It is easy to limit the amount of clothing we pack for vacation. Coordinating outfits using just a few items is challenging, but fun. A lovely part of touring the Mediterranean region in late summer/early fall is that the weather will be warm so coats and heavy sweaters can be left behind. Everything I am packing for this trip styles well with everything else. Black, beige and ivory are the staples of my wardrobe this year with scarves and tops in coral and red to add pizzazz.

What seems likely to tip the scale on our weight limit is that collection of miscellaneous stuff that grows overnight like bacteria in a petri dish. Version one of our list of miscellany was short–until we recalled what we had missed on previous trips.

One bloated category is over the counter medication. I always carry lots of Imodium on any trip since I am invariably struck with “tourista” somewhere along the way. Then we over-pack assorted ointments for the inevitable mosquito bites, cuts and scrapes. We learned years ago that enduring a cold in France was particularly miserable since French OTC remedies are homeopathic, dressed in pretty packaging but in-effective for us stuffy-nosed skeptics. So, into my bag drop a few blister packs of cold remedies. Neither of us have headaches often, but we would hate to be side-lined by a pain a la tete that could be resolved with a couple of aspirin.

In the electronics category the inexorable creep in packing scope is alarming. If only all our devices used one charger! But, no, we have to include iPad/iPod chargers, battery charger for the camera (which I admit is sleek and light-weight), phone chargers, Bill’s manly and bulky razor charger.

Washcloths and bath sponges are impossible to find in France and I suspect, Italy, so into the suitcase go a few of those items. All this long hair of mine is not easy to towel dry, so I have to find a place for my special soaks-up-lots-of-water terrycloth turban. For corralling these long locks into some semblance of style, I must pack some large, but lightweight hair curlers. My curling iron and hair dryer are not making this trip, so I may suffer more than my usual share of bad hair days depending on the humidity, but I saved myself five or six pounds of lugging.

The one category that we have eliminated is printed reading material. We’ll be reading our selection of downloaded books on an iPod (Bill) and iPad (me.) E-versions replaced the favorite, well-read Fodor’s and Rick Steves’ travel guides that weighted our luggage by a dozen pounds. We also purchased a number of best-sellers and old favorite novels from iTunes. A convenient feature of reading electronically is that we don’t have to pack book lights as the screens on our devices are backlit to whatever light level we need!

One of the most alluring things to plan for this trip was the technology we would use to stay in touch, conduct research and capture memories. In the past we have traveled with iPods, cameras, cell phones and laptops, but for this vacation one of the criteria for any electronic gadget was that it be light weight and multi-purpose.

I had been drooling over the iPad since it first came out, but didn’t see that I had a technology niche that was yet unfilled. However, after hauling my relatively light-weight MacBook around LA on our last vacation, I decided that I needed to take another look at the Apple tablet, especially after the debut of the iPad 2.

We bought one just before a train trip to Pasadena to attend a conference at Cal Poly. I found that it was much more enjoyable to watch a movie rented on iTunes on the bigger iPad screen than on my little iPod. Once at the conference, I got hooked on taking notes on my iPad although the virtual keyboard made it critical that the light level was bright enough to see the keys. I was surprised to realize that I was actually touch typing after a fashion, probably because the position of the keys seemed not too much closer than on a conventional laptop keyboard. In any case, it was fun, but I wasn’t sure the iPad would suffice for blogging or keeping a travel journal.

I went back and forth for weeks about replacing my MacBook with a MacBook Air. I just wasn’t ready to purchase a new laptop from a monetary point of view, but I couldn’t see my trusty old laptop fitting into our pack-as-light-as-possible goal for our month long European vacation. Finally, since I already had Pages on my iPad and found that I could also download the WordPress app, I decided to buy a Bluetooth keyboard and trial it with the iPad as my writing tools for our trip.

The keyboard weighs in at eleven ounces, so with the iPad (including magic cover) my computing needs are satisfied with a total weight of 35 ounces! Today is my first test of writing and posting a blog using this combination. From a writing perspective, I am really happy. A power Word user, I am not that used to Pages, but for the simple format I need, it seems to be perfect. The Bluetooth keyboard is great…it works every bit as well as my MacBook keyboard.

So, here is my first attempt at writing and publishing a blog using my iPad 2 and the Apple Bluetooth keyboard! I have not figured out how to add a photo (which in this case would have been me blogging on my then new MacBook from Chicken, Alaska, pop. 5!)

This year we’ll celebrate our shared birthday in Paris. We plan a leisurely first day–a jaunt through the Marais to soak up as much sunlight as possible to stave off the worst effects of jet lag. The next afternoon we’ll embark on a cruise on the Canal St. Martin, which runs from the Seine to the Parc de la Villette. We’ll shop at a boulangerie for a crusty baguette and a fromagerie for a selection of cheeses, and enjoy an al fresco picnic afloat. A section of the canal is roofed over, but tall chestnut trees shade the rest of the route so even if it is warm in Paris that day we should be comfortable.

Somehow, despite many opportunities in past years, we have neglected to visit the palace of Versailles. More than once, this has been on our agenda. But, then we decide we’d rather tour a small museum like the Jacquemart-Andre, an exquisite 19^th century townhouse showcasing a fine collection of Venetian art or spend a day wandering the cobbled lanes of Montmartre. This trip we are committed to traveling by RER train to Versailles (buying beforehand the convenient combination rail and Versailles entry tickets.) We’ll struggle through the crowds to see the palace with its lavish décor and historical significance, but the prize will be the gardens. Wherever we travel, we love visiting gardens.

On our first trip to France, we spent a magical day touring the gardens of Giverny, the home of the impressionist painter Monet. Willow trees with trailing branches and huge lily pads floating on a serene pond under the famous bridge created a green haven. Masses of roses were in bloom the second time we visited Monet’s garden, scenting the air with delicate fragrance and delighting our eyes with myriad colors.

At Villandry, a chateau in the Loire Valley, we were enchanted by the symbolic Gardens of Love, precisely trained and trimmed low box hedges that portrayed by their patterns different types of love: Tender, Passionate, Fickle and yes, Tragic.

