Reflecting on The Art of Travel

Alain de Botton is one of my favourite authors. I love his writings on philosophy and his belief that the point of philosophy is to help people live their lives.

I was given 'The Art of Travel' for Christmas which was perfect reading while convalescing after a bout of 'état grippal' (flu-like state) which has had me gripped for two weeks.

I have a very ambivalent attitude to travelling on the whole. I'm not one of those with itchy feet. If I can't travel, I'm not that bothered, but if I can, I tend to enjoy it. Of course, it depends how I'm travelling, and with whom, and why. My DB asked me recently to list my favourite ways to travel. I thought about it and came up with:

1. motorbike
2. car
3. train
4. plane

Since air travel became a cattle market, with dodgy air conditioning systems that share a plane-full of bugs amongst the passengers, I've avoided it, preferring the train for long-distance travel from A to B (France-UK). You can take more baggage on a train too, important for those essential supplies like boxes of wine for Christmas and summer holiday consumption with one's mother.

On a bike, the journey is as enjoyable as the destination if you choose the right roads, and with a car, it's similar but with more space and less contact with the weather.

Much of what Alain de Botton wrote resonated with me. He has a capacity to identify situations, problems, issues, and put words to them. Since reading about his holiday to Barbados which he expected to be fantastic, but found that he had 'inadvertently brought myself to the island' with accompanying psychological baggage, I read a similar sentiment in a novel later in the week: 'Not Quite Nice' by Celia Imrie, and of course, have often been distressed at how many unresolved issues encroach on the enjoyment of a holiday. The reality of travel is different to how we fantasise about it. We anticipate it to be somewhere we can be happy and carefree, but the reality is different.

How many of us have argued with a partner on holiday? My DB and I have had a number of humdingers. The aftermath of an argument leaves you unable to appreciate the many splendours of the place you've come to visit. I remember stomping along a superb cliff path on the Costa Brava, with the Mediterranean Sea glinting blue, and a lighthouse perched attractively on a rocky promontory. I barely noticed the views while there. So, "in order to draw the anticipated happiness from aesthetic objects or material goods, we first have to satisfy other emotional or psychological needs, like the need for understanding, for love, expression and respect".

Looking back on that walk, the memory of my bad temper has faded, but I remember the beauty of the walk. de Botton identifies this too: "We are best able to inhabit a place (in memory, anticipation) when we are not faced with the additional challenge of having to be there". One of the advantages of art galleries full of pictures of other places is that you can see the "essence of a country" without having to deal with the problems. Travelling dilutes the experience.

I always take photos of the places I visit, but I also try to absorb the atmosphere and actually see a place, by not taking photos. Ruskin, the artist, believed that people should learn to draw because drawing could teach them to see. "By recreating what we see, we move from a position of observing beauty, to one of understanding its constituent parts, and hence more secure memories of it." He was scathing of photographers who used it to pay "less attention to the world than they had previously from a faith that photographs automatically assured them possession of it".

Ruskin taught people to draw, not caring if they were any good at it. What was important was learning how to see. He also believed in describing a place in words, to "word paint", because it involves asking questions, being precise in analysing what we see and feel.

de Botton also writes about "spots of time" which are certain scenes we've witnessed that stay with us throughout our life "and when they enter consciousness, can offer a contrast to, and a relief from, present difficulties". One of my spots of time goes back a couple of decades. My ex-h and I joined some friends to walk up the gorges de la Carança and stay at the refuge du Ras de la Carança. We followed the narrow gorge from the car park and at some point came to a clearing with a waterfall. The light was shining in such a way that it looked like a fairy grotto. Hanging branches, long grasses and damp moss were all bathed in visible rays of ethereal sunshine and mist. We were the only people there, so it was like coming across a silent, beautiful other world.

Travel enables us to escape from the everyday, passing through transient places such as stations, airports and hotel rooms. I always feel a thrill of possibilities when I'm in a station or airport, and I love staying in nice hotel rooms.  Baudelaire loved being away from home and especially visiting transient places of travel, and he invented a new kind of romantic nostalgia, "the poésie des départs, the poésie des salles d'attente". Hopper sympathised with Baudelaire's attitude to travel, and painted the places of travel because there he found poetry, the poésie des motels, etc.

