Maybe “the world” is a bit of an exaggeration, but between the two of us tomorrow, Allen and I will set foot in France, Germany, Ireland, and the United States. Not bad for a day’s work. So yes, we’re flying separately because we bought our tickets different times. I’m taking Lufthansa through Frankfurt, and I remember a little too well how that turned out the last time. Meanwhile, Allen is flying through Dublin on Aer Lingus, which he hadn’t heard of before this trip and which he therefore says as if he were mouthing the name of a tricky disease. Both of us arrive at Dulles in the early afternoon, and Allen’s parents will be picking us up and bringing us to our house in DC.

Our (mostly) packed bags are gigantic. It’s ridiculous. Though they’re the same bags we came over with, we’re looking at them and wondering why they are so big. And - the horror! - why are they so full? I dread the overweight fines that may be in our future.

We’re doing very little today aside from packing, emptying the fridge, and cleaning the apartment from top to bottom. Our landlord invited us to dinner, and while we appreciate it, we probably shouldn’t have accepted. We probably won’t get out much today.

On the other hand, we spent the entire day out yesterday. We rose early to “finish packing.” It seems like we finish packing every day, and then we have to do it again the next. Once we were both showered (with the other packing during non-shower time), we took a pile of clothing and shoe donations to Secours Catholique in the 7th, which allowed us to go to the Grande Epicerie of Bon Marche one last time. We walked back towards Saint Germain, stopping at a couple of tablecloth stores, one jacquard and one provencal.

We met Mimi and Jack and the kids at the park at Rue des Ecoles and Rue de Monge, and all of us ate delicious sandwiches from Kaiser, spread out on the grass. We were joined by Samantha, formerly of Sam de Bretagne fame, and Kerry and family. Spending a couple of hours at a playground is a great way to say goodbye. I didn’t cry (I was a little surprised), but I think it may be because we’ll see Mimi and Jack and Michael and Katharine in August.

It seems so much harder to say goodbye to kids, particularly the tiny ones, because they won’t remember you the way you will them, and you may not ever gain back the level of closeness you had with them if you don’t live nearby again. I will miss the way that Katharine says “shoul” when she wants to get on your shoulders and the way Michael shows you all his artwork from his four years of life every time you walk in the door. I suppose I could say I’ve been fortunate enough to know many kids well enough to miss them like that.

Enough quasi-depressing reminicenses. On with the day! After the picnic, goodbyes and repeated hugs, we went back to the tablecloth store to buy a jacquard tablecloth and napkins. And then we were poor. Ha! Coming back, we ran into the Gay Pride Parade. They were not messing around when it came to noise level and number of people. I don’t think Katharine and Michael had a nap after all. We skirted the parade route but benefited from the music and energy all the same.

The next outing was to Shakespeare & Company books, where we sold a bunch of hardcovers (for about 50 centimes each). We walked out with 7 euros, which we immediately spent at FNAC for new headphones for my ipod. Allen and I had decided we either needed books for the ride over or an audiobook (and therefore, headphones for me, as mine have been out of commission for months). We came back home and purchased the audiobook of The Omnivore’s Dilemma for our ipods. I can’t wait to listen to it on the plane!

Phew! But the day wasn’t over for us yet. We had reservations at l’A.O.C. for one last nice dinner in Paris. We sat outside, the weather finally cool. I sipped my last Cerdon aperitif there and learned that it was in fact a sparkling rose wine (rather than a mixed drink, as I thought). Perhaps I’ll be able to track it down. I decided from the outset to skip dessert in favor of a delicious salmon and ginger tartare. (Not a bad decision. The salmon tartare was outstanding. Plus, how fun is it to say tartare au saumon et gingembre?) Both Allen and I chose one of the night’s specials for our plat: lambshanks with potato “palettes.” Also an excellent choice, but then, we were at A.O.C. Allen chose a moelleux au chocolat for dessert, his favorite. When I said I wasn’t having dessert to the waiter he said, “Perhaps you’d like a little spoon?” I smiled back and him and said it might be useful. And was it! Allen’s dessert was delicious. We returned home afterwards happily full of delicious French food.