We hiked high in the hills above Berne, Switzerland, to discover the expansive Rosengarten, awash with rose blossoms displaying hues from pale pink to dark red, back-dropped by a distant view of snowy peaks.

In the Dordogne, the waterside gardens at the Chateau de Losse held us in thrall as we wandered grassy paths to the mossy banks of a somnolent river and peered through a pergola of ethereal wisteria that framed a shrine of the Madonna. 

In each instance, we experienced that soul-satisfying connection with nature and the outdoors that we both crave.

So, we’ll tour Versailles this year, but I suspect we’ll find romance in the gardens, rather than the palace.

I was eager to begin packing tonight, but deferred to Bill who is sure we can wait a few days. We each did a trial pack with our new Travelpro 20” suitcases and then spent last evening digging out those gadgety things we always seem to need to carry along. We are bringing inflatable hangers, twisty clotheslines and mini-flashlights.  We discarded the emergency whistle, hanging sock organizer and extra adapter. Our goal is to travel with as little extraneous stuff as possible.

The carry-on weight limit for Air France is 26.5 pounds, so that means packing only what we will use. We have been light packers for a number of years, but our last trip to Europe in 2009 emphasized how back saving it is to limit extra weight when one is schlepping bags on and off trains and dragging them down cobblestone streets and up steep staircases. We traveled for almost four weeks with an 18” and 16” suitcase and one tote each. From that trip, I have a virtual camera roll of me wearing the same black and white sweater in Lyon, Paris and London. This time we opted for slightly bigger bags so we can enjoy some variety in our wardrobes.

We used an iPad app called “Packing” to create our packing lists. The user interface for this app could be smoother, but the sample lists are well thought out and the end results are lists that will be easy to use for future trips. These sample lists reminded me of a few things I had not considered, like a sewing kit and bottle opener.

We have more or less finished shopping for our vacation. Bill came home today with two pairs of what he hopes are his ultimate walking shoes. I picked out a new camera last week to replace the falling-to-pieces one that has traveled with me for years. I decided on a Canon Powershot Elph, a very compact camera available at a good price. Depending on whether or not I actually manage to work off five pounds before next weekend, I may need to buy a pair of lightweight slacks. It would be nice to shop for those in the smaller size section of my closet, but if not, on to Macys!

I coerced Bill into buying a small bag just like mine for carrying around as we tour. Yes, he was resistant to anything that looks remotely like a purse, but these bags are quite high tech in appearance and the best part is, they are nearly theft-proof.  I keep reminding myself, “Don’t ask Bill where he left his purse…ask him where he left his guide bag!”

As I read the body of her email, icy fingers gripped the nape of my neck. “We’re thinking about going back to Caswell this year! Back to the Stanislaus!” she wrote.

“Not Caswell! Not the Stanislaus!” I shivered. Caswell State Park is convenient for our group as it is located just east and south of Livermore, a reasonable length drive for everyone. Although the park offers few activities besides strolling nature trails through spider-web laden groves of drooping cottonwood trees, the Stanislaus River borders the campground, providing a cool respite from summer heat. By mid-June when Abigail proposed we go camping, valley heat and too many trampling feet have usually turned the campsites dusty, making the limpid river even more inviting.

My first visit to this state park was over a decade ago. Our group of friends had been camping for years at Brannan Island State Park in the Delta. Once in a while we ventured to the mountains or seashore, but we learned that we had the most fun when we had access to a body of water where we could swim or boat.

Just as we began planning our trip one year, Gayleen and Craig visited Caswell for a day’s outing. They reported back with enthusiasm, “Tubing on the Stanislaus is great! The water is really warm and the current is gentle enough for the little kids. Let’s go there this year instead of Brannan Island.”

Their tale of meandering along a tree-shaded ribbon of calm water convinced the rest of us that it was time to try this new spot.

Bill and I were boaters at the time and we agreed that we could use the lightweight tubes we kept on board our cruiser rather than spend money on rubber inner tubes. Bill was puzzled when I insisted on packing my water-ski vest along with a couple of the sturdier tubes. “What do you need that for?” he asked with a puzzled tone, “You are the last person to need a vest on the river.” Smiling, I added the vest to the stack of camping equipment and kept my plan to myself for the moment.

Swimming down the Stanislaus will be a blast! I chuckled as we loaded the truck.

As happened every year, it was deep dusk by the time we finished dinner the first night of our camping trip. Hurrying to clear the last of debris from the campfire area, I tripped over an awkwardly placed rock and crashed to the ground.

“Good gosh!” I exclaimed as pain shot from my right wrist to the tips of my fingers.

“Seems like you have a bad sprain,” my friend Henry assured me. Always prepared for his children’s medical emergencies, he carefully splinted and wrapped my hand and wrist. Another friend offered a homeopathic remedy for the pain and an icy beer.

I should be fine by morning, I told myself. Besides, I can swim with one arm if I have to!

It was noon the next day before we organized ourselves to get to the beach and the start of our river float. My wrist and hand were bruised, scraped and swollen so I decided to leave the splint and bandage in place and just keep my hand up out of the water. Bill watched as I struggled to buckle my ski vest.

“What is it that you’re planning to do?” he asked with a wary look.

“I’m swimming down the Stanislaus!” I tossed back.

His eyes got really round and his cheeks a little red. “That’s crazy!”

“I’ll be fine. The current is so slow here. I can side-stroke or float on my back!” And I waded into the deep green water. Within a few steps I had to start swimming. The current near the beach was sluggish, so I was forced to propel myself with a clumsy one-armed breaststroke.

My situation changed in minutes as the channel narrowed and the speed of the river picked up. Now I could stop paddling and waft along on my back, buoyed by my ski vest. Ah, blue sky, shady trees, cool water, life is good, I remember thinking.

As the river velocity increased, it grew harder to orient my body to the flow. I was reluctant to get my injured hand wet, so I struggled to hold my arm straight up like the mast of a sloop. I was pummeled from side to side and spun round and round in ragged circles by the now rushing water. The Stanislaus seemed to know that a victim was within its grasp.