There is much to enjoy in 'The Art of Travel'. I have but touched on a tiny fraction, but I strongly recommend it for all armchair and actual lovers of travel.

Just Doing It

Have you ever wondered what would happen if you got in your car, drove off, and kept driving? I was thinking about that on the way to shops yesterday. I usually have that thought when I get on the autoroute because they are designed to take you far and quickly (in Europe at least; in the UK you do tend to come up against the sea fairly quickly unless you're travelling north/south).

My route to the shops was not going to take me far (or quickly), but I could have just kept going until the tank ran out. I didn't of course because the consequences would have been dramatic. I'm too chained to my obligations and duties, but I do envy those who just take off and don't stop (unless they drop their obligations and duties and cause untold misery to their family).

It never occurred to me to do such a thing when I was young and single after university because I had little money and less self-confidence. Instead, I waited until I met my future ex-h to leave home and join him in France, happily shackling myself and throwing away the key.

I must be a confirmed homebody a tad too anxious to confront the unknown. By myself, anyway. I'm rather concerned with my creature-comforts now too. Hopeless.

One of my favourite books when younger was Laurie Lee's "As I walked out one midsummer morning" which gave me material to fantasize with, but no desire to imitate. I convinced myself that things were different then, he was a bloke, and there was no way I was going to walk that far. Also, I realised the reality could entail a lot of hard work and I would probably be uncomfortable. I was a living example of Roosevelt's "The only limit to our realization of tomorrow will be our doubts of today".

Part of my problem, I'm sure, is that having lived in Cairo for a year, I'd had a fair amount of adventure, and much of it was not that pleasant. It was uncomfortable, however.

Another favourite book was "The Count of Monte Cristo" by Alexandre Dumas. He didn't choose to leave but was thrown in jail, and came to make the most of a bad situation. This is something I can understand - making the most of a situation (eventually, in his case), and, 'there's always a silver lining' (ditto).

Those at Nike tells us to forget our reservations, and just 'Do it'. Unfortunately, doing anything by yourself is getting increasingly difficult here in France. Everything is fraught with rules and regulations, and no one should be ignorant of the law ('nul n'est censé ignorer la loi'), all 3078 pages...

I read about one old lady of 76 - Yvette Bert - recently who was hunted down and dragged through the courts by the Fisc. Why? Because she had the temerity to set up an association which held regular lotteries to raise money for charity. She and her friends in the sheltered accommodation where she lives would get together with others on a Sunday afternoon to play the loto and have a lovely sociable chatty time. "Mamie Loto" took none of the money for herself despite living on a pension of 620 Eur per month.

Her association was official, registered at the prefecture, its aims clearly stated. No one told her it was illegal. So when she was sued by the Fisc, given a 6 months suspended sentence, 6000 Eur fine and a tax bill of 88,000 Eur (on the 460,000 Eur she collected for charity), her life fell apart and her health started failing. Does the word 'bully' spring as violently into your mind as it does mine?

Her cause has been taken up by the Institut pour Justice who have created a petition to support her. It already has over 70,000 signatures. Here's hoping for many more.

Have you ever walked out one midsummer (early spring or late winter) morning?

Moi, Illegal Immigrant

According to Eurostar...

T'was the night (well 3) before Christmas 

We were sat on the train

A controller approached us

To send us out in the rain...

"T'is a systems error!"

I cried out in vain

"We have procedures

You must get off the train!"

Yes, yours truly and her children were almost mistaken for illegal immigrants complete with British/French passports, return tickets from Montpellier, and 30kg of presents and wine boxes between us. Your typical illegal immigrants in fact.

Here's the story. I bought the tickets back in October on the internet and was assigned seats in carriage 18. We travelled via Lille Europe which meant a quick connection of 32 minutes between the TGV and Eurostar trains. Luckily it did not involve a trek across town, and we made it through check-in, customs and baggage check, got our tickets stamped and arrived in the waiting room with 3 minutes to spare before boarding started.