What more is there to say? A lot of people have been asking me how I feel about leaving Paris and coming back to the States. I feel just the same as I did when we came here last year. I’m happy to go but sad to leave.

No, I didn’t see Daniel Radcliffe. But I did see a life-sized Lego Harry Potter. AND Hagrid. And of course I took pictures.

I saw Harry on the way in, and Hagrid on the way back to Paris. In some perverse way, I was happy we missed our flight so I could take a picture of Hagrid. I mean, otherwise, this wouldn’t have been documented for you at all! And I know my Weird Tour is important to you. (If this were in Paris, it would totally join the Weird Tour. So I guess it will just have to expand to be my Weird Tour of the World.)

I realize this is probably an advertisement for a Lego model of Hogwarts, but if anyone wants to join me in a summer project of building Hermione or Buckbeak, just let me know. I might have some time on my hands.

On Monday, March 10, Allen’s birthday, we spent the entire morning packing and preparing to leave Malta again. This actually didn’t take Mom very long, as the airlines had lost her luggage on the way in, and despite daily phone calls to the airport and daily promises from airport staff, her clothes had never arrived at our hotel.

We didn’t have time for lunch, but we picked up a few snacks in the deli before our taxi arrived. Our ride to the airport was much smoother then when we first arrived in Malta (when I thought I was surely going to throw up during the entire vacation). We checked in with no fanfare and then went to inform the luggage services that we were leaving Malta, should my mother’s bags arrive later.

“We tried to call you, but we couldn’t reach your hotel, and we left a message on your phone.” That is what the liars at luggage services in Malta said when they revealed that my mother’s bags had indeed arrived. However, Mom had called just two days before - in fact, she had called daily until the fifth day (when she found out that Alitalia would give her a 50 euro a day allowance for purchases made on the first four days only). So the luggage must have arrived on the sixth day since our arrival in Malta, the day before, and we highly doubt they called (and there was no message on the phone).

It was all fine and good (better even) that my mom got her luggage back, but since we didn’t remotely predict this would happen, we’d already checked in, and we now needed to go check back in. Or my mom did. But eventually, we all made our way onto our flight, which was delayed. (I think if I counted, I would find that nine out of the last ten flights I’ve taken have been delayed.) I tried to take my normal zen approach to things I can’t control. C’est-a-dire, I knew we’d miss our connection in Milan.

Touching down in Milan, Allen and I had about ten minutes (must have been) to catch our flight. We said goodbye to my parents (not really sure when we’d see them again because their flight to Paris was purportedly delayed already) and ran - yes, ran - through the airport. We arrived at our gate at 8:15 pm, just as our plane was starting its taxi. In retrospect, I wasn’t sure why we ran, except it seems you should always try at least, even if you know you’re going to fail.

We panted a bit before figuring out what to do next. At the transfer desk, we were informed that we could catch a flight the next morning around 7 am. Unlike on my trip to the US when Lufthansa/United shafted me, Alitalia representatives quickly told us we’d have a hotel, dinner, and breakfast provided to us for the inconvenience. The whole process was taken care of in moments. In fact, we got out of line just as travelers from our Malta - Milan flight who’d also missed the Paris flight started to trickle over. (This only goes to show that we were the only ones who ran - either they are all smarter than us, or the need to try in the face of failure is an American sensibility, or both.) “Look at it this way,” I said to Allen of the delay, “Now there’s no chance I’ll be deported on your birthday.“ 

We decided we should try to find my parents before their flight left. We got lucky. My parents’ flight was actually cancelled, so they’d been sent to the same desk (in a different terminal) that had taken care of us. While trying to get their mess sorted (the cancelled flight was Air France, while our missed flight was Alitalia), they picked up Jo, a Bulgarian college student in a similar situation. My parents were told to pick up their luggage before going to speak to the Air France desk about hotel and meals, and Jo likewise, so as we walked towards the baggage claim, Jo caught up and asked if she could come with us all.