Using one arm and strong kicks, I was just able to stay out of the tangled brambles lining the bank. I was yards ahead of my tubing party, when I spotted bad news looming in the center of the river. A rough snag thrust a foot or so above the water. My control was not good enough to get me around it so I twisted my body to hit the snag feet first. I’ll shove off the branch. That’ll send me on downstream!

A torrent slammed me into the snag and then pushed me up and over the snapped off limb.  Suddenly, the cuff of my shorts caught on a hidden branch and I was pinioned facedown in the middle of the fast-moving water. I was able to raise my head to gasp for air as I tore at my jeans shorts. I slipped and a sharp edge ground into my groin. I gave up protecting my injured hand and used both hands to pull free.

Just after the snag, the water gentled and I floated on my back to our take-out beach. Panting, I lay on the dirty sand, afraid to look at what I feared was a severed femoral artery. After a few minutes, I got the courage to look at the damage and saw no blood, but a large pulsating purple bruise.

Back at camp, I had no choice but to display the evidence of my battle with the Stanislaus. My husband was livid when he heard the details of my adventure.

Bill insisted I get medical attention the next day. After examining the now huge and vivid bruise, my doctor inquired as to how I received such an injury. “That sounds like something my fifteen year old kid would pull!” he said as he wrote a prescription for a mild painkiller.

The following year, we were all eager to return to Caswell. I had to redeem myself, although I knew Bill would not put up with another attempt at a ski-vest swim. This time we would both use proper tubes. We had picked out a couple of appropriate size and quality tubes at the sporting goods store, when I spotted a very cool inflatable chair. Shiny lime green with a touch of gold trim, it bobbed high above the stack of plain black tubes. Cool, that thing looks like a throne!

“Get yourself one of those tubes! I’m riding that blow-up chair down the river!” I exclaimed.

Bill sighed and shook his head. “That looks like a really bad idea!”

“No, it will be perfect! I’ll be able to spot the snags and warn all the rest of you!”

We hit the river early in the day. It had been a muggy night and we all yearned to be refreshed. Everyone pushed off about the same time, but I had trouble staying on my inflatable throne. Finally, I got my balance about right and set off on my regal float down the river.

The water that had seemed swift the previous trip, was more like a roaring maelstrom this summer. With a burst of panic, I realized that I sat too far above the water to use my hands to paddle along. My feet barely skimmed the surface. In fact, I could not steer at all. My throne careened hysterically from side to side, dragging me along thorn-laden riverside brush, banging me against boulders mid-stream.

A low-hanging branch tore the cap from my head and my illusions of a good end to this episode vanished. Once again, the Stanislaus River was eager to punish my innocent recklessness.

“Help! Help! I’m out of control!” I shouted.

My friend’s fifteen-year old son, Nate, heard my yell and seeing my predicament tried in vain to swim back to me.

Suddenly, I was thrown from my glistening throne into a swirling eddy near the bank. Ahead a fallen tree lay half-in and half-out of the water. The furious river hurled me at the trunk. Somehow I managed to drag myself part way up the slimy surface, but my hold was precarious.

By now, my husband had seen my throne float by without me and sensed I was in trouble. Bill pulled himself along the brush to reach the other side of the trunk. He grabbed my shaking hands. I was treading water to keep from being swept under the tree, terrified of being trapped in the partially submerged branches beyond. We hung on each side of the log, breathing hard and staring into each other’s eyes.

“If you can pull yourself up a few inches, I can grab you under the arms…” Bill started trying to work out a solution to our disaster, but I was too frightened to do anything but keep kicking my feet as fast as possible.

I started shivering, partly from shock, but mostly because the water was really cold. Bill gave me a hopeful smile and we were doing okay until I noticed that his warm brown eyes were shaded by the ugliest hat he owned, a bile green fishermen’s’ hat that in itself was a weird thing for him to wear because he hated fishing.  Oh my God, the last vision I am going to have of my husband is that dammed hat!

As I pondered why my husband seemed so attached to such a hideous hat, downstream rescue was underway. Word had flown that I had been dethroned. We learned later that our friend Craig pulled himself hand over hand up a thirty-foot high section of the bank to race to our perilous perch.

Before he could reach us, a deep voice called out. “You look like you’re in a jam. Hang on and we’ll get a rope to you!”

I turned my head to see a vision in blue jeans and red suspenders and no shirt climbing onto the fallen tree. A dead-on double for the Marlboro man smiled at me, “Swift water rescue practice today! We’ll get you out of there!” He tossed a rope to me and instructed me to slip it under my arms, a neat feat to accomplish without sliding from the trunk. Bill helped and soon I was secure and being hauled along on my stomach up the slope of the tree trunk and onto the bank. My bottom half was streaked with dirt and slime and my bathing suit top was sagging nearly to my waist, so it was not without a blush that I greeted my rescuer.

“Yeah, we’re from the Ripon Fire Department and we’re working on our swift-water rescue techniques this weekend. You saved one of us from playing victim!” Marlboro Man grinned as he tossed me a towel.

We haven’t been back to Caswell State Park since that misadventure. As our plans firm up for this years’ trip, I promise myself, I’ll relax on the beach and work on my tan and let the next generation find their own ways of challenging the Stanislaus.

Our plan was to camp every second night, staying in motels the other nights, except in Yellowstone where Dad had reserved a cabin near park headquarters. In preparation for camping, he picked up a used tent from the Army-Navy surplus store down the road. It was constructed of very heavy canvas, but sported an exterior frame. “Mister, it will be snap to hang the tent from those hooks. Easy as pie to pitch it every night”, the salesman had assured my dad. Dubious, with the help of a grinning neighbor my dad held a dry run of tent pitching in our backyard.

Dad also bought a two-burner Coleman stove and lantern and new sleeping bags for each of us. With the old picnic basket and a few banged-up pots and pans, we were fully equipped for camping out in the wilds of Nevada, Idaho and Montana. One bulky package Dad buried deep among the suitcases—it was a surprise for my mom, something that would really improve the whole camping in the wild experience for her.