Carriage 18 was at the back of the train so we had a nice long walk behind two guards all the way down the platform. No one else was following us...

The guards put up a barrier across the platform and told us to wait for those getting off before getting on... Normally of course we would stampede our way onto the train and bash anyone stopping us with a heavy suitcase...

The carriage was lovely and empty unlike the rest of the train which was bursting at the seams. We had no trouble stowing our bags unlike the others getting on at Lille who would have had to find nooks and crannies in the already over-stuffed slots.

Then the controller came along and asked us what we were doing in carriage 18. It was like some psychological thriller. You could almost hear the accompanying music thudding threateningly in the background. I showed him our tickets which said quite clearly carriage 18. He took them away, I went back to my Kindle and the boys went back to their crisps and film.

Then he came back with an explanation as to why we shouldn't be there. There are certain savvy illegal immigrants who buy two sets of tickets: one from Brussels to Lille, one from Brussels to London. They get on in Brussels without going through customs using the ticket to Lille, then at Lille, change seats and carry on to London. Clever n'est-ce pas!

To combat this, Eurostar devised a cunning plan to put all those going to Lille or Calais in carriage 18. No one should remain in there after Calais. Except illegal immigrants who would be unaware of this cunning plan. And us.

We created a sensation. They called London with our reference number, checked our passport numbers and found us to be... completely legitimate! However, procedures are procedures and we should have been dumped off the train at Calais at 9pm, at night! In the rain. Three days before Christmas. Luckily, our nice controller argued with some woman controller who, by the sound of it was a bit of a jobsworth, and said that the problem was a systems error and nothing to do with us, so there was no reason why we should not carry on to London.

So we did, and such is the illegal immigrant problem that the whole train had to go through customs again at St Pancras, filling the hall with lines of passengers. Suspicious types were taken aside and told to wait. We were beyond suspicion by now so sailed through into the tube and home! Phew!

And a merry Christmas was had by one and all, chez nous at least.

Made it enfin

We did actually make it!! On Monday evening the website gave information that those people with tickets for the weekend would have priority boarding the next day, Tuesday. So we took the TGV with our modified tickets, made it to Gare du Nord and caught the 12:19 that we should have taken on the previous Sunday.

The staff were charming and helpful, and there was a table of croissants, coffee and other goodies to greet our arrival. After the stress of the previous three days, the not knowing, the 'do I or do I not DO something', it was with much relief that we found ourselves actually going to London for Christmas, in comfort and warmth. Kudos to Eurostar for the effort it made and for allowing those who'd been most disrupted to travel.

Naturally we then had to cram everything we wanted to do in 3 days into one, but at least it all got done. My eldest, aged 13 has a new wardrobe from Primark (a hell hole if ever there was one) in Men's size S, and I didn't manage to open a non-resident bank account because, simply put, there is no longer such a thing as a non-resident bank account even though two people on the phone had told me it would be possible. The banking world gets ever stranger.

Unfortunately, we had to come back on Boxing Day, it being the half-way point of the holidays so that the boys could be delivered unto their father. What with the stress, the travel fatigue and the rushing about, I spent yesterday afternoon cloué au lit, prostrate with exhaustion and low blood pressure.

Apart from that, Christmas was lovely.

Ground Air France

Were you thinking of flying into or out of France this summer? If you are, I would advise you either not to fly at the weekend, or use a company that is NOT Air France.

Just for a change, we are to endure yet another strike. This time it's the pilots and they plan to do this on the weekends between 10 July to 3 August. Mind you, they've only indicated that they intend to strike. If their demands are met in the next two months, they may deign to withdraw the threat.

What demands? you may ask. More pay, better security, fewer hours, longer tea-break, higher overnight stay standards, 'personal assistant' at every airport, nicer luggage, comfier seats? No, none of that. Well, they are very well paid and have already taken much action for the hours they work so it's neither of those sticky issues.

