Road Rage

Have you ever driven through Paris during rush hour? Ever been the passenger guiding your father through the winding, name-changes-every-other-block streets by simultaneously checking his Blackberry's GPS (which is taking 5 seconds too long to give your exact location thus allowing you just enough time to miss your turn) and squinting your eyes (I refuse to get my eyes checked) to decipher the white-on-blue lettered signs located on the second floor of the buildings--somehow not logically placed near the streets where you're actually driving--all the while resisting the urge to scream at your white-knuckled pops?  No? Never?

I highly recommend it.

Also topping my list: drive cross-country, with only a map of France (as long as you are actually IN France), cookies, and Diet Coke (and plenty of euros for those hefty tolls)--and bring your dad.  Or the way my dad likes to say, "Well, Holly, you were worth having on the trip."  That might sound really loving and sweet, but what he really means is that since he was paying for the rental car, gasoline, hotels, and food, I was worth having as his personal GPS, not necessarily as his fun-loving, energetic, second-born daughter.  It's okay.  He's not good at conveying his emotions, so I took it as a compliment.

One of my favorite things about my dad is his humor.  Especially because he usually doesn't know that the things he says are so hilarious. He's actually serious.

Once we settled into our hotel in Chamonix-Mont Blanc, we took an impromptu hop over to Switzerland, just to see if the mountains looked any different over there.  As we drove down the skinny roads, we passed numerous farms with cows, sheep, and goats.  Windows down, we could hear the bells of cows clank as they munched on grass or lazied about the pasture.  Out of nowhere, Dad says, "I love the cow bells. (pause)  I gotta get me one'a them."  We may be from Missouri, but we certainly never share in its vernacular, so that got me giggling right away.  And just what could my 56-year old, country club golfing, funeral home-owning father possibly use a cow bell for?  Maybe he'll add it to his new electronic drum set (Dad took his midlife crisis seriously).

Rewind a few days back to somewhere in the French countryside.  God knows how many times we got lost--took the wrong turn, missed an exit, misread a French road sign--but one moment directly following our success in getting back on track sticks in my mind.  Not only was I the human GPS, I also served as his waitress.  It's fine.  I can't drive a stick shift (his fault!), so I had to take care of the other duties (to earn my keep, of course).  Relieved that we were traveling in the correct direction, he amicably requested, "Now I need a cookie to make me happy."  We're emotional eaters.

We got used to the roundabouts after a while--the seemingly confusing way the exit signs are labeled, the way you have to Mario-Kart your way around it, tuck your tail between your legs and skedaddle so as not to get smashed in the rear.  I don't know if I can count on one hand the number of stop signs I saw in France.  My dad, as he ventured us out into yet another roundabout, put it best, "They just won't let you make a left turn in this country."

I have to give my dad a lot of credit for his driving in Europe.  Manual car, French signs, roundabouts, and me as a pitiful guide--that's a lot to put up with.  The best times we had, I think, were the "we're lost" ones.  As we endlessly searched for a vacant hotel in Geneva (which lies on the border of France and Switzerland), my dad said something that I think sums up our entire cross-country, father-daughter driving experience:

"I don't know if we're in France or Switzerland.  I don't know where we are."

xx

hh

L'incompetent!

I think my all-time favorite movie would have to be Home Alone.  If not for the simple reason that my family once watched it 6 times in a row (we're talking play, rewind, play, rewind, etc.) in the "big van" on our 1,500-mile summer vacation out west, then it's because, at any given moment, my siblings might work a line from the 90s film into conversation--and if you can't pick up on that and finish the scene's dialogue, well, then you just don't really belong in this family at all.
One of the best lines from this movie is when Kevin is complaining that he can't pack his own suitcase for their trip to France, and his sister tells him that he's, "what the French call, l'incompetent!"  Ouch.  I really wanted to slap his sister in that moment--mostly because of her ugly sweater-turtleneck combo (OK, it was the 90s, so it's forgiven), but also because packing is hard.  It's almost impossible not to overpack.  There's so much to consider.  And inevitably, you forget a key item or hate everything you packed and end up wearing the same dirty, wrinkled mess day in and day out.
I am determined to pack efficiently for my trip to France, which starts in just 2.5 days.  I've got it all laid out, and I'm counting each piece so that the number of outfits does not go over 20 (for 11 days, I think that's plenty modest), and no more than 5 pairs of shoes.  After I came back from Australia, I spoke to the next group of Mizzou students going abroad to study about, amongst other topics, what to pack.  I felt pretty special when I had a room of about 300 people laughing at my response, "Coming from the girl who packed 11 pairs of shoes, don't do that."  I am also the girl who, after arriving back in America from 14 months in Asia, had to wear a sweater, blazer, winter coat, infinity scarf, and 5 Vietnamese conical hats in order to make her carry-on bag clear security (after being rejected once, and of course, having an emotional meltdown).  I've been guilty of overpacking on numerous occasions, but I just can't help it.  Maybe I shouldn't be so worried about what I look like and focus more on how l'incompetent I'm going to sound trying to swoon French boys.  I kid.

xx
hh