At sunrise, we were all settled into our familiar seats in the nearly new 1960 Ford Fairlane sedan, Dad in the driver’s seat, Mom riding shotgun, me on the right in the back seat, Marian on the left and our youngest sister Ellen straddling the hump in the middle. Within a half mile, Marian cried, “I think I’m getting carsick, Mommy.”

“Stop and pull over, Jug. Make room for Marian in the front seat.” Mom said.

Ellen and I smiled as Marian clambered over the seat back–more room for the two of us to spread out. A few more miles down the road and Ellen asked in her plaintive little voice, “Daddy, when are we having a potty break? I really need to go.”

“Find a service station, Jug.”

“There won’t be one open at 6am, Meg!” Dad replied.

“Find a service station.” Mom retorted.

We pulled off the highway in Roseville and found an open station. Mom climbed out of the car, strode over to the restroom to check that it was clean enough for her baby girl.

“Go on, Ellen, hurry it up.” Dad urged.

After breakfast of bacon and eggs at a café in Auburn it was full steam ahead to the next potty stop somewhere near Colfax. We got to Rye Patch Reservoir in Nevada just at dusk. The local mosquitoes were there to greet us.

A fellow from a nearby campsite was willing to help my dad put up our tent.  I could hear my dad muttering as he drove in the stakes, “Damn ground is hard as stone. All gravel and these wooden stakes are the shits!”

Dad unzipped the tent door flap just in time for Marian to announce in a tearful tone, “Mommy, I have a really bad headache.” One of her migraines was coming on, so into the tent went Marian with Mom to comfort her. Dad opened a can of beans and went through half a box of matches getting the Coleman stove lit.

“Make yourself useful, Cathy! Stir the beans while I find the hot dogs.”

A while later he grunted, “No hot dogs, it’ll have to be beans and bread for dinner.”

As warm as it was when we arrived at Rye Patch, by bedtime it was chilly. My dad decided to forego erecting the pup tent he had brought along for himself and Mom. We crowded into the big tent and fell into that desperate sleep of the truly disgruntled.

The following night we stayed in a motor court just outside Twin Falls, Idaho. It was shabby, but clean. Not like the place in Umatilla the year before where Mom made us sleep on top of the covers and wouldn’t let us put our bare feet on the floor. Dad was up all that night carrying little girls to the bathroom.

In Jackson Hole it turned out the campground was full so we checked into a fancy new motel with a swimming pool right near the center of town. Jackson Hole was fun. We all got new cowboy hats, black for Dad and tan with silver trim for us girls. Mom decided to forego a cowboy hat so that Dad could buy her a pair of turquoise and silver earrings. Dad took us on a hike to Jenny Lake. He had forgotten his fishing gear so we didn’t have to pretend to enjoy fishing.

Just inside Yellowstone National Park, we stopped along the road to watch the other tourists get out of their vehicles to pose near the roly-poly brown bears. My parents had more sense and kept us inside the car although they did let us roll the windows down all the way as we were stuck there for a while and the nearly new Ford Fairlane sedan didn’t have air conditioning.

The log cabin at Yellowstone was a bit more rustic that Mom expected. It featured a rusty wood stove and a rickety table in the kitchenette. She announced, “We’ll have our meals at the lodge.”

We had just come back to the cabin from dinner when we heard a tremendous ruckus outside. My dad opened the door a few inches and peered out. We crowded around him and saw this kid running as fast as he could down the dirt path, yelling all the while, “I thought it was my brother! I thought it was my brother! But, it was a bear! It was a big bear!” It turned out the kid was taking the trash out to the nearby dump and bumped into a grazing bear on the way back.

After breathing the mud-pot fumes and admiring Old Faithful the next morning, we set out for the highlight of the trip in my dad’s imagination. He had been talking for weeks about visiting the headwaters of the Missouri River.

“We’ll hike right to the spot where Meriwether Lewis and George Clark discovered the headwaters!”

There was almost no one around when we reached the park that memorialized the journey of those adventurous souls across the North American continent. Mom decided to stay in the car and read, so my dad and sisters and I trekked off down the trail. After the usual squabble, we determined that I was Meriwether Lewis; Marian could play George Clark and Ellen, Sacajawea. Dad told us the whole story of the dangers that Lewis and Clark encountered and the bravery they displayed. The shore of the river was lined with reeds and wild geese flew up as we approached. The air was still and the only sound was the squishing of our white tennis shoes in the mud.

Mom didn’t like the looks of the campground next to the river, so Dad decided it was early enough to drive on a bit. The next campground was on a hillside and looked promising, with big old trees shading the campsites and a view for miles.  We got out and hiked up a path to a small fenced-in area. It was a pioneer graveyard. Although the wood grave-markers were weather-beaten, the names and dates were still visible.

We started reading from the markers, “Look, Mommy, a whole family died here…there are graves of little children.” Mom stiffened and turned away.

“We’re not camping here, Jug. Keep driving.”

Mom was angry all the way to the next campground. I was at an age when I understood that she got that way when other people would have been sad.

The road narrowed and tall trees started crowding in from both sides. We spotted a sign for “Flint Creek Campground.”

“Meg, we need to stop here. I don’t want to set up camp in the dark tonight,” my Dad pled.

My sisters and I tumbled out of the car into a sun-filled glade. It was perfect! Trees to climb, a creek to explore, flowers to pick! Perfect!

“Let’s get the tent pitched and then you can go play!” Dad shouted.

With no other grown man to help, setting up the tent was an organizational challenge. My dad put my mom on one corner, me on another and teamed my sisters on a third, while he took the fourth. “Now all together, raise your poles!” he yelled.

Three-fourths of the tent rose. My sisters were giggling and falling on each other. Their pole kept separating into two pieces. Their little hands weren’t strong enough to hold the sections together.

“Okay, you two go hold my corner, while I get your pole put back together,” he exclaimed. Marian and Ellen rushed to his corner, knocking my pole and me over on their way. Now only half of the tent stood upright, while the other half sagged to the ground.

Dad sighed, “We’ll start again…wait…where’s my duct tape?”

