In our last episode we were recovering from Morocco and had just begun exploring the French Alps in a diesel powered cube named Picasso. We did some general internet research on interesting things to see in France and used Google Maps to link them together, choosing places that were generally on a route that would deliver us to the South Western coast where we could possibly surf. This basic idea kept us off the major highways, and we crossed France in the smaller two lane country roads. It was amazing.

On leaving Villard du Lans we started on a road that was literally carved into the side of a cliff, with massive rock overhangs above the car and steep cliffs dropping off to a running river below. Many little rock tunnels and a thick green forest below. I’ll attach a photo to this email. Words don’t do it justice.

We made our way to interesting place numero uno - Saint Michel d'Aiguilhe, a great little cathedral (if  there can be such a thing) on the top of a very tall, very steep hill in the center of Le Puy. Le Puy. Really? Le Puy? Seems like a strange name for a town to me. Say it. Leee Puuuuy. Along the road to Le Puy we must have passed through 20 different little French hillside villages, each one more picturesque than the last.

Legend has it that someone, 1050 years ago, had no idea what to do with this enormous volcanic formation, 300 feet tall, that was sitting in the center of Le Puy. Someone else suggested that it was a perfect spot to build a cathedral to celebrate the return from the pilgrimage of Saint James (Thanks Wikipedia).

At that point I’m pretty sure that Someone Number 2 had Someone Else carry large stone blocks up the 268 steps that had been carved into the side of this 'perfect place for a cathedral,' and they successfully constructed an awesome little cathedral atop a massive rock, overlooking most of Le Puy.

The climb up the hill might be rough, but every time I stopped to catch my breath there was another great view and photo opp. So I was able to avoid humiliation by pretending to take photos. Works everytime.

After a brief overnight stay in a town named Aurillac, with another 20 picturesque villages before, and 20 more after, we made it to Rocamadour. Wow. A Castle, a Cathedral and a Town, scaling their way up a vertical cliff. In a deep valley. It looks highly defensible. I get it.

We spent the better part of the day walking up from the valley to the cathedral, and by the time we were done I was glad we started at the bottom, because there is no way I would have had enough energy to make it from the bottom up once we were done. It was fantastic, and even though it seems like Disney has gotten its hands on the little town, it is still worth a visit.

From Rocamadour we drove through another 20 picturesque French villages to the Dordogne region and spent a night in Sarlat, which sounds a little villainous, doesn’t it? Sarlat is the ultimate French Village, with the stone buildings and winding narrow streets, a church and a square every 2 blocks and a ‘regionally themed’ store, restaurant or service everywhere you look. It was nice for an evening, but there didn’t seem to be very many French people there, so we continued on the next morning.

To Castelnaud! A real, legit Castle, with armor, and swords, and catapults, and trebuchets. Tight spiral stairways made of stone, poorly lit with no handrails, and with videos on ‘how to storm a castle’ and ‘why peasants fear swords.’ It was pretty great. They had dioramas on how the castle was under siege from Simon de Montfort and taken from Bernard de Casnac, who then took it back and hanged everyone. Apparently it was a pretty busy place until the mid-1700’s, then it was used as a place to store rocks until the mid-1960’s, when owning a castle became cool again.

We had been driving a lot and had become so overwhelmed with the sheer quantity of quaint villages and amazing castles that we were actually relieved when we got to the apartment in the modern/noisy/dirty port city of Bayonne, which was not, in fact, named after the city in New Jersey near the Statue of Liberty. But I still felt a connection.

The apartment was on a river used as a shipping lane, and beside a highway, with nothing in walking distance, but we liked it. Bayonne is an interesting little city with a lot of French people doing their thing. I don’t think Disney has gotten involved there yet. With Bayonne as a base we spent a couple of days exploring nearby Biarritz, Capbreton and Hossegor.

Biarritz is swank. Fancy fancy. It has the forts and castles and cathedrals and all the other good stuff, as well as a Palace that Napoleon built for his wife Eugenia, which is currently the Hotel du Palais. No, we didn’t stay there. In fact, I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t have let me in.

