I am sitting on a train bound for Paris, after a week in the South of France.  Our train ride started in Brive—a town that I had never heard of before this trip (and I have done my fair share of travel in this country). The train is a bit peculiar in that it is a couchette (sleeping car) only train that my wife somehow found on the internet—a good friend of ours (the reason why we are going up to Paris) knows more about European trains than anyone alive and he had even forgotten that this train existed.  (When my wife told him that we were on the 16:13 train, he said, without even a moment of pause: “You mean the 16:03, right?” [of course there is a 16:03 train from Brive to Paris…].)

The train ride is not the focus of this article, however, at least not yet.  Rather, I am going to start with our wonderful week in the Dordogne with our other great friends.  In my opinion, the term ‘great friend’ is thrown around a bit too freely these days.  For me, a ‘great friend’ needs to meet a specific criterion, which certainly can (and should?) differ from person to person.  It may mean someone who would lend you (or whom you would lend) a large sum of money with no questions asked.  Perhaps it is someone you would trust with your children in any circumstance (including your unfortunate early demise).  Maybe it is someone you would ‘take a bullet for’ (I put this one in quotes since I am doubtful it occurs outside the military or WWII movies).  No, for me it is rather simple: a great friend is someone I could see spending a week’s vacation with without ending up either divorced, in jail, or dead.

I figure there are only a handful of people on the planet that I would consider family, and our housemates for the week certainly qualify (as would our friends in Paris).

As is case with most of my trips these days, this trip started with a cab ride.  This is not usually worthy of note since all the cabs in Philly are a bit of an adventure.  The cabbies here seem to drive like complete maniacs and this one was no exception—I lost count after the third ‘almost’ accident.  Nor was it worthy of note that the cab driver spoke in broken English and was more than likely Muslim.  Now before you go and call me a racist, a fear-mongerer or something equally judgmental, I must say that I could not care any less what religion or nationality the driver is or was—I just want to get where I want to go by the time I need to be there.  No, the reason I even mention the cab driver at all is that given the amount of crap we were taking with us (see photo), I was forced to ride in the front seat.

All our crap. The box is for….wait for it….yup, wine.

Again, not normally worthy of note, but the seat happened to be occupied already by a very large box that contained a three foot tall ‘Rock, Rollin’, Rappin’ and Groovin’ Santa.’  It was the end of June and 90 degrees.  I thought about asking him about it, but I figured he did not need any reason for any further distraction on the way to the airport.

We were flying Lufthansa to Frankfurt and then connecting to Charles-de-Gaulle outside of Paris.  We got to the counter, gave our passports and told the attendant where we were going.  “What is your final destination?” she asked.  “Charles-de-Gaulle” I say again, thinking perhaps she didn’t hear me.  “Cologne?”  Now, most people who know me know that my French is not that bad, in fact, it is likely considered fairly good.  That is irrelevant, however, since we were both speaking English.  “Paris.”  I say again.  After a moment or two, she asks again “What is your final destination?  Cologne?”  I look at my wife somewhat puzzled, and her return glance clearly indicated that this woman was not the brightest bulb on the tree.  “PARIS” my wife says this time, deciding to play the role of irritated traveler thus giving me a bit of a break.  “Cologne?”  Seriously?  At this point, our three year old, who is normally either scanning the floor for pennies or badgering us about his next meal, evidently is also becoming irritated since he says “What’s Ka LOAN?”  Before I could say I word, my wife (whom I consider one of the smartest people I know) says “It’s a city… in Italy.”

Good thing I’m driving.

The saga continues:   Part Deux