The five of us headed to the baggage claim, where we were told our bags would come out eventually (and eventually was the only way to describe how they arrived). As we stood there, a man with a German-sounding accent walked up behind us and started shouting over our heads, “Where the bleep is my luggage? Get our luggage out there right now!” It sounded like the hatch on the plane was somehow stuck, and the patient man behind the counter told him the luggage would be out as soon as they could get it there. “I don’t have time to wait!” the angry man yelled, “You will deliver my luggage to my hotel.” The man in luggage services shook his head, “No, sir. You have to wait here.” This wasn’t acceptable (of course) to the angry man, “It is your duty to deliver my luggage.” (This made us want to laugh, if we hadn’t been a bit afraid of the angry man.) “No, sir. We only deliver luggage if it is lost.” Without missing a beat, the angry man replied, “Where is my luggage? I don’t see it, so it must be lost!” Fortunately, at this point, we were leaving the desk.

Mom, Dad, and Jo headed upstairs to try to get the hotel situation sorted while Allen and I stayed in the baggage claim to wait for the luggage. Our luggage came first, together, and then after a long wait, Dad’s luggage appeared. At this point, we were fearful that Mom’s luggage would have been lost again (since it was checked after our other luggage). But after another 20 or so minutes, it arrived. Since my parents and Jo hadn’t come back yet, we headed back upstairs, where I called to let the Marriott Champs-Elysees know about my parents delayed arrival while they finished hotel arrangements with Alitalia and Air France. (Ultimately, Air France made the argument that they’d cancelled the flight three hours in advance, so they had no responsibility. My parents pointed out that when we checked in, their flight was listed as suspended, rather than cancelled. However, Alitalia saved the day.) Then we all headed back downstairs for Jo to look for her luggage, which turned out to be temporarily lost, before heading to the hotel.

Everything about our stay in Milan was pleasant (aside from having to do it in the first place). A shuttle picked us up from the airport and arranged pickup for the next day. The staff at the Grand Hotel Milan Malpensa were very friendly. They asked Mom if Jo was her daughter when they arranged for rooms next to each other. Mom said, “She is for tonight. But that’s my real daughter.” (Meanwhile Allen and I had a room on the floor above - and we chuckled together about sharing a wall with my parents on our wedding night.) Poor Jo asked if she could join us for dinner, which of course she could, which we expected her to! So we all threw our bags in our rooms, which looked quite comfortable.

Dinner in the hotel restaurant was a simple but yummy prescribed menu. We made a lot of lame jokes about Allen’s birthday dinner. We had a breaded filet of fish (which Allen doesn’t normally like, but it wasn’t too fishy) and some tiny pasta with sparkling and still water, and when we had cleaned our plates, dessert was set in front of us. The dessert was very good - some kind of fluffy meringue cake (Mom said something about Baked Alaska, but I’m not actually familiar with that dessert). We’d hoped for coffee, but beggars can’t be choosers. At least we weren’t sleeping in the airport or paying for our own hotel rooms (thank you very much, Alitalia, and no thank you to lame United/Lufthansa).

When we returned to our room, I was very surprised to see this:

It gave me paranoid pause for about three seconds before I laughed and reached for the camera. Talk about personalized service. (I have to say, there was a slight twinge of satisfaction to see my name there and not Allen’s, as we have all manner of difficulty getting my name on things like utility bills or the car deed even when we try to put me as the primary contact because America still finds it simpler to list the male first. And Allen has never been asked to provide my social security number to gain access to an account, but all that’s a series of other stories.) So, there I am.

Unfortunately, our bus back to the airport left at 5:30 am. We were supposed to have a 4:30 am wake-up call, but the man at the desk was actually sleeping when Mom called him frantically at 4:45 am to find out what time it was. (After which, he called us immediately.) Still, we all managed to shower and pile onto the bus and board a plane to Paris. We said goodbye to Jo in the baggage services area, where they were promising to deliver her bags later that day. And we left the airport with nary an official looking at our passports. France, thank you for taking me back.