Capbreton is where the Basques go to get tires, appliances and fast food, and Hossegor is where backpackers go because everywhere else is too expensive. It’s also a the base of the Landes forest, which is spectacular in and of itself. But the one thing all 3 places have in common is surf. Good surf. Nice beaches and a lot of surfers. We had a great time here for a few days and then the surf flattened out. No swell.

One of our friends from Mexico, an avid surfer, was coming to meet up with us and catch some waves, but we all got skunked. Luckily we were just over an hour away from Pamplona and it was the week of the San Fermín festival, or Running of the Bulls. Initially the 3 of us intended to go for one night, watch the Running and then continue on to Bilbao. But I’m well aware of my ‘poor impulse control,’ and I knew that I would choose to jump in to the fray. I did some research, ran some numbers and concluded that my chances of survival were pretty good.

Once I announced to Laura and Simon that I was going to do it they said they would too. Simon is in much better shape than I am, and is a much better surfer, and he actually runs. On the beach.  I wasn’t too concerned about him. Laura, also a better surfer, and a runner. Also in better shape. But quite little, not terribly aggressive, and indisputably my better half… I was concerned. I asked her very clearly not to do the Running. Several times. But I received the ageless and effective reply of ‘you’re not the boss of me’ and ‘if you do it, I do it.’

So there we were, the three of us. Outfitted in the white shirt and pants, red scarves tied around the neck and red sash around the waist. Looking good. As first time runners, never having seen the run before, we were total newbs, and the plan was to get up front, start at the head of the pack, get into the bullring with the first group and quickly jump into the stands, before the bulls even made it to the ring. Safety first.

This time I was smart enough to keep my big mouth shut regarding my plans and not plant more ideas into Laura’s beautiful, but obstinate head. Knowing that Laura and Simon were as safe as they could possibly be in this situation, I wanted to hold back a bit and try to actually run with the bulls, maybe even reach out and touch one as we were running.

When we reached the final waiting spot, and the police let the runners start to run I waved Laura and Simon on and yelled that I would find them in the ring, and then ducked into a doorway to wait for the bulls. I never actually saw the bulls, but the flood of runners got faster and faster and the eyes got bigger and bigger, eventually reaching a point I would describe as ‘full frantic.’ My flight instincts kicked in and I began fleeing in earnest.

As we reached the entrance to the tunnel to the bullring I looked back a few times and still didn’t see the bulls, just eyeballs and elbows as the other runners sprinted with me. I knew this was the choke point, where bad things happen, but I was pretty sure I could make it to the ring before the bulls did, so I put the hammer down and give it all I had to get there fast.

At the end of the tunnel, at the entrance to the bullring there was a wall of people, and I recall one man pointing at me and yelling in Spanish, like he was telling me to turn around and go away. I was having none of it. “Screw that guy, I’m heading for the ring!” Actually he was trying to warn me that the bulls were right behind me.

And there I was, pinned against that guy and many others, by a bull. A mildly upset bull that wasn’t terribly happy about the mountain of people in front of him, the other pushy bulls beside him, and that one jerk of a bull that kept trying to get a piggyback ride, or climb over him.

I was there for about 2 minutes, pinned so hard that I was able to lift my feet up so the bull’s searching hoofs didn’t step on them. I had enough time to realize I should be grateful we were all pinned so tight, because the bulls didn’t have enough room to actually do anything. And also to realize that once they did get some room it was going to get ugly fast.

There were people in the stands reaching over and lifting people out, and the people in the pack were helping push, and eventually someone reached down and grabbed my hand, and others helped push. Because we were so tight I couldn’t bend my legs to help, and had to literally be dragged up and over the wall.

Around the same time, a matador gate was opened so the bulls could get out of the crowd, and the mountain got small enough that 2 bulls were able to jump over the people. I made it to the stands, on the left side where we agreed to meet, and immediately found Simon and Laura tucked away in a setback below the seating. Simon had gotten out of the pile up early on and had been helping people get out, but Laura had been buried at the bottom the entire time and was pretty beat up.

I felt, and still feel, terrible that I wasn’t there to help and protect Laura. Logically I know that there is nothing I could have done, in fact I might have made it worse. But I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.

