I just got back from a fanatic and fantastic road trip across France and in and among all of the experiences, discoveries, traumas and triumphs there are three things I want to share about this transnational outing-

1. I can now add long, claustrophobic tunnels carved with a nature damning hubris through an unimaginable tonnage of mountain to my list of panic inducing, back soaked in sweat, breath gasping phobias.

Thanks Switzerland.

            Rushing across France to start my holiday in Verbier, Switzerland at the chalet of a very generous member of the school’s board, I noticed a subtle anxiety growing as I began to pass through a series of tunnels that were steadily increasing in length and, I swear, reducing in diameter. Deep perspective defining Tron like vectors of light pointing to an unseen, unattainable exit out of this angry mountain’s stent were broken only by a series of unintelligible, cryptic glyphs that I assumed were Swiss prayers to all of those who passed during this unholy transit. Add a suicidal wolf on a motorcycle cutting through and around our obedient, sheep-like herd trafficking to our demise and even my dark humored mantra of “I feel just like royalty, I feel just like royalty, I feel just like royalty…” couldn’t cut the fear.

2. European boys who are between the ages of 3 and 6 have better clothes than I have ever had or will have in my entire life.

            Absolutely.

These little dapper hommes were decked out in their tiny linen jackets with perfectly pressed, wee khaki trousers and impeccably crafted miniature Italian shoes. If there was an unseasonable chill in the air a silken spot of color would appear as a scarf jauntily knotted about their reedy necks. These little “Baby GQ” subscribers were also not blind to the necessity of a well-appointed accessory. Play date ensembles were smartly accented with sporty hand stitched suede side bags exquisitely proportioned to hold two snack-time ginger biscuits and a juice box. Add a perfectly coiffed tussle of “faux-hawk” hair and these little pre-pubescent Beckhams were ready for the runway.

            Little shits.

I might as well have been sporting a chili spattered tunic, picking at myself in urine stained sweatpants for the fashion sense I was comparatively proffering.

3. Wherever you go you must take yourself along…and that spoils everything.

            This little “bon mot” comes from an album my parents had on the farm when I was growing up. One of very few albums that we would play through our barge sized, oak laminate hi-fi console that offered radio (AM and FM), LP turntable and an 8-track deck. Three Statler Brothers selections, a Don Ho (Best of) and two to three dozen assorted Christmas albums rounded out the Eckard family playlist. The radio would be switched on around noon for farm reports or when severe weather threatened and in the afternoon when my mother would tune into “Kitchen Klutter” or “Klatter” (I can only believe it had to have been spelled with a K) for recipes, cooking and housekeeping tips. I can barely remember pants before shoes but can still pull that jangling theme song up from the limbic depths.

Anyway, this record was by Dr. Murray Banks, a psychologist, who did a therapy/psychology based stand-up routine. High schmaltz, saucy and very un-Midwestern, my father would insist on playing this for whoever showed up at the house whether it had been previously heard by them or not. We would sit around the console and if my father didn’t rush and blurt out the punchlines, we shared a very exotic excursion into “big city” intelligentsia and sophisticated humor.

I swear this album and the Dean Martin roasts are where I picked up my deep, disturbing affection for this type of shtick: Youngman, Dangerfield, etc.

When traveling, there is always the romantic expectation of re-invention, vigorous renewal, reckless abandon and unimagined transcendent moments and liaisons that can occur if you just let go and “wander without being lost” or  “embrace your bliss” and do all of the other VW bumper aphorisms I’m subjected to in the Pacific Northwest…

So, I’m traveling through France with a constant argumentative blather in my head (see “Sherrie Lewis” post coming soon) and the good doctor’s phrase keeps surfacing at each delayed dalliance, missed exit or bypassed and then regretted abbey, cathedral or moulin I failed to experience.

“Wander without being lost…”

…or have your French Atlas sweatily pinned to your steering wheel for fear of missing an exit or town that really had no more importance, familiarity or necessity than any of the other hundreds of villages and towns that really only needed to be west of where I currently was to be the “right” one.

To my credit, it only took two to three (or four) days to finally set the Atlas on the passenger seat next to me (still remaining open of course) and let a bit more wander enter into my travel. A general direction and town names that sounded close enough became my travel criteria. Suddenly the French countryside opened up and instead of feeling like a blunt wedge forcing its way through hard cheese, I was slipping gracefully through valleys and hamlets, stopping for that impulsive tarte citron and café and letting the unknown vista over the next horizon be my guide instead of the remorseful shadow of missed Michelin Guide three star attractions and “must do” moments I had plotted out weeks earlier in Pont-Aven when I was getting ready to “take myself along”.

But… was I really using my new video camera enough? I mean why did I bring it along if I wasn’t going to do work? Other artists would have certainly done six or seven projects by now. Who do you think is going to finish the ………