A long way from Santa Fe

Without any commercial flights, Santa Fe poses the challenge of international getaways. Of course, those of us who live there and love it deem it worthwhile but, in fact, it's a pain in the butt and one sound alternative is to plan to fly from Albuquerque to a coast city, spend a night or two and continue on, thus enjoying the 5 to 7 hours from the east coast to Europe rather than the 24 hours I just spent getting from my Santa Fe home to meet up with a group of travel agents in Toulouse, France's 4th largest city, in southwestern France. That's right, 24 hours! Santa Fe to ABQ, ABQ to DEN, DEN to IAH (Houston), IAH to CDG (Paris), CDG to TOU. Whew.

This was the only way I could find to take advantage of the free trip offered me by Maison de la France, the French Tourism Bureau, which hosts FAM (familiarization trips) for travel agents around the globe. The fact that France is one of the top destinations in the world is due to this aggressive national effort at marketing and PR. The US does not have a national tourism office. Hmmm. But after reading of the round-about way I had to employ to get here, one might wonder if it's worth it.

Upgrading...perchance to sleep

Well, maybe not if one had to fly coach, or steerage, as it seems to me, but I was reluctantly willing even to do that for a free weeklong trip to France. But, as luck would have it (and I am a "lucky person"), the young lad with whom I checked in at the Air France counter in Houston was very sweet and when I asked him if he could change my return dates (which multiple attempts to Air France during the past 3 months had turned up only dead ends), he did so without hesitation. I then boldly asked if I could be upgraded to business class. He said he didn't think so but I could check at the boarding gate. 

Lo and behold, an hour later, after the humiliation of partially disrobing and unpacking for "security," it was his same self who manned that counter and I greeted him like a long-lost friend. Within minutes, after a brief consultation between him and his superior, I was given the last business class seat -- no up-charge, nothing but "enjoy your trip!" Indeed, I did -- reclining fully, eating hot gourmet dishes on real plates with silverware and linen, and imbibing as much fine French wine as I could want served by gracious hosts; full-size blankets and pillows (not puffed postage stamps), hot towels, noise-canceling headphones and 4 feet of legroom! I didn't have to justify my request in any way, although I was fully prepared to say I was on a diplomatic mission or senior editor of National Geographic Traveler, or whatever it would have taken. My advice: ask! You have nothing to lose.

Now, after a long hot shower with aromatic shampoo and body wash, a nap on a comfy king-size bed at the Sofitel (400 euros a night is the posted price!), a walk around the old town of Toulouse, "the rose city" (so called because of its brick buildings, some structures dating back to the 10th century) and dining on the regional dish of "cassoulet" (beans and duck) in the charming ambiance of an old wooden barge moored on the Canal Midi, which flows over 200 miles to the Mediterranean, jet lag is overtaking me and I must sleep to be ready for the next 5 days of intense explorations of the region. More soon.

The French Rental Car from Paris

In the pinky-blue sunrise of a crisp Santa Fe winter morning, I think back on five days in Paris and three days’ driving adventure around the west of France, soaking in images of rolling countryside, stopping in Giverny, Rouen, Honfleur, Mont Saint-Michel, Vouvry, Amboisie and returning to the insane traffic and confusion of navigating to Charles De Gaulle Airport, and how describing each rich and tasty encounter, each “aha” and delight, each ”ya gotta laugh” moment is like trying to stuff a king-sized down comforter into a quart-size bag; it’s impossible but you compress a corner and keep pushing.

I was in Spain for a week in November and I’m on my way today to ski Vail. I’ve researched, written and published articles, kept real estate deals moving forward, studied fractional ownership and website design, rearranged the house and spent time with friends. In the fast-forward mode, as the past rapidly receeds, the best I can do is make a brief recount, save the photos to disc and trust that someday the earth will spin slower and days will spread out before me with time to recollect, reflect and recount.

We left Paris on Friday morning in a rented Toyota minivan, but not without a story or two! I had made reservations online through Auto Europe/Hertz, for a 10 a.m. pick-up, and received a travel agent discount. Train stations seem to be the major pick-up/drop off points for rental cars in Paris. Not knowing how to best depart Paris for Giverny to the northwest, I randomly chose the Montparnasse station from a map because it was on the west side of the city. Not a bad choice. The taxi from our apartment on Rue du Seine dropped us at the Hertz office where a line of people snaked out the door and around half a block. Inside, there were two agents, taking an interminable amount of time with each reservation, an enormous amount of paperwork to fill out, questions to answer. This is crazy, we’ll be here all day!

My pushy New York self went into high gear and I “excuse-a-moi’ed” myself to the “gold club” reservation desk where one old gent kept up a lively conversation in French with the attendant as if there weren’t dozens of people waiting. I coughed, I made eye contact with the man behind the counter and finally, in desperation, I asked as nicely as possible, “Can you please help me?” Sure, he replied, folding the old gent’s papers into a folder and wishing him a good trip. He turned to me and began processing my reservation and within 10 minutes we were out the door, past the line of the terminally patient and looking for a car in some underground lot to which we were vaguely directed.

As there were several underground lots in that general direction, we wandered, schlepping our rolly bags behind us, frustration mounting. Finally we saw a small “Hertz” sign across the street, took an elevator down 4 floors and stumbled into the Hertz rental. Once in our minivan we followed the “sortie,” exit signs, powering out of the depths of the earth, descending, rising, going in tight circles until some 10 minutes later, exhausted from stress and carbon monoxide fumes, we emerged into the Paris streets and joined the stop-and-go traffic headed west to the Periferique (ring road) and the highway to Giverny.