We survived the Running of the Bulls. Obviously. A little beat up, but mobile.  And we were on a schedule, we needed to see the Mundaka surf break and make it to Bilbao for a little Guggenheim cultural action. Which we did, but to be honest we were all a little shell shocked from our experience that morning, so neither spot made a huge impression on us.

Remember Laura’s buddies that we were going to see in Vienna, but changed to Lisbon? Scratch Lisbon, now its Cadiz. We took our time and drove down to Cadiz, stopping at Burgos and Salamanca on the way. France might win in terms of sheer quantity of quaint villages, but Spain makes up for it in incredibly well maintained old towns. We saw 2000 year old Roman ruins in Merida and phenomenal cathedrals in Salamanca, and some very authentic drunks passed out in the shade in Burgos.

Then we made it to Cadiz, founded by Hercules and the oldest standing city in Europe. We found it pretty underwhelming. It was nice. Cool little streets, some great tapas, many genuine Spaniards, but not terribly interesting or inspiring. We had a good time with Jamie and Lindsey, went to the beach once, talked about driving to Gibraltar to see the Barbary Apes, and then went to Madrid where Laura had an appointment to check out IE Business School.

Madrid is a great city, I’ll say it again. We really like it, but we had a rental car for another week and it needed to be returned in France, so we decided to go back to Biarritz and maybe get some surfing in.

Skunked again. Surf report- Flaaaaaat. So Biarritz was very relaxing.

Simon had taken off for London and Amsterdam, and Laura’s near death experience had opened her eyes to the wonders of collegiate testing, so we booked apartments in Paris for 2 weeks, which will culminate in her taking the GMAT test, our wedding anniversary the next day, and our departure from Paris the day after that.

We got to Paris two days ago, spent two hours finding the apartment and another two hours finding a gas station and returning the rental car. Adios Picasso!

Note- If I had to choose between Running the Bulls and driving in Paris I would need to really think about the pros and cons of each. Driving in Paris might not be quite as dangerous, but it is infinitely more frustrating.

We are in a great old apartment on a private cobblestone alley, with roughhewn wood beams, a strong internet connection and equally strong coffee. Laura is upstairs studying for the test, I’m trying to get my mind back on the ‘work track.’ and we haven’t yet figured out where were going when we leave Paris. Italy? Greece? Someone suggested Romania, but I’m still thinking about it.

This morning I was lying at the bottom of a pile of people in the entrance to the bull ring in Pamplona, Spain. There was no way out, and the bulls were coming.

We decided rather haphazardly and at the last minute to attend the running of the bulls. While visiting business schools in Europe, Fred and I met someone who was headed to Pamplona for the opening day of the San Fermín festival. Well sure, that would be interesting to see. Once in a lifetime, right? I feel bad for the bulls, though.  And it seems like such a stupid, macho thing to do. Running with bulls, trying to touch them, risking death or severe injury.

Our friend Simon was on his way to meet us in Southwestern France. Good surf, nice beaches… maybe we’ll pass on Pamplona this time. Except the surf went flat and we were having trouble finding accommodation at a reasonable price. So okay, it’s off to Pamplona! We met people on the beach in San Sebastian and in the streets of Pamplona who had run. No problem! It’s easy, just play it safe. Well okay, maybe I’ll just start near the end, run way ahead and get into the bull ring before even seeing the bulls. I don’t care if the people in the bull ring stands boo me. I’m just not letting my husband run without me.

I read up on running strategy, what to do, what not to do, how many people on average get gored, how many people have died, what to look out for and where on the course people typically get in trouble. If you fall, stay down and cover your head. Watch not just for the bulls behind you but for the people who fall in front of you. Don’t drink the night before and don’t run drunk. Get some sleep the night before. Wear the outfit, don’t carry anything and respect tradition.

Prior to the Encierro I never once felt truly scared. I was playing it safe, remember? I got eight hours of good sleep the night before. I don’t drink, so running drunk or hungover wasn’t an issue. I’m in pretty good shape, and can run fast when I need to. Being a small, nimble person, I can also scamper, jump, climb, leap, and squeeze under fences no problem. I had on the white shirt and pants, red scarf around my neck, red sash around my waist, and my good Nikes. I felt confident that I was taking the safe, non-macho approach. I had no daredevil pride, nothing to prove. I was ready to flee and scamper and look foolish in the name of safety.