We’re back from Malta, and while I haven’t posted an account of our trip yet, I wanted to take care of a few housekeeping tasks to keep you up to date!

First of all, I’ve been cataloguing and captioning my pictures throughout the trip, so I was able to upload them all tonight. Check the Picasa link on the left, or try this one for Malta, and don’t forget Gozo. Be forewarned; there are 540 pictures between the two albums. So I’ve also posted an album of highlights from our trip.

Second, I’d like to answer some questions for you. So here are the questions I wanted to cover while on my trip. Let’s say I did some research.

Will it actually rain the whole time we’re in Malta? Actually, it hardly rained at all! We did get stuck in some miserable drizzle on Saturday, but the rain warmed the weather a little. Most of the vacation was sun, sun, and more sun. I didn’t wear my jacket one day.

What is there to do there really? What? How did I not already know how much there is to do in Malta? In fact, I’m sorry I didn’t because we missed out on the Hypogeum, a megalithic cave system, because we hadn’t reserved tickets in advance. But we could have stayed another week and stayed busy. Some of my favorites were the Azure Window on Gozo and the fishing village of Marsaxlokk.

Will we get in a car accident in the country with the highest road accident rate in Europe? We almost witnessed a few. And in the courtesy shuttle back from Valletta, we almost hit a bus. A British woman with pink hair said to the driver, “Oh, you just missed him. Don’t worry - we’ll get him next time.”

Will Allen throw up on the plane? Despite portents that made me assign a 90% probability of vomit on this vacation, there was none! Allen’s flu went away, and I survived motion sickness scares from taxis, buses, airport shuttles, airplanes, and very small boats on very big waves. Malta is full of miracles.

Will Mom and I do anything but stitch? I accomplished very little on this front.

Will we return to France totally broke? Suffice it to say, yes.

Will I be allowed back into France with my original entry visa? Another Maltese miracle. I hate to say this out loud, but no one looked at my passport when I arrived in France. I don’t mean that no one noticed my visa. I mean, no one asked to see my passport at all. Vive la France!

For Allen’s birthday today, we flew to Milan and booked a swanky hotel with a delicious dinner.

Oops, that’s not exactly how it happened. We did fly to Milan (leaving Malta), but Alitalia put us up in the hotel and (thankfully) provided us dinner. Oh, air travel…

Happy birthday, Allen, all the same!

We took a fantastic hike today, covering much of the northern end of Malta. I suspect it was over 10 miles long, but when I went to Gmaps Pedometer to check it out, I was surprised to find that none of the roads in Malta are mapped on Google! I confirmed this on Google Maps as well. (Search for “Malta” on Google Maps. It’s kind of funny to see the unmarked form of the islands.)

So, no exact mileage for our crazy walk. But it was five hours long, involved several bays and two coasts, and even more threats to our life as we walked along the side of the Maltese roads. (Half was on rough terrain, but on the way home, we opted for road travel.)

Other updates on our trip to Malta:

Still no luggage for my Mom. Has anyone had luck having an airline reimburse them for lost luggage?

I have seen at least 50 cats, usually in very large groups. Today I saw 15 cats in a small pen with one sunning on the tin roof.

According to Google Malta, “inhossni xxurtjat” is how you say “I feel lucky.” At least, that is what is written on that search button.

Divorces are not legal in Malta. If you are married here, there is no divorce law to apply!

The Mediterranean is exactly as blue as you imagine it, and unfortunately tiramisu gelato is also exactly as rich as you imagine it.

…sitting in the lobby of one of Malta’s nicest resorts, listening to an ABBA CD.

The short update is that Alitalia lost my Mom’s luggage (yesterday, and it hasn’t arrived yet), the resort and the weather are beautiful, no one has thrown up yet (but I’d put money on that not holding - and yes, there will be an entire post about motion sickness sooner or later), no car accidents yet (though the intervention of a series of miracles - also see Motion Sickness, above), and Malta is so nice that I’m ready to make the Mediterranean my home again right now.

