts of coat fashions and ever since I got here I've been lusting after the coats in the windows. So now I tried on about 50 of them! They were all gorgeous. Most of them were some version of leather or super soft suede lined with fur. Okay, I know that isn't very PC, but you should see these coats! I tried on this one long one that was a very supple soft brown suede on the outside and white rabbit fur on the inside. On the top third of the front, it had a beautifully done sparkly design in greenish "jewels." Very blingy, but very stylish (not brash). It was insanely adorable, and it was on sale. 120 euros, down from 440!!!! I tried it on and swooshed in front of the mirror with it. I basked in the feel of the uber soft fur. I rubbed the delectable suede sleeve on my face. I wanted it so badly, but I couldn't get it to close around my chest!!!! I tried, mind you, but it was just too tight. TOO TIGHT! Aargh! And she only had this one size.

And so, feeling glum, I put it back on the hanger and left the store. Nothing else seemed to compare after that and I was starting to lose interest, when as I was leaving the mall, in a window near the exit I spotted a ruffly black sweater coat. It was stunning. Okay, I took a deep breath again. I'm not going to get too excited this time. I'm just going to look. They probably don't have my size, or it's too expensive. I'm just going to look. So, I walked calmly into the store and found the rack with the coats in the window. It was even more beautiful up close and it was a soft light Italian wool. And they had a small! OMG. My breath was speeding up. I pulled it off the hanger and tried it on. It was gorgeous!!!! And a perfect fit! Again, I swooshed in front of the mirror. I was holding in my joyful giggles. It was so beautiful. Several of the other customers walked by and exclaimed how pretty it was. I was so excited.

So now, all I need to do was find the price. I searched the whole garment and couldn't find a tag. My excitement started to fade. No tag usually equals too expensive. But I looked on one of the other coats and it said 120 euros. 120 euros?!!! Really?!!! I can do that!!! That was about $160 and it was the only thing I was going to buy for myself on this sale. And I'd love wearing this at home too. Woohoo!!! Woohoo!!! Woohoo!!!! I practically skipped to the cashier holding my new coat. I was so excited.

But when I got to the counter, since my coat didn't have a tag on it, the cashier had to go to get another one. While she was gone I was practicing my French numbers by trying to remember how to say 120 in French. When she got back I gleefully said 120 euros. She stared at me and said "Non". I pointed at the tag and repeated "120 euros." I gave her a pleading look. She said "non" and said some number I didn't understand. I asked her to please repeat, and she said it again, and again I didn't understand. I have to admit, after this long day, after I had finally found something that fit and was so lovely, now as I was standing there realizing that I probably wasn't going to be able to afford it, I almost wanted to cry. So, I put it on the counter and sighed. Then she said urgently in French, one minute. She got a piece of paper and wrote down 80. I looked, expecting the worst. My eyes bulged. 80?!!! "80?" I exclaimed! "80?! Really?!!!" She started to laugh. "Qui! Qui!" she said joyfully. One of my very loud, very happy laughs escaped my mouth and I started to clap my hands. Woohoo!!!! She was laughing with me. So I paid for my adorable new coat, feeling like a kid that just gotten something she had always wanted from Santa, slipped into it, and bounced happily out of the store. I must have been grinning from ear to ear, because as I walked to the bus stop almost everyone I passed looked at me. Many smiled and many said hello, a phenomenon that barely every happens in France when you are passing strangers on the street. I sat in my bliss on the bus, and when I got home, Dave was entering the apartment building just as I arrived.

I gave him a big kiss and spun around. "What do you think?" I winked. "Gorgeous!" He exclaimed. "I love it. Was that your only purchase from the sale today?" I grinned broadly. "Sure. It was a quick shopping day."