There were all types of people near us where we waited for the start. There was the Englishman who lives in Florida, in Pamplona for his buddy’s 50th birthday, who was chatting with a young German fellow. In front of me were two older guys from Southern Cali, both taking pictures with their iPhones. A group of young guys from Portugal were recording a video for their grandkids on a smartphone. One of the youngsters high-fived me for being one of only two girls he saw in the lineup. He said, “You’re really cool!” and I replied, “Or maybe really stupid!” I still had no idea, no fear.

When the rocket went off and the running began, I was maybe 50 feet from the entrance to the ring. No problem! I will just run in, go left and hop over the wall. I was watching in front, and glancing behind. No bulls yet, and I’m in the entrance hall to the ring. All good. Then before I could see or react to anything, I was pushed onto a pile of bodies blocking the entire entrance to the ring. And in seconds I was face down in the dirt with the whole mess of people on top of me.

At the bottom of the pile of people, when I realized there was no way I could claw my way out, I resigned myself to death and braced myself for the impact of bull hooves crushing my skull. There was a man’s leg underneath me, twisted out at an impossible angle. I heard someone screaming, wailing. My mind interpreted the sound to mean ‘please dear God help me’ but I have no idea what language he spoke or if he even used words at all.

The sound of the crowd (screaming in horror? cheering?) came in waves. At each crescendo, I imagined the bulls fighting their way over the mountain of bodies. I tried to do what was advised, stay down and cover your head. I said out-loud, “I’m going to die.” I thought about my husband, who was behind us, and hoped he didn’t get caught. I thought about Simon, who was ahead of me, and hoped he made it into the ring.

I never thought to pray. All my yogic training went out the window; all the chants I’ve learned for these dire situations, they never crossed my mind. I simply shut down and prepared for the final blow.

There was open space just ahead of me, but I was hopelessly pinned to the ground. I dug at the dirt with my hands. I saw people on top of me getting pulled out of the pile. I began to scream for help reaching my arms out, completely helpless. I have never felt so helpless in my entire life. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, a man began to pull my arms. He was wearing the bright official gear of the medics and other professionals on the scene. It was hopeless, he couldn’t pull me out. Then another man grabbed my arm to help. They pulled me right out of my running shoes. I never even saw their faces as I sobbed “thank you” and ran for the edge of the pen. 

When I got to the wall and tried to climb over, there was a man on the other side holding his viewing spot, unwilling to move or help me. My friend Simon spotted me trying to get over the wall, begging for help, and came to my rescue (the second rescue in perhaps 30 seconds). He lifted me up and over the wall. I stumbled to sit in a filthy corner of the walkway.

Then the panic hit that my dear irreplaceable love of my life might not be okay. In the third lucky stroke of the morning, I then saw him walk past unharmed. The three of us all made it out of complete disaster, far better than so many of the people around us. There was a guy, young, sitting next to me sobbing and trying to call someone on his cell. I couldn’t understand what he said, but I reached out and held his hand. People were going by on stretchers.

We had to fight our way out of the stadium. I had dirt, skin and blood scraped down the front of my legs and my right elbow. I felt a stinging lump on my forehead, probably from someone kicking my head. I walked a bit in my socks through the wet streets; sloshing through piss, puke, broken glass and plastic cups. Fred insisted I let him carry me, so for several long blocks I rode piggy back.

I didn’t even see a bull and yet my life flashed before my eyes, and now I’m hurting. Bad.

I read all the accounts of how amazing you feel afterwards. That feeling of having cheated death, to live to fight another day. That’s such crap. I feel horrible. I was completely helpless, and then totally unable to help anyone else. I feel guilty that the guys spent their energy pulling me out, when so many others still needed attention. My heart aches for the senseless suffering of the people and the animals in that Encierro. Above all I feel shame for having participated. Of all the stupid things I’ve done in my life, this is by far the most idiotic. 

I’m sharing this with you in the hopes that, if you are someone searching the internet for “tips on running with the bulls” or “how to stay safe in the Pamplona Encierro,” you will read this and think twice about participating. It’s just not worth it. 