A long while later, the tent was raised, a bit lopsided and shaky, but good enough for one night.

My sisters and I were liberated from any more chores and we raced to the creek. We scrambled along the grassy bank, looking for tadpoles or polliwogs or turtles. Suddenly, a cry rang from Ellen as she slid down the slippery green slope into the foaming water. I grabbed the back of her shirt and pulled her to safety.

Mom took one look at her sodden youngest daughter and directed, “Jug, you need to get that fire going.”

Dad started his fire from some briquettes he had in the trunk of the car and sent Marian and me to pick up small branches. We got the fire going pretty good especially when we threw on some scraps of plywood that had been lying under the picnic table. At this point, Mom motioned for Dad to follow her into the tent for a conversation.

My sisters and I flopped onto the ground near the fire-pit. All at once, a bright sheet of flame peeled off from the burning plywood and floated onto Ellen’s bare foot. I jumped up and brushed it off with a stick but she now displayed a nasty burn besides the cuts and scrapes from her slide into the creek.

Conversation during dinner was strained.

“Can we make it all the way to Spokane tomorrow, do you think?” Mom asked anxiously.

My dad grumbled, “If we don’t have to stop for a potty break every ten minutes.”

“I’m sorry we picked a spot so far from the bathroom,” Mom complained. “That flashlight is going weak. I wish we had remembered fresh batteries.”

Dad sighed and then got a silly grin on his face. “Wait just a minute! I completely forgot!” He rushed over to the trunk and dug down through the mass of little girl clothes and other debris that obscured his surprise.

He tore open the box and pulled out a metal folding frame and a shiny white plastic toilet seat. “It’s a camping toilet!” he bragged. “Look, it goes together so neat and there are these little plastic bags…”

My mom’s mouth hung open.  “You think I am going potty in a little plastic bag?” she asked, her eyebrows lifted so high they almost disappeared into her hairline.

Dad looked crestfallen for just an instant and then smiled, “No, I don’t. I’ll build you a slit trench and set this over it. There is no one around here so it will be just fine.”

My dad had a lot of experience the previous winter digging trenches in our backyard due to some persistent drainage issues, so in no time, the pretty little camping toilet was perched over a neatly dug trench behind the tent.

We snuggled close that night. The temperature plummeted and our nice new sleeping bags were better suited for front room sleepovers than camping in the wilds of Montana in early June. In the middle of the night, a loud shouting and cursing awakened those of us who had managed to fall asleep. Dad struggled out of his sleeping bag and shot outside.

My sisters and I crawled to the open tent flap. Our parents were hanging on each other and laughing and crying at the same time. My mom was saying over and over, “I fell in your damn slit trench. The damn toilet collapsed and I fell in your damn slit trench!”

We packed up early the next morning and drove straight through to Spokane. I recall we made only one potty stop on the way.

We camped a few times after that, but always in a site right next to the bathroom.

During our trip to France in September 2000, the first magic moment was when we stepped off the escalator at Charles De Gaulle Airport and spied our best friends, Gayleen and Craig, waving at us from the waiting area at “The Meeting Place”, a special area set up for travelers to wait for others in their party. We had flown to Europe on separate flights because we have never managed to coordinate our frequent flier programs to benefit from the same airline’s largesse. Before we left California, we made plans to meet at the airport in Paris, but we were not confident that it would be easy to find each other. I speak some French, Bill, less and our friends were confirmed monolinguists at the time. “Quelle surprise!” The signage pointing to “The Meeting Place” was understandable to non-French readers and we met exactly where we had planned.

Our drive that afternoon was not so magical, or maybe it was, as we found ourselves lost in the countryside north of Paris.  We were aiming for the town of Vernon, just outside Giverny where we planned to visit the house of the Impressionist artist, Claude Monet. The odd thing was that at every crossroad, there were at least two signs pointing to Vernon, but in opposite directions. In our befuddled, jet-lagged state, we had a hard time keeping track of where we were headed in what became known to us as the “Vernon Vortex.”

The serenity of Monet’s house and gardens refreshed us and our day ended with a simple meal at a small hotel overlooking the Seine. The next morning, Bill and I arose early and strolled down to the river. Ancient plane trees shaded the grassy banks of the river; a silvery mist whispered above the water, the sunrise was suffused with shell pink and coral hues. Was this one of the settings that inspired Monet?

We drove on that day to the port town of Honfleur where we began our gustatory tour with lunch of sautéed skate and steamed mussels at one harbor side café and ile flottant and Café Americain at another. I found the first in my collection of Eglises Ste. Catherine, this one a 15^th century church built by shipwrights, constructed of dark wood planks and roofed with a structure resembling the bottom of an overturned ship.

We headed west, noting that even at some distance from Vernon, many crossroads still bore directional signs for that quaint town. We had no reservations for the night, just the hope that somewhere we would find a Chambre d’hôte, one of those small bed and breakfast places that pepper the French countryside. After a few disappointments we followed the now familiar blue and white Chambre d’hôte sign to a rustic, yet well-kept farmyard.

“Bonjour, madame, avez-vous deux chambers pour quatre personnes avec petit dejeuner?” I spoke with confidence, maybe even a tinge of bravado, as the proprietor stepped out to greet us. And then, I lost all memory of the French language. I was humiliated. I was supposed to be the translator for our group, yet could contribute only an occasional, “Oui” or “Bien!” as my husband and monolingual best friend acquired two rooms for the night with breakfast the next day, all accomplished with hand gestures.

I did manage to understand that the building Madame led us to was built as a barn in the 14^th century and converted recently to a guesthouse. The stout outer walls were fashioned of dark grey stone, but as we ascended the steep stairs the atmosphere lightened. Our cheery chambers were decorated in frilly Victorian, pink and blue with lots of ruffles and poufy pillows and boasted English style stand-up showers. No hunching in a slippery tub to hose off!

After stuffing ourselves at lunch, we had planned to skip dinner, but the long road trip awakened our appetites. The innkeeper marked on our map the location of a hotel in a nearby town where we most likely could find a meal at what was now late evening.