Finding our place

I have never driven in Europe and I foolishly only knew that we needed to head southeast to get to Lyon. My dad had suggested skirting Paris to the east, but that was about as much preparation as I had made. I had read a quick tutorial on french rules of the road and street signs, so we struck out in our 6-speed manual diesel minivan for Lyon. Right away, I am pleasantly surprised to find the highway signs are very clear and we can just keep following directions to Lyon, basically driving on auto-pilot. Instead of just one city ("Sacramento") on the highway signs, they list the top three you might be headed towards. The other thing I found interesting was the law that if you can move to the right, you must. Even when there are three lanes of traffic, you will get flashed in the middle lane if there is space on the right. The upshot is that everyone is changing lanes all the time. The other result was that vastly different speeds are possible even when there are only two lanes. You never get stuck behind a slow driver. This is pretty cool! I really like driving in France.

We arrived in Lyon around 8pm on a dark and rainy night. Our address is on Lacassagne Avenue and the directions we had been given seemed a bit vague: "It's a big street right by the train station. Follow the signs to "Gare Part Dieu" and you'll find it." Again, following white directional arrows which point to areas of interest we quickly find the train station. This is easy, I love driving in France! Now all we have to do is find Lacassagne Ave.

French street signs still follow the quaint custom pioneered by Napoleon of being written on the sides of buildings. On a plaque about 6 inches square will be the words "Rue de la Republique" which has to be written in a tiny font to fit. This hasn't been too much a of problem for us in the past because we were on foot and could walk up to the building to read it. Also the streets change names every three blocks, so it can take a while to find on the map. The good part is then you are pretty darn certain where you are even if you can't find a plaque on a side street. For some reason every city and town has a Rue Victor Hugo too. There must be a law. Hurtling through traffic on a dark, rainy night down one-way streets is not the ideal way to navigate a new city in France. We can't read any of the street signs, there are also one-way lanes going the reverse direction sometimes, but these are only for buses as well as walled off lanes reserved for buses and tram track that we have to avoid and occasionally find ourselves on. There is no grid here, in fact I think through a marvel of geometry there are no two parallel streets. The whole city feels like market street in San Francisco. After some futile circling of the station we buy a detailed road map and find Lacassagne. There is no way in hell we would have found our way there on our own, plus it is one-way and we need to be near the beginning of it. Even with the map we have a hard time getting there. We block a bus, stop at a green light, make illegal turns in roundabouts, and the whole time we are not honked once. My estimation of the Lyonnais goes up. Still, our dialogue in the car is like this:

Make a left on the next street you can.
I don't think we can for the next 10 miles.
Well go right on Rue Encombe Vineuse.
Which one is that?
I don't know, where are we? Rue Something-or-other I can't read the sign.
Well park and ask.
Judging from the age of the cars, nobody has found an open spot since the Germans left.

My love for driving in France has waned. A little over an HOUR after finding the train station we make it to the apartment garage and check in. The receptionist has waited for us and is very nice, she has our keys and even some mail for us. We decide to leave the bags in the car and get some much deserved dinner. Dinner is wonderful and now we remember why we came here.

Lyon is regarded as the capital of french cuisine (even the Parisians give it the nod) which of course, since french food is the best in the world, also makes it the best place in the world to eat. If you don't believe me, ask any Frenchman. So, even if things don't go well during the day, our Lyon meals make up for it at night. If somebody asks where we live we can now tell them - about a 10 minute walk from the train station or an hour if you want to drive.

Getting to the Office

(Dave here) I've been settling into my Adobe office in Lyon (the french pronounce Adobe as "ah-Dohb"). Adobe's office is located out by the Bron airport, an area little served by public transit, but I found a route with only one connection using the buses. The bus is actually a relaxing way to get to work until I get to my last bus, bus 78. The french pride themselves on being fast drivers (although Laurent at my office admits they are not as crazy as the Italians). Signs or laws will not stop a french driver from attempting to pass you. However, the french bus drivers must consider themselves, as professional drivers, to be better and therefore faster drivers than those little trolls below them in their Peugeots or Smart cars. After boarding, you learn to brace yourself for the initial lurch as the driver puts the pedal to the metal and find a seat once you're in traffic. Buses zoom through the roundabouts and woe betide the driver who thinks the bus will slow down or yield according to law.