At the bottom of the pile of bodies, my mind kept trying to comprehend how I ended up there. I never took the warnings seriously, and I listened to too many drunken bravado stories of survival. I was cocky. I thought I could outsmart, outrun, and out scramble the thousands of others in the run. I thought I was playing it safe. I thought the odds were in my favor. Perhaps they were, but I still got trampled.

The wonderful woman at the pharmacy, who is also named Laura, said it is my “nuevo feliz cumpleaños” or “new birthday” today. July 13, 2013, the day I cheated death. The day I was born again. It doesn’t feel that way. I’m sad and embarrassed, my knee is swollen, my body hurts, my skin stings. Never again.

I also didn't know that the bullfighters later kill these bulls in the ring. I'm horrified to have participated in such a barbaric event. I'm a vegetarian because I refuse to let animals be killed for my gastronomic pleasure. What is wrong with me that I didn't think this through?

To the men who pulled me out, I feel the deepest respect and gratitude. To all of the amazing people, putting their own lives at risk to help others, I bow humbly. The firemen, police, and paramedics on the scene… I do not know how they do it. I am humbled and I am so grateful.

Espain and Morocco

After month and a half in South America we were ready for a little convenience. When we got off the plane in Madrid we were towards the head of the pack stampeding for the customs area, which I was grateful for when I saw that there were only 2 manned booths. But it made almost no difference because they were stamping the passports as fast as they possibly could and we were out of there so quickly that I made a mental note. Always enter Europe via Madrid...

Then we caught the subway from the airport, made one transfer and 30 minutes later were at the outrageously cool apartment in the malasaña neighborhood. It was one of the great old buildings that had an elevator fitted inside the turns of the spiral stairway and was probably powered by steam initially. The elevator was so small that it could fit Laura and I, or our luggage. But not both. And we travel carry-on. So we met our luggage on the 2nd floor. Which is really the 3rd floor because the Europeans count the ground floor of a building as '0', not '1'. And yes, I did try to enter the apartment on the wrong floor once. English is easy, math are hard.

Madrid was a reminder of all the Western things that I take for granted. Like being able to understand a menu, having the prices match the ones on the bill, and the food match what I thought I ordered. Being able to decide to go get a coffee. Actually finding a coffee. Getting coffee that tastes like coffee. Going to the Prado and being completely overwhelmed by the quality of the art, the condition it is still in after so many hundreds of years, and the overwhelming quantity of it. Having Laura come back from a yoga class stoked because the instructor and the class knew what they were doing and were very into it. Seeing a lot of very cool motorcycles everywhere. Basically, Madrid is great, and while it sucks to be a Spaniard in the current economic crisis, it has a fantastic quality/price ratio for anyone who wants to visit.

After 4 days in Madrid we jumped back on the subway, went to the airport and hopped on a plane to Casablanca. From the Casablanca airport we boarded a connector train to the station in town and then changed to a train to Marrakech, where we stayed for one of the most stressful 36 hour holidays of my life.

My first interaction with someone in Morocco quickly devolved into yelling and shouting, name calling and fist waving. Apparently the local cab drivers take offense when you suggest their prices are too high and ask them where you can find a cab that has a meter. We drew quite a crowd, I was having a great time hollering 4 letter words and generally giving Canadians a bad name. Laura was totally mortified. (Sorry Canada, I can’t resist stating 'That’s not how we do it in Ottowa' when I’m being an Ugly American).

After I made a public spectacle of myself, and blatantly went to the most beat up cab in the row, to prove that I would rather ride in a beater than have anything to do with the first cab, we finally made it to our Riad. (Laura still mortified)  A Riad is basically a small fortress with ugly but strong looking walls and 2-3 floors with rooms facing an inner courtyard, which is usually very nice. Ours was deep in the Medina, which is the old area that has no streets, just tiny alleys, so we had to haul our luggage a few blocks, down alleys the width of a typical hallway, being passed by scooters and donkeys. We loved it. No, really.