It was a short jaunt through farm country to Pontaubault where we drove right to the hotel and the regionally famous restaurant where the specialty of the house was Poulet Roti avec Frites. Mmm…chicken and fries and a bottle or two of wine and an owner/chef who spoke excellent English—our meal promised to be a great one.

The owner/chef also seemed to be the waiter that evening. As we lingered over our wine, satiated with the succulent roasted chicken and crispy, yet tender fries, he stopped at our table to hand us our check.

“Please, have a glass of wine with us,” my always friendly husband asked.

Our conversation began with the differences between France and the US.

“So, tell me, why are you Americans so upset with your President Clinton over his affair? In France, all of our great leaders have mistresses!” Our host peered over his rimless glasses and shook his pony-tailed head at the silliness of American politics.

It was hard to explain to him the Puritan morality that permeates our political culture. And, our own feelings were mixed. While we all agreed that impeaching a president over something as personal as his sex life was ridiculous, we were uncomfortable with the fact that our leader had risked so much for his carnal desires.

Our host shared that the French have no lofty expectations for their leaders. “They are men! And powerful! Of course, they will have mistresses. It is accepted here. We don’t care what they do with their personal lives.”

We talked about the role of America in the world and we felt that faint sense of disquiet that comes when one’s own country is criticized even if done in a jocular manner. Finally, we turned to talking about our hometowns and our host was thrilled to learn that we all lived near San Francisco.

“Of course, I have been there! It is the most beautiful city in the world!” We were surprised that someone who probably spent years in our favorite city of Paris would have such fervent admiration for San Francisco.

We watched him close up for the night and left with some reluctance, urging, “Call us the next time you visit San Francisco!”

It was close to ten o’clock, but we were wide-awake and eager to explore. On our agenda for the next day was a visit to Mont St. Michel, a rocky isle just off the coast and site of a centuries old monastery and cathedral.

“Let’s go out there now!” our friends begged.

“We’re ready if you are!” we replied.

As we drove the narrow up and down road in the skittish moonlight, clouds obscured our view of the horizon and rain pelted the car. We caught fitful glimpses of the acres of tall corn that lined the road.

“I could be back in Iowa,” Craig remarked, claiming that the scene was a near replica of the area near his birthplace.

The highway continued up and down and at last from one of the higher hills we spotted in the far distance the distinctive shape we all recognized as Mont St. Michel. The road left the bucolic countryside and straggled through a half-modern/half-ancient seaside town.

“The causeway is open!” we all chimed. “We can drive across!”

On either side of the stone causeway, roiling spume signaled that the tide was racing into the bay. Cars bounced on the inrushing waves that flooded the lower parking lot near the base of the island, careless owners having ignored the horns that warned of the incoming tide. We shuddered at the thought of pilgrims in years past struggling on sandaled feet across the treacherous quicksand, rushing to reach the sacred precinct before the fast moving water overtook them.

As we approached the island, the thick cloud cover broke apart.

Suddenly, in front of us towered the ancient pilgrimage church. Lights shining upwards from the top of the cathedral illuminated billowing cumulus clouds.  A flock of dark birds flew across the brilliant lower cloud. The birds wheeled skyward and were instantly transmuted into silver as they sped against the dark upper reaches of the cloudbank.

We were each overcome with the beauty of the site and the power of nature. I am not a religious person, but at that moment I felt an intense surge of something akin to spiritual awe.

Finding a safe parking place in an upper lot, we embarked on a midnight tour of Mont St. Michel. We entered as thousands of pilgrims had for hundreds of years through the tall arched gateway. The church and monastery were closed, but the rampart was open and that was our destination this stormy night. We trudged past heavily shuttered shops and barred doors, treading on worn cobblestones, slick with moisture. The rain was coming down harder now and runnels of water trickled down the stone steps, but we climbed on. Out of breath, we reached the highest part of the encircling wall. The view was expansive, the bay to the south, the Atlantic Ocean to the north and we four friends stood alone, sharing a sublime experience, a hour of magic that we have never forgotten.

We returned to Mont St. Michel the next morning, lured by tales of the best omelets in France at La Mere Poulard. Actually, they were probably the best omelets in the world. We watched as our eggs were cooked in a huge copper skillet over an open oak fire. Twelve eggs for four portions, plus a pound of butter! The airy delights stood about six inches tall and imploded when attacked with our forks. Craig doused his eggs with sautéed mushrooms. Bill chose winkles and whelks, spooned from a miniature copper saucepan onto the golden butter flecked surface of his omelet. We women were satisfied with pure eggs and butter.

After our hearty meal, we searched the sunshine-filled streets for the mystical place we experienced during our nocturnal ramble. Winding lanes, deserted at midnight, bustled with throngs of bus-borne tourists.  Shops, dark and mysterious the night before, opened wide to reveal troves of souvenirs manufactured in some surely non-Christian lands.

We reflected on the crowded daytime Mont St. Michel as we drove away.  “When you think about it,” I suggested, “this site has always had hordes of visitors. It was built as a pilgrimage site and even though the dress and trinkets are different now, people still come here on some sort of quest, whether for religious reasons or an interest in art and history.”

Whatever our own quests had been, our nighttime wander through passageways of Mont St. Michel was a magic moment. We drove away from the island imbued with a passion for travel that has only become stronger over the years. As we plan each trip, I wonder, what is the moment that will create magic for me this time?

This new scanner must charge for four hours before first use, so I may not be able to christen it until tomorrow. In the meanwhile, I need to plan my strategy for reducing our enormous collection of photos to digital images.

Wandering around our house, one would think from the dearth of photos on display that we don’t have many. Oh, we do post photos of our grandchildren and our friends’ children and grandchildren on our refrigerator, but other than that one shrine, our family photos are unobtrusive. Our walls are covered with paintings and prints, most evoking a place we have been.  Horizontal surfaces hold curios from our travels, rocks collected from a beach or canyon, glass sculptures purchased from a gallery in Carmel or Paris.

There are some exceptions, special photos that we like to see every day. Bill’s dad smiles at us from the frame of a studio sized photo, which leans casually against the living room wall near my piano. On a table across from him, my parents laugh together in a black and white photo shot at Duffy’s Bar in San Francisco in the early days of their romance. Framed photos of our grandchildren grin at us in the den, a few family pictures hang out in my office and we pose self-consciously in a solitary wedding photo in our bedroom.

Hidden behind the doors of our den closet, on the other hand, are a dozen shoeboxes stuffed with sorted photos and nearly that many elaborate albums.

My husband and I have always taken far too many photos when we travel. Every vacation ended with a dash to the drugstore to drop off a dozen or more rolls of film. On pick-up-the-photos day (after gasping at financial impact of our profligate photography), we would hunch over the photos spread across the dining room table until our backs cramped, selecting the best shots and arranging them in our large format albums.  Then the photo books would reside on the living room coffee table for months or years while we cajoled friends and family to enjoy the record of our adventures in the parks of the southwest or the streets of New York or the canals of France.

Other albums document our family as it has grown over the years. Pictures of kids and then grandkids fill the pages of small and large books, some a record of a special year, others dedicated to one or another of our six grandchildren. Keeping the albums current was time-consuming and the updates dribbled to a halt when we bought our first digital camera and stopped printing all but a few shots.

Now, the days of pasting print photos in bulky albums are over for us. I create virtual albums using iPhoto, happy to edit and rearrange to create a flow of perfect images that tell the story of our latest journey or family event. We download the results to our iPods. As we carry those cherished devices with us at all times we are always ready to share a few photos or a slide show.

My goal this month is to work through the boxes of photos, scanning some, discarding others, but ultimately unloading years of stuff and freeing up space for things we actually use.

This January we attended a much smaller MacWorld than before, smaller because Apple no longer takes part and perhaps because the economy has constrained travel expenses for many companies. I suspect that some businesses opt out because of the plethora of other ways to market new products.

Despite the small size of the show, we carried away a long list of technology needs. We don’t usually buy at the show, but we take advantage of the run-of-show discounts available online.

One new device on our list was a personal loudspeaker for our iPods. I ordered the FoxL by Soundmatters.  This sleek speaker weighs only 9.5 ounces, measures a mere 5.6 by 2.2 x 1.4 inches yet delivers room-size sound. The specs state that the optimal listening experience is within 1.5 to 3 feet, but I find that this tiny, yet mighty unit overflows our large master bedroom with whatever music I choose.

The specs also say that more volume can be had by connecting the speaker to AC power, but so far running on the battery has been completely satisfactory. Music from Beethoven to the Beatles has soared from this speaker with great fidelity. The bass is amazing, so booming that the FoxL arrives with a small rubber mat designed to keep the unit from walking away from whatever surface it sits on. I like that the speaker can use Bluetooth to connect to our iPods, although the package includes a cable for direct connection.

So, did I buy a need or a want? My justification was that we needed the FoxL for travel. On many occasions we yearn for background music during our stays in thin-walled hotel rooms. The speaker fits well with my goal of carrying as little weight as possible when we travel in Europe.  I will be happy to pack this petite powerhouse in my carry-on knowing that we will enjoy superb sound wherever our travels take us. So, this purchase was a qualified need in that respect.

In the meanwhile, the speaker resides on my bedside table. I like to listen to music while winding down from the day, but wearing ear buds in bed was much too solitary. Now I share my music with my husband as we drift off to sleep. Definitely a need fulfilled!

A month later, my husband and I stumbled off our flight at Orly Airport, trundled our over-stuffed bags through French customs and crawled onto the RER train to Paris. To say we were jet-lagged would be a gross misrepresentation of our mental status. For some reason that I can’t recall, we had decided to make a stopover at JFK instead of taking a non-stop flight to Paris. We had been traveling for about sixteen hours and were in a state of giddy weariness.

Our initial view of the Paris suburbs from our smeary train window was marred by graffiti scarred warehouses and dingy factory buildings. We ignored the less than scenic landscape and rehearsed our plan to reach the hotel in time to meet Ginny who had taken an earlier flight. “Get off the RER at Chatelet Les Halles, then take the Metro to Opera station, change there for Richelieu Drouot, walk a block to the Hotel Chopin. We can do that!”

Debarking at Chatelet, we hefted our suitcases up the marble steps to a lobby area that connected to the Metro platform. The signage was clear enough that we walked right up to a large display illustrating the routes from that station. I stood by our luggage, a pair of twenty-one inch rolling bags with our carry-ons hooked over the handles. Bill perused the route board while I called out suggestions. I clutched my purse strap in my left hand, rested my right on my carry-on and leaned my hip into Bill’s suitcase.

Having confirmed our route, Bill strolled back to me. Immediately his face fell, “Where is my carry-on?” I spun to his bag, alarmed. Bill’s small black duffel bag had disappeared from the top of his suitcase. We were alone in the lobby and as far as we knew had been alone since climbing up the stairs from the RER platform.

“Did you hear anyone?”

“No! Nothing! Geez, what was in that bag?” I stammered.

“Oh, just my Minolta, extra lens, film–oh, no, my pills! Tell me you have the extras!”

Due to our paranoia about Bill’s heart medication, we had decided to take doubles of all of his pills. I patted the purse slung across my chest under my jacket.

“Yes, they’re here—no problem!”

“What do we do now?” Bill wondered.

“There has to be a Tourist Information desk or police station here. Let’s go tell them we were robbed!”

The staff at the TI was attentive, but not encouraging. Apparently, our experience was not unheard of at this station. “Madame, perhaps you should file a report at the police station.”

After obtaining directions from the sympathetic clerk, we emerged from the dim underground to a glorious day in Paris, a cerulean sky veiled with a gossamer mist, a light breeze wafting through the plane trees. Along the broad boulevard, gilded statues of heroic figures glistened in the mid-morning sunshine. Bill and I took deep breaths and grinned at each other. Okay, so we were robbed. We were robbed in Paris! Suddenly our mishap was becoming an adventure.

