A friend sent me a postcard from France. The rolling hills of Provence, lush vineyards and charming chateaus - yes, I remember it well. When my husband and I went to France, I packed so much he accused me of trying to smuggle things into the country for a garage sale. I m a girl scout at heart. I wanted to be prepared. To be prepared for the change in time a friend advised me to stay awake on the flight and go to bed at my usual time - local time. Blurry-eyed and exhausted, I collapsed into bed in Paris at 10pm, having lost a day - but not my luggage. By 10am 1am PST the next day I was tempted to call my friend to thank her for her advice. The advice on hotels came from a guide book, but hotels in France are like hotels everywhere - overpriced and understaffed. Of course, if I d had the right adapter to plug in my hair dryer, I wouldn t have needed one hotel s electrician to help dry my hair. If I d restrained myself from buying funky souvenirs, I wouldn t have needed bellboys to help with my luggage. Small things, such as the corkscrew shaped like the Eiffel Tower, weren t problems. However, transporting a pillow that looked like a giant croissant and umbrellas decorated with French fries were problems - for my marriage. John didn t think France was the place to Christmas shop. John s idea of a souvenir was his now-gray underwear, on which a hotel laundry had written his name in large, indelible letters. If John had given me time, I would have introduced the French to laundry whiteners and brightened their lives. In France our lives were full with quaint buildings, which would be called dilapidated in the States; and there was always one more museum to visit - but not by taxi. French taxi drivers should have to take their foot off the gas pedal as often as they take their eyes off the road. I should have taken my eyes off the pastries, but I couldn t. A morning break with coffee and pastry; followed by an afternoon break with wine and pastry; and, of course, pastry for dessert at dinner - I carried memories of those pastries home on my hips. Yes, I remember France. If we go there again, I m sending a postcard to myself. It will say, Wish you were here .