Each bus has a cool LED display which slowly shows four messages one after the other like this: "This is Line 25," "destination: Sept Chemin", "Next Stop", and "Rouget d'Isle". I think it uses GPS to figure things out, because the drivers don't interact with it. In keeping with french tradition about half the buses display this instead: "." Fortunately for me, my first bus is 25 and I take it to the end so I don't need to watch the signs, broken or not. Next I take bus 78 and here I have to pay attention. My stop is "Bron Droits de l'Homme" which comes right after "Bron Aviation." And, lucky day, this bus has a working LED. While bus 25 is frequent and packed, bus 78 is infrequent and nearly empty. Our highly trained driver knows that with less weight, he can go much faster. Faster than I'd ever have thought possible, we whip around corners and roundabouts, the two other passengers and I hanging on for dear life as we are tossed about. My driver looks bug eyed and perhaps holds a grudge that he has been assigned this backwoods route instead of a prestigious train station or commute route. The back of the bus fishtails 5 feet to the left as a rear tire clips a curb. I'm watching desperately for my stop. "This is line 78" - Yes, yes, I know that, where are we? "Destination: Memoz Pinel" Come on, come on! "Next Stop" Aaargh! "Ecole de Santé". Yikes! That's the stop after mine. We've been going so fast the sign can't keep up with the driver. We've zoomed past several stops between updates. We're in the right lane at the first red light of this trip. Just behind us is Droits de l'Homme! I only missed it by 15 feet! I jump to the front and say "Monsieur! Monsieur! Monsieur!!! MONSIEUR!!!" The driver stares red faced and bug eyed at the red light and I wonder if he's considering driving over or around the car in front of us. Desperate, I try again: "MONSIEUR!!!!!" He turns and I say "I forget my stop, please to open the door." I get a rush of angry french way too fast for me to understand, but he pushes a button and the door opens.

Over the last few days I've noticed I always get the same driver of bus 78 no matter when I catch it - day or night. I've come to think of him as my own driver and take pride in his crazy speed. I like to think he is even crazier than the other, lesser bus drivers. Yesterday, he caught up to bus 79 which shares a few stops in common with 78. He tailgated it, then I saw him leaning to the left looking for a chance to pass it! That's my driver! Beat him to the next stop! Darn narrow windy streets, you might be able to get the inside lane at the next roundabout!

Pizza and the Perfect Tour

Spend enough time in a country and you find out things that make that country unique. But even a casual tourist can spot some things right away. For instance in Italy, literally everything you want to take a picture of, has scaffolding on it. In some cases I think the scaffolding could be old enough to warrant being called an historic structure by itself. In France, everything is futuristic and cool and broken. When I try to buy a rail ticket to visit downtown Paris, I confidently walk up to the spiffy electronic ticket machine. There is a sign taped on it that says it is broken and only accepts the TravelGo debit card. Visa/bankcards aren't accepted. Looking around I see all the ticket machines have the same sign taped to them. I fiddle with it for a while, but eventually break down and join a long line of people waiting to talk to a human ticket vender. Apparently nobody has a TravelGo debit card (good only for french rail tickets) as I watch a steady stream of people attempt to use the machines and eventually give up and join the queue to talk to a person. Along the same lines there are debit cards designed to solve very specific needs. There are debit cards for phones, the metro, the trains, and even a bike debit card designed to operate the downtown rental bicycles.