No, what they want is to have a specific union representation. Yes, you read that right. According to new rules, unions have to represent 10% of total employees, but the pilots only make up 5% of Air France, so they will no longer have their own voice.

I can understand that this is a major blow and should be rectified somehow, but threatening to sabotage the vacation time of blameless passengers is NOT the way to do it. I hardly think many passengers will be sympathetic to their demands, either. If they were striking their way out of filthy mucky working conditions or 5-min tea breaks or crappy airline luggage or unattractive cabin staff one could understand it.

But more union power? I don't think so!

I am not too worried as I hardly ever travel on Air France, and certainly not to the UK. I always take Eurostar and SNCF. By the way, did you know that you can reserve Eurostar tickets on the SNCF website now, at 3 months in advance too? Well played both companies for getting their act together and making passenger bookings and thus lives easier.

I used to have to wait to make the Eurostar reservations which were only open 2 months in advance and so lose out on the cheapest SNCF tickets which came on sale 3 months in advance. This year I've saved 100Eurs on summer transport tickets. Am I happy? You bet!

So beware Air France this summer, and if it's not them, it'll be the air traffic controllers and if it's not them it'll be the baggage handlers and if it's not them it'll be the ground staff. In fact, it's a brave person who opts to fly in July and August; one who enjoys living on the edge in a high-risk environment. It's a bit too much for me. I'm all for a quiet life, a low carbon-footprint and more than 15kg of luggage.

Fingers crossed that SNCF don't let me down...

Attention! Prangs Ahead

If I finish this academic year without having pranged the car, I reckon it'll be a miracle.

The route taking my eldest to school is fraught with potential accident spots. The other day it was raining and I was in the left-hand lane. I wanted to be in the right-hand lane, so I could turn right a bit further on, but just as I was about to nip into a space, a car a few cars up slammed on its brakes, and three cars behind, one didn't quite make it and crashed into the car in front.

I thankfully managed to avoid this little accident, just avoiding an accident myself from the car behind me as I changed my mind and stayed a bit longer in the left-hand lane! It's so easily done.

This week, two cars have broken down on a two-lane road and sat causing havoc as they wait for the truck to come and tow them away. I have to keep reminding myself not to get distracted because that's the moment the guy in front stops moving and you go sailing into his rear.

I remember when in the throes of marriage breakup, being constantly distracted, and tired, and probably a danger on the road. I did have a couple of little accidents, but I'm sure there are continually people like that trying to cope with the stress of their lives whilst in charge of a vehicle.

You become less reactive - a bit like having a high alcohol blood level I suppose. Your head is so full of shit that you can only pay a much smaller percentage of your concentration levels on driving. It's all very well condamning people for talking on phones while they drive, but a hasard as dangerous, if difficult to test, is the preoccupied driver.

This evening I was creating rude letters to send to various people (well, one in particular) in my head when I realised I should be paying attention to the traffic jam surrounding me. It's so boring though, sitting in traffic, isn't it? You move, stop, move, stop; you can't get out a book, and there's perhaps crap on the radio. The journey isn't really very long, but you're dying to get home for a cuppa because you're tired. It's so easy to just let your mind wander and end up misjudging the movement of the car in front.

I'm telling you, it's either me or my neighbour who's driving whilst under the influence of a preoccupied mind, and the chances ain't good that I end the year with my car intact. Mind you, I wouldn't mind too much someone going into me either back or front as I have work to do on both ends which could be sorted nicely if paid for by someone else's insurance...

Always look on the bright side!

Take the Train

In keeping with my urge to control my potentially rampant carbon footprint, journeying to and from the UK for our holiday was made, as ever, by train, viz SNCF and Eurostar.

I've tried to give up as much as possible on Ryanair because I loathe Michael O'Leary and I loathe flying his dismal service to Stansted. I hate his blatant 'Fleece the Punter' mission statement, the cattle-class treatment, and the stairway at the end of each journey out onto the windy tarmac of the landing zone and having to trudge into the airport.

So, train travel it was. My SNCF train to Paris Gