Sacre Bleu!

It was dark when I arrived in Paris. Since I hadn't had time to plot my escape from the airport, I opted to bite the bullet and take a taxi to my hotel. After waiting in line in the plastic-enclosed walkway, I was ushered up to a small black sedan. Out creaked the oldest taxi driver in all of Paris. He stood about as high as my shoulder and wasn't a day under 86. Dubiously, I showed him the address, and after several reassuring hand gestures I threw my bag in the trunk and got in. 

The traffic was horrendous and as we waded through the red tail lights I could hear the driver swearing furiously under his breath. Once he realized I spoke some French he launched into a full-blown diatribe about Parisian drivers. I nodded along and then we sank into silence. About 30 minutes into the drive he eased over to an off ramp in order to park and retrieve the atlas from the trunk. Apparently he had never been to that hotel before, let alone that part of town. After one look at the microscopic font and the thickness of his glasses, I grabbed the map, found the correct page, and turned it back over to my fearless driver. 

Reassured that we were headed in the right direction, he found an exit of the right name, then a boulevard that was in the ball park. After we a stopped to check a road sign, we hailed a local taxi and affirmed the correct alley was just around the corner. We both threw up our hands in triumph at the sight of the hotel's illuminated sign. There was much mutual congratulating as we unloaded my bag and bade each other good night and safe travels. 

The next morning I found my way to the train station and onto the correct train. 2 hours later I disembarked at the quiet little station of Montbard, and was met by a gentleman from the barge, waiting to whisk me away to my family. They were all waiting either on the barge or the lock it was passing through, aunts and uncles and mother and grandparents waving and hallooing like I wouldn't recognize them otherwise.  The last time I'd seen them all was at a Mariners game in Seattle, and now here they all were in the French countryside. Let the wild rumpus begn.