Once we were settled in Riad Al Karama (which was excellent, btw) we set out in the early evening to see the Medina and Jemaa El Fna square. For the first hour or so it was fantastic. There were so many people and so much activity all around us. We went to the Cafe De France and sat there drinking Moroccan mint tea.

The Medina is interesting because there are 2 completely separate worlds colliding. It is still the central marketplace for the locals. They go down when it cools off in the evening to buy groceries, shoes, iPhones, and hang out with their buddies. And it’s also a huge tourist trap. Imagine combining Walmart, Disneyland and East LA.

To sit at a cafe and watch the amazing madness of the Jemaa el Fna square is one thing. To actually enter it and become a part of it is very different.

The food court, in the middle, seems to have 3 types of restaurants. I’m told there are 450 restaurants, or food stalls, but they all basically have the same thing. What differentiates one from the next is the quality (aggressiveness) and skill (smooooove) of their 'Touts'. The most common technique was to grab my arm and step directly in front of me, slightly inside what most Westerners consider the 'comfort zone', then smile wide and say 'Bonsoir, Deutsch, Hi Boddy, Where from, good food, best' while steering me to the picnic table that clearly had the very best food in all of Morocco.

Every single food stall seemed to have 2-3 of these guys, all competing for the commission on a seated customer.  It was not uncommon to have one on each of my arms, each leading me to a different stall, which I found confusing. Interesting point, they all seemed to understand the expression 'she has no money' and generally left Laura alone.

Also, having spent the last 15 years living in Brooklyn (mostly), I do not react well when someone grabs my arm and steps inside my 'comfort zone.' Mentally I knew that it was no big deal, but it was very difficult not to strike out and yell 'Ottowa!' When we would return to the Riad it was a huge relief and I totally get why you would want to have a walled fortress, with one very small door to the outside in that town.

The next day we wandered around, saw some ancient mosques, some really old graves, really great and intricate tile work. We were ushered into a 'secret' store that sold all kinds of magic potions and powders, and had a private consultation with a guy in a lab coat that showed us magic powder aphrodisiacs. Powders that would remove body fat from certain places, but not others. Wrinkle removing powders, age reducing powders, more aphrodisiac powders, and even ancient Kohl eyeliner that would give Laura ‘Gazelle eyes.' It totally worked.

We had so many locals trying to 'help us' that we wound up wandering out of the Medina and getting lost near the Royal Palace (they hate it when you take pictures there, but I think they are very photogenic regardless). We made it back into the Souks in the Medina and noticed a shop that seemed to have really old jewelry and flint lock pistols, urns, and other various things that visitors would like. That was my first exposure to what I have begun calling 'the method.'

1.Act busy. Polish something, take something apart. Put something back together. It’s okay to have the television playing a rerun starring David Hasselhof, but only if it has been overdubbed in Arabic.

2. Notice the customer and usher them into your little store, close door behind them to signify that you don’t like to be disturbed, but you’ll make an exception for these fine people.

3. Tea. You can refer to the superiority of all things Berber, and make general small talk while the tea is brewing, but don’t speak about anything in the shop. If questions are asked, divert.

4. Pour a cup of tea for each customer, and insist that they take it. Do it. Tell them it is rude to refuse Moroccan hospitality.

5. Ask personal questions. Use each question as an opener to tell them about yourself. How you would love to visit The Canada (Go Ottowa!), or any other place the customer has an interest in. Tell them the names of your children, how old they are, their dreams and life goals. Support with photos.

6. At this point you pretty much own them and they are ready for the Next Level pitch, the one where you notice what they are looking at and show them something similar, but lower quality, and suggest a really, really, really high price, so that when they ask about the first one you can quote a really, really high price and it seems like a good deal to them.

7. Damn, that Canadian jerk of a husband has left the store to check the interwebs and his wife only has $20 on her! Insist that you are losing money by accepting the $20 price for the $2 trinket, but that since you like them so much you are willing to make the deal.

I wonder if I can use this technique and apply it to online sales…?

Marrakech was amazing, unlike any place I have ever been, but by day three I was a beaten man and was willing to pay whatever they asked if it would result in our being on the bus to Agadir.

For the next 7 days we were basically in a summer camp for adults, just North of Agadir and South of Taghazout if you want to Google Map it.