On Thursday, Monica and I set out to visit "the prefecture" to get our long term visas approved. We've been calling it the "perfect tour." There is a note in our passports that says we have eight days in which to go there and knowing we'll probably get bitten by delays and the weekend we figure it better get done today. Our receptionist says the prefecture is easy to find - it even has its own Tram stop. We head over to the train station to get a packet of Metro tickets. The automatic metro ticket machines are down and there is a large line forming for the closed office which should re-open at 2:00. This looks like a good time to stop for a late lunch. Monica orders a pizza and when it comes it is gigantic. She can only eat about 1/4 of it, so she asks for a To-go box. They don't really do that sort of thing in France. Maybe it's some macho thing or tiny refrigerators, but you eat everything given to you and if you can't do it you shouldn't have ordered that. Fortunately we're in the train station, so says "we'll eat it on the train." Then Monica, I, and the pizza head over to buy tickets. We get some amused looks standing in line to get the tickets. Then more looks when we're standing at the tram stop. Ok, maybe we look a little weird, like we're delivering a pizza, but we're not THAT strange. The stop gets more crowded and we're the only ones carrying anything large and it's not like I can tuck the pizza under my arm. Boarding the tram it gets VERY crowded and warm. You can smell the pizza throughout the car and where I am wedged in, the pizza box is taking the place of another person. But I think I would look even weirder holding it over my head to make room for another person. We get to our stop and there is a big old fancy building - the prefecture. It's now about 3:00 and we have to circle the building to find the entrance. Around the back we find it, guarded by a few police who kindly inform us we are at the wrong prefecture for visas. We need to go to a non-descript building by the water and they close at about 3:30. It's now 3:15. One of the gendarme gives us directions, but his "lefts" and "rights" don't match up with his gestures. I ask if he can draw a map. He whips out a pen and I hand him the pizza box. Map in hand we jog along, eyes glued to our pizza box. His directions are wrong and we head into the nearest building to try for new ones when we see that we have, in fact, entered the prefecture. It looks like a rundown DMV, but without so much happiness. The other building must be for show, this must be where the actual work gets done. A little later they lock the doors to newcomers. We go through various lines and talk to the personnel who seem amused that we have brought a pizza with us to our interview. The result of our visit is that we've advanced our visa to the next stage of (I kid you not) its SEVEN life stages. We're now in what I call the "crawling" stage where we can go back and forth to the US as much as we'd like for short periods, but in March our visa will enter the "pupa" stage where we must hunker down in France, but fortunately that will only last 7 days before another stage begins, etc. Actually, it's amusing how complicated things can get. Well, we've finished our visit to the perfect tour and we can walk around downtown carrying our pizza to the bus stop and on the bus home. Oh, and the pizza? Although we had grown attached to it and its incorrect map, we still ate it.

Sawyer Luck's final test

It's January 2'nd and we've got a sunny day in Paris and Monica is feeling a little better. This is it. We've going to Lyon today, ready or not. I head to the airport and our last box is there. Definitely more beat up, but it doesn't look to have lost anything. Next stop is Hertz for our car. Here the agent tells me they are out of my reserved car. Would I please accept a free upgrade to a mini-van? This is the biggest stroke of luck ever. Barely suppressing my giddiness at this turn of events, I protest that we're driving to Lyon and the gas mileage will be ruinous. Oh, it's a diesel, that's cheaper here, it should cost about the same. I'm about to sign the bill when I notice it is about $75 more than my quote. While she and her supervisor work at getting the price down I look around and find an example of what we call "stupid french rules." These are laws or rules that make no sense to us. In this case, there is a notice that the car must be returned full and that *you must present your receipt from the gas station* as proof that you filled up. How is a receipt any proof you filled up? Couldn't you just pump one gallon? That might be all you needed to fill up. It still seems like they have to check your gas gauge and possibly charge you later. While I'm thinking this, the supervisor says "Aha!" and they have fixed the bill. The problem? It was changed incorrectly and only had me having the car for 2 days instead of 3. I think I must have misunderstood so I confirm that renting the car for 3 days is $75 LESS than renting for 2 days? "Yes." Again, this makes no sense to me, but I will go along with it and speed off to pick up a stunned Monica and the rest of our luggage. "How did you get a mini-van? I tried all the rental companies to get one and they were all gone!" I tell her I don't know, I had no choice, they forced it on me. My poor wife, she is forever trying to get me to be a better travel planner and Sawyer Luck keeps interfering.

