As some of you know, we went on a trip to France this summer and we just got back last week. In the last installment, we rented our car and started heading south to the Dordogne, where we were going to be spending the first week of our vacation. In case you missed them, here are the first few articles about the trip:

Part One       Part Deux       Part Trois       Part IV       Part Five

After passing through the toll plaza with aplomb, we decided that we probably should stop for something to eat.  Having been to France on a number of occasions and being a former cycle tour guide there, I have professed with some bravado that you really have to try to eat badly in France.  Basically, I am a firm believer that just about everybody serving food in France takes great pride in their work and really produce the best food they can.  There are no doubt exceptions, but they are anomalies and therefore need to be ‘sought out’.  When we pulled into a rest stop to hopefully find a quick, but good meal, I figured the place that was packed with people and a line practically out the door was a good bet.  It was a not so glorified cafeteria, but still I had high hopes since I had heard that even EuroDisney had really good food.

After we got into the line, it became clear that we were not going to be labeling this as our best meal ever.  My wife opted for sliced ham and some vegetables, I went for the macaroni casserole, and we got the boys some chicken fingers and French Fries (now I know that is not the most healthy food for the boys, but we were all cranky, tired, and hungry so we thought it would be the path of least resistance).  I thought for a bit about getting a nice little bottle rosé, but quickly remembered that I was already tired and we were, oh yeah, driving. We sat down, took a couple bites and said nothing.  The boys were less than thrilled—our younger son, who embraces eating like a, well like a sumo wrestler, was not that excited at all.  He was starving, however, so he downed most of what was on his plate.  My macaroni was not inspiring to say the least, so I was picking at the boys fries and chicken. The chicken was, well, it was horrible, almost offensive.  OK, not almost–it was awful.  The fries, if possible, were worse.  Come on! They are FRENCH fries!! How can you screw those up for chrissakes?!?  Sure, fries are really from Belgium, but still….

Man, I should have ordered the wine.

We got out of there rather quickly, having proven that you can eat really poorly in France.  I was deflated.  So deflated that I asked my wife if she would drive the Ford (I actually was just sooooo tired, I knew I would be putting us all in jeopardy–now I was really wishing I had ordered the rosé).  My wife agreed, although she would be the first to admit that she does not particularly like driving and would rather have me drive 9 times out of 10 (the tenth time we take a cab).

My wife jumped into the driver’s seat and I was asleep within 27 seconds.
Moments later, I was jostled from my slumber by what felt like a rather violent shaking.  “Sorry,” my wife said, “some jerk cut me off.”  Alarmed, but honestly more interested in sleep than the prospect of a violent fiery crash, I mumbled something supportive and then closed my eyes.  Seemingly, just as soon as I had dozed off again, another swerve and I was  expecting that the car was rolling along on two wheels.  Once again, my wife apologized, and encouraged me to go back to sleep.  I decided to try and stay awake since I wanted to see the last few moments of my life if that was what was about to happen.  After two or three more swerves, I asked my wife if she would like me to take over the driving. “No, that’s OK”, she responded, “you get some sleep.”

“Um….”

Just about this time, my younger son, our little gourmand, started complaining “My belly hurts.”  For most children, this might be cause for alarm, but our little one says this at just about every meal.  He says it when he eats too much (usually breakfast); he says it when he doesn’t particularly like the meal (usually if it has tomatoes); he says it if we have guests over and the other kids have finished and they are off playing.  Most of the time he will retract the statement if we respond  “Well, I guess then you shouldn’t have dessert….”  So, neither one of us paid much attention.  After another couple of times letting us know his belly was still hurting, he proved it.  He started throwing up all over the back seat.  Now I am the first to admit that I do not handle vomit that well at all.  Even writing this is making me rather queasy.  I think I have only thrown up three times in my whole life because the thought of it, well, makes me want to throw up.  So I have avoided it.

I scream at my wife to pull over since my world is crumbling around me.  Luckily, my wife is a pediatrician and sees projectile vomiting as no big deal.  She pulls over, deals with it, and we are back on the road in a couple of minutes.  “Must have been that food, it was so awful” she finally says.

“Or it could have been your attempts to mimic Mario Andretti.”

I never said that, by the way.  You can call me a lot of things, but hopefully “stupid” is not one of them.

The saga continues:  Part Seven