A non-descript building housed the local police station. A haughty female guard barred our entry through the metal and glass doors until I managed to explain that we were there to report a theft. She escorted us down a grimy linoleum floored hallway that opened up to a cavernous, high-ceilinged room filled with gendarmes. It appeared that we had walked in just at shift change. Everywhere I looked there were gorgeous men in uniforms.

On a platform at one end of the room loomed a tall desk bedecked with French flags. Behind it presided a broad shouldered man in a crisply pressed and be-medaled shirt. It was obvious from his imperious stature that this was the man in charge. Le Capitaine continued to bark orders at his subordinates as we approached his domain with a sense of nervous apprehension. At last he took notice of the two bedraggled tourists staring up at him. He glared down at us over his long Gallic nose, flicked the perfectly curled end of his huge mustache, raised a thick dark eyebrow and growled, “Madame?”

I blurted, “Monsieur, nous sommes Americains, parlez-vous Anglais?”

He roared to the room at large, “Parlez-vous Yanqui?”

Seconds later we were surrounded by a group of very young gendarmes. The man at the desk bellowed several names and three of the policeman ushered us out of the hall into a side room.

With gestures, they encouraged us to sit as they took their places at the other side of the scarred wooden table. The redhead sat in the middle, positioned in front of an ancient typewriter.

Our interrogation began. It didn’t take us too long to realize that neither my college French nor our pocket sized phrase book were up to the task of explaining what had happened, what was stolen and our need to file a report for insurance purposes.

Bill hit on the idea of pantomiming the theft. He stood and pointed at me repeatedly, while flapping his hands behind his back. I interjected, “Un sac noir! Un petit sac noir!” at what seemed to be appropriate moments. Three earnest young faces gazed at us with astonishment. The gendarmes put their handsome heads together. Pausing occasionally for a hiccup of polite laughter, they spoke rapidly for a few minutes. Turning back to us with a broad smile, the blond pushed a legal pad to Bill and motioned for him to draw. Bill’s drawing was better than his acting. He was able to show the gendarmes where and how we were robbed.

By this time, I regained my composure and rattled off in fractured French a list of what was stolen. It was a struggle to explain about Bill’s drugs. We were concerned that the thief would sample the pills–quite a risk with digoxin. My redheaded hero inserted a seven-part form into the typewriter and with two fingers began recording our story. Time didn’t matter now. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Bill stifling a smile as I carried on a stilted flirtation with the other two gendarmes. “You look awfully happy for someone who just got robbed!” he whispered.

Three parts of the form tucked away in my purse, we rushed from the gendarmerie. We had planned to meet our friend Ginny at the Hotel Chopin and now we were running late. Reluctant to trust fate on the metro system again, we hailed a taxi to take us to our hotel.

The wild ride past the Arc de Triomphe and down the Champs Elysees rocketed our adrenalin to even higher levels. Within minutes we were deposited on the sidewalk outside the Passage Jouffroy, a 19^th century covered arcade that led to our hotel. Happily, we spotted Ginny lounging at a table outside the Café Zinc. We checked our luggage at the hotel desk and joined her for a beer. She didn’t say a word as we ordered a couple of dark Belgian brews and snickered at us when we goggled at the price–six francs for a Pelforth Brune! Robbed again.

Feeling refreshed, if poorer, we dumped our bags on the bed, changed our shoes and headed out to explore the neighborhood of Les Grand Boulevards. As I stepped onto the second floor landing, I saw below a familiar head of silver hair. “Papa!” I called. My father looked up with a weary grin. “Bonjour!” I added. My sister Marian greeted me as she reached the landing. Famished, we decided to rouse Ginny and walk up to Montmartre for a late lunch.

As we searched for a café serving dejeuner mid afternoon, I decided that I needed to share our morning adventure with Dad and Marian. “A couple of amateurs!” Dad chortled. “You two shouldn’t be left alone in a strange city.”

“Innocents abroad!” my sister sneered.

Bill protested that the Chatelet station had become the locus of a huge eastern European pickpocket ring. “Minutes after our bag was stolen a young man ran up to us saying that his father had just been robbed on the stairway!” Our explanation did nothing to block the sarcastic comments that were now flung at us not only by my family, but also by Ginny.

Lunch was delicious; garlic-infused roasted chicken with the world’s most sublime frites, crispy and golden, melting in our mouths. We resented the continued razzing about our supposed lack of travel savvy and were secretly a bit relieved when our fellow travelers decided to return to the Hotel Chopin for naps.

“Watch yourselves on the Metro!” I reminded them. “Those trains are crammed with thieves!”

They laughed at me as they descended to the station.

Bill and I enjoyed a lazy afternoon prowling the narrow streets of Montmartre. Despite the exhaustion that was overtaking us, we decided to walk back to our hotel. As we straggled up the passage towards the entryway, we met my Dad and sister hurtling past. They were agitated, my Dad’s face flushed, my sister about to blow her top.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“American Express–we can’t talk! We have to get there before it closes!” my Dad replied.

“What’s the big deal?”

“Dad got robbed on the Metro! His traveler’s checks were stolen!” my sister explained.

A huge guffaw was ready to fly from my throat, but a covert glance at my father convinced me to shut up for the moment. I would have my revenge that evening as Dad admitted his experience over dinner.

“I was stepping off the train and two young guys squeezed past me on either side. When the train pulled away, I reached for my fanny pack. It was unzipped and my checks were gone!”

Considering the scorn with which our similar story had been met, Bill and I were quite moderate in our reaction to Dad’s tale. We smirked a bit and put forth a few, “I told you so’s” and then dropped it–well, not quite. The four of us made a solemn pledge that neither story would ever reach my mother’s ears. If she found out that her precious family members were crime victims, Mom would never let us travel abroad again!

That evening, Ginny begged Bill and me to accompany her to a sidewalk café that she remembered from her post-college European trip. She ordered a Campari and soda and snorted when we each ordered a six-franc beer. Her face was a study when she picked up the bill for her drink—fifteen francs!

Being robbed on arrival did not prevent my husband and me from becoming smitten with the City of Light. Our encounter with the French police became the cherished first piece of the mosaic that is our Paris.