Meet the French

At our brief stopover in Heathrow we come face to face with 20 feet of passenger hell. The security gate is requiring people to have only ONE carry-on bag. "Just cram one bag into the other, and you can take the laptop out of your bag and carry it separately" they helpfully suggest. Between us, we have 4 bulging bags that certainly can't fit any more, much less each other. OK, we only have to get everything to squeeze into 2 bags for 20 feet. For the next 5 minutes we are a flurry of activity. Shirt, pants, and jacket pockets are filled to overflowing. Occassionally we ask each other "Do you have room for this?" and we eventually manage to each empty one bag into another. Mine won't even zip shut. Once we waddle through security we repack our bags as before. After a quick flight, we arrive in Paris on New Year's Eve. Ah, those winter Paris nights! It's freezing and pouring buckets outside and our luggage is lost. Not all of it, just the giant cardboard boxes. I knew we should have duct taped them shut. They probably came apart in the baggage system and scattered clothes everywhere. The BA woman tells me "oh cardboard boxes, they always get lost. They go through a different track." We're instructed to come back tomorrow. But, we'll be in Lyon tomorrow - our hotel checkout is noon. She then says BA can ship the boxes to our Lyon address. Sounds like Sawyer Luck saved the day! But I don't trust BA to get our bags to us in Lyon, I'd rather see the bags with my own eyes, especially if they are leaving a trail of clothes as they go. The free shuttle drops us off near our hotel and it is so dark and rainy we can't even see the hotel. We're trudging into the murk when I hear a plaintive "help!" from behind. 3 bags is proving too much for Monica so I take one from her and we stumble into the hotel lobby, bags crashing everywhere as I try to man-handle 4 big bags through a tiny vestibule with aggressive doors. Once we get to our room Monica crashes. Her cold has been getting steadily worse and she's in no shape to go to dinner much less a NYE party. So we took showers and around midnight I plugged in a european hairdryer without noticing it had been switched to 110V. rrrrRRRR! Blam! So, at least we made some noise for the turn of the calendar.

The next day Monica is still near death, so I spend the day moving our itinerary back one day and get my first real chance to deal with actual french people in the french language. At Hertz, when I ask the agent if it is possible to pick up our car the next day and return it one day later for the same price, she blows out her cheeks like she is performing a herculean feat and clicks on her keyboard for minutes. Occassionally she shoots a glance at her supervisor, but I'm not sure if it's from fear or whether she hopes she might get some help. Exhausted and frustrated she turns to me and says "yes. It is possible." But, she hasn't actually changed anything I suspect. Rephrasing my french sentence again, I ask her to make this change. More cheek blowing and clicking and finally "it is changed." I double-check the dates and price and she assures me it is changed. I'm not so confident, but that's the best I can do. Next up is the boxes. Apparently, when the BA agent said to come "back here" she really meant *right here*. But, she's in a hermetically sealed room on the other side of customs. How am I supposed to get back there? After talking to several information people I find out what I need to do - and it sounds like something out of an Ian Fleming novel. This is the official way to get lost luggage?

Agent: First, go to the barricade that separates the rabble from the people exiting customs. Wait there, then when someone exits, vault over the barricade. Next, dash through the door before it closes. If you make it through, present your mumble-mumble form to the armed customs agents to get past them.
Dave: But I don't have that form.
Agent: Then you will have to do something clever. Here is a piece of paper, perhaps you can wave it at them or use it to distract them in some way in order to get past them. Good luck.

OK, I get into position and wait. An elderly Indian man slowly pushing a mountain of luggage comes out the exit. This is my chance! I vault the barricade and easily skip past him into the customs lair. Drat! There isn't even a potted palm in here for cover. I had considered doing a forward somersault to avoid the bullets, ala The Matrix, but what luck! All of the agents are in the back chambers, bludgeoning other travelers I presume. I'm free and clear! In fact, I can already see one of our boxes in the BA hoard! Triumphant, I tell the BA agent I'm here to get my lost luggage which I've already seen in their treasure trove. She doesn't even act impressed, but takes my name and begins clicking away. Alas, only one of the boxes made it. It's much rounder and has some cuts and scars, but it's intact and probably hasn't lost anything. Regretfully, I tell the agent that not all my bags made it after all. "Ah! Why did I listen to you??" she screams. Not something you hear from American agents, but I bet they think it all the time. She had closed my file and now has to open a new one for the remaining missing bag. After that initial outburst she is actually quite kind and even gives me the form that will let me get past customs tomorrow.

Returning through customs, a young french customs agent pulls me aside and cuts open my box to look through it. He is very friendly and once he hears I'm moving to France he begins to give me all those great tips you wished you had before you started. Did I know I could pre-clear customs at the french embassy and bring in $1500 worth of goods? He even told me to beware of BA because they always lose luggage. Finally in English he tells me "I'm looking for scotch." What? Thankfully we didn't try to smuggle in any liquor... With a final poke or two he leaves and heads to the back rooms. Then I realize what he said and I wait around. A few minutes later he returns with a roll of brown packing tape and reseals and repairs my box (tearing the tape with his teeth) so it is better than before. With a big smile he wishes me good luck in my adventures here in France. You know, those french people can be pretty nice after all.

Setting out for France

Hi there Everyone!
We're here!!!! Can you believe it? After 13 years of dreaming about it, we're here....in France that is. Living in France. It's Thursday night and we've been here since Sunday. We've been mangling the French language, muscling our luggage, and mooshing ourselves into a miniscule appartment in Lyon. There is still much to do, but we've made good headway. Sorry we haven't written earlier. We haven't had any internet access. Monica (me) still doesn't...they need 48 more hours to fix a failure at the box (whatever that means), but now Dave is working and has access. So, we thought we'd post an update for those of you who were wondering if we were still alive.
Actually, since we've gotten here Dave has been so excited about what he wants us to put in this blog, so I'm going to leave this one to him. He's much more interesting than me anyways, and you've heard me babbling way to much. So, here's our story...Dave style....

There's nothing like the challenge of moving a year's worth of stuff in one plane flight. First, you have to learn the rules of the game - British Airways allows 2 seventy pound bags per person, one carry-on, and one "personal item" (purse/laptop/etc.). OK, 70 lbs. puts us ahead of most carriers who only allow 50 lbs. But a stop in Heathrow could be trouble if we push the limits at all. Well, first thing is, those laptop bags are going to be the biggest dang laptop bags we can muster with a straight face and nobody seems to have thought to put a weight limit on them either, heh heh. We inherited some truly giant suitcases from the days of steamboat travel, but decided not to use them after finding out there is a limit of 62 inches on L+W+H of bags. Instead, we'll pack a couple of 20x20x20 cardboard boxes! Even when filled with just clothes, these end up almost exactly 70 lbs. - and man, are they hard to move. We'll wear the biggest coats and we could even wear multiple layers and several hats! Monica then gave me one of those looks which says "I am not getting on a plane with you looking like that." OK, well, one hat then. After putting on the coat I realize we neglected another baggage opportunity - pocket space. Heck, I think there could be a market for cargo pants that really are "cargo pants." Something where I can fit another suitcase in each pocket and waddle down the jetway. Oh well, it's too late and I'd probably get one of those looks again.
Once the RAV4 is filled to the roof and we're on the way to the airport I begin to wonder how we're going to deal with these 8 monster bags when there's only two of us and it's raining and we've got a tiny european rental car... Oh well, we'll have to trust to something Monica calls "Sawyer luck" - a form of divine intervention that drives her crazy. She is a fantastic trip planner and covers all the worst-case scenarios, while my trip planning doesn't really deserve the word "planning" but relies on divine intervention that happens so often Monica now includes it in her plans. After years of this conversation she has given up:

Monica: "It was only through a miracle that things worked out!"
Dave: "yeah, well, but things worked out fine. Great actually."
Monica: "But that wasn't planning! That was Sawyer Luck that saved us."
Dave: "Sure, but we're in great shape right?"
Monica:"Arrgh! You and your stupid luck. We should be dead now."

Now I suspect Monica just writes in "S.L." when there is some part of the travel plans that she just cannot plan for. She tried to plan for this, but all the car rental agencies were out of larger vehicles, we can't get all the luggage on the train, and airlifting, boats, or postal service were too expensive or slow. After our bags got checked (each just a hair under the limit) and our carry-ons cleared security we settled into our airline seats and began to wonder what's going to happen when we land.