Wake up at 6:30, maybe jump in the truck and go surfing, maybe take a yoga class, maybe don’t. Have breakfast. Jump in the truck again. Surf. Lunch. Surf some more. If internet is working get some work done. Or nap. Dinner. Sleep, repeat.

Day one we went out for a dawn session, but the surf was small so we took a field trip to Paradise Valley for the afternoon. Unbelievably beautiful. (See attached photos) Like a desert oasis, with deep clear pools and little cliff jumps. And turtles. Little ones.

We had a couple of unfortunate experiences with localism in the waves, but other than that it was a pretty contained experience. The few times we went into Awrir or Taghazout it was nice, little Moroccan beach towns, with a much lower stress level than Marrakech.

We weren’t sure where to go from Morocco, so we did some general searches on flights to major European cities, and Paris was only $200, so that was a no brainer. Airbnb.com had an apartment at a good price listed in Montmartre, home of Amalie and Le Sacré-Cœur, and advertised as ‘near the Gare du Nord’ so we booked it and took a cab there from Orly. Easy Peasy.

The apartment was very nice, and the owner was great, but the neighborhood was actually Goutte d'Or, and is commonly referred to as the 'worst' neighborhood in Paris. Not being a Frankophone (No Hablo Francais), I can’t be sure, but I suspect that 'near Gare du Nord' loosely translates to 'lots of dodgey hookers'.

The area is comprised of many tight, small streets and right angles are frowned upon.   Laura suggested that wandering around with our faces buried in a tourist map, or following the blinking dot on our $500 smartphones were both classified as 'not good' in idea-land.

We wandered around a lot, and made some friends, saw some interesting markets, discovered the shops that supply pimps with their awesome suits, and learned that West African hookers, while very sweet, are terrible at giving directions.

Paris was great. We saw some old friends, had some great meals, took some photos that could theoretically be from the perspective of the rooftop of a Cathedral that was built in 1509 has been closed to the public for 'a long time.' And taken late at night.

Then it was time to hit the road and explore Europe. We rented a car through Hertz and because Laura is kind of a big deal around there, we got upgraded to a Citroen Picasso, which looks like a minivan, or space shuttle, or maybe a brick. But its diesel and we get about 800 Kilometers to a tank. And don’t need to worry about speeding tickets because it is not very fast.

Our first stop out of Paris was Fontainebleu. About 55 Kilometers South of Paris, but a 3 hour drive at 1 PM because of the hellish Paris traffic. Now I understand why the public transportation is so good. And there are so many scooters and motorcycles. And French people in LA.

Laura had an appointment to tour INSEAD, and I joined her for the day. It was amazing. I was so impressed with Fontainebleu and INSEAD that I would consider going back to school for their one year MBA program. Maybe. Maths are hard.... but it’s tempting.

After Fontainebleu we were going to head towards Normandy and then drive South along the French Atlantic coast. But then we found out that some friends of Laura’s were performing in Vienna, so we pointed Picasso to the East.

We planned to make it to Geneva, but were so distracted by France that we only made it to a small town named Saint Claude around 11 PM. We woke up to an amazing view of a phenomenal little French Alps town and to the news that only one of her friends would be in Vienna, but both would be in Lisbon on the 13th.

Strike Vienna, add Lisbon to our vague and generally unspecific plans, which at this point probably shouldn’t be referred to as ‘plans.’

Then we went to Geneva, driving through some spectacular mountains. Really amazing. Geneva was great, really beautiful. A lot of million dollar cars driving around. The water in the lake was so clear it looked like it had been filtered. And we continued, around lake Annecy, and up into the Alps, on the French side of Chamonix and Mont Blanc, through Grenoble, to the tiny little ski town of Villard de Lans.

Which is where we are now. And loving it.

Today we plan to head towards Saint Michel d'Aiguilhe because there was something interesting there. I don’t remember what, but I’m pretty sure we will find it. Then we intend to continue on towards North-Western Spain and the French Atlantic. Crossing through Rocamadour, Dordogne, and Bordeaux on our way to San Sebastian. Which is very close to Pamplona. The Running of the Bulls week begins on July 6. Think about it.