There was something in the air that night, the stars were bright, Fernando…

Air travel is much less aggravating when you have all the time in the world to arrive at your destination…which is why I can’t imagine how I would have survived my return flight(s) to DC if I were actually on a deadline.

At 7:30 am on Friday, December 7, I left my apartment, caught a train, and arrived at Charles de Gaulle airport with time to spare. As I checked in, the cheery man behind the counter let me know that Frankfurt was having awful weather (particularly the wind), but that everything was currently running on time. I enjoyed my conversation with him - and I should have, as it was the last good news I’d hear for the day.

At 11:30 am, my flight to Frankfurt departed, and the flight attendants assured us that though we were delayed, everything leaving Frankfurt would be too. We arrived in Frankfurt two hours later to clear, sunny skies; simultaneously, my flight to Washington departed on schedule. 

Soon, I was the proud new owner of boarding passes to Chicago O’Hare and then to Dulles. A Lufthansa representative also gave me a voucher for lunch. My new flight wouldn’t board until 4:15 pm, and with the additional time of flying to DC from Chicago,  I’d arrive at midnight. My itinerary would now include an additional 8 hours of travelling (from 14 hours to 22).

At 6 pm, after another delay to allow other passengers to arrive, connect, and catch the last flight to the US for the day, our plane finally took off. As we flew across the Atlantic, I forced myself to stay awake by reading, doing logic puzzles, and watching No Reservations. I allowed myself one hour of sleep as the flight nears Chicago, proud of my resolve to limit sleep to combat jet lag.

At 8:45 pm Chicago time, my flight to DC started boarding, and I was still waiting for my luggage so that I could go through customs. I arrived at the correct terminal as my flight was lifting off. I was now 20 hours into my travel.

The woman at the United desk told me there were no more flights for the night. Unfortunately, she said, United would not be able to provide me with hotel accomodations. Lack of sleep makes me emotional, so I burst into tears. This outburst scored me a 40% off voucher for a hotel stay. Miserably, I insisted that the United representative put me on the 11 am flight instead of the 6 am flight. If I was going to sleep in Chicago, then sleep I would! I had no intention of waking up again at 4 am to go to the airport. 

At the Holiday Inn Select O’Hare, a luxurious king bed awaited me, and I slept a full eight hours. I woke up much refreshed on Saturday morning, harboring illusions that my final flight would be more pleasant. But again, United Airlines surpassed all my expectations.

I was directed to the electronic ticketing area, where I struggled to find information on my faux boarding pass that I could enter in to retrieve my flight information. (Each time I was put on a new flight, I was provided with a more counterfeit-looking boarding pass, often with only my name, the flight number, and the boarding time. Why would I actually need to know the take-off or landing times?) The sticker needed to check my baggage refused to print, and three United employees couldn’t seem to provide me with any help. (One said she couldn’t help me until the sticker printed though I’d been standing there 10 minutes already, another had to go ask another person to help me and then go stand around helping no one, and a third (the one the second asked to help) needed to help two others who intercepted her on her way to me and then only sent me to the ticketing agents.) Finally the sticker was manually reprinted by a ticketing agent (after I stood in line a second time).

In the security queue, another surprise lurked! I had been specially chosen by security for a full search of my carry-on luggage. The results? One confiscated jar of foie gras, on the grounds that it is or in some way could be a liquid, and two confiscated (but small enough to mail to myself) Lush solid perfumes also determined to be liquids. And one argument with a security team member about the name of candlesticks. She “corrected” me so we’d be on the same page: candlesticks are actually “candle stick holders,” while taper candles are “candle sticks.” She also decided to add insult to injury when she took the foie gras by asking, “Is this even legal to do to a bird anymore?” I pointed out that while we may take offense to their force-feeding birds, the French in turn are hardly pleased that we still execute people.

Finally, at 2:30 pm EST, I left the Dulles airport with Ryan. For all of those who asked if I was excited to be returning to the States - I certainly was excited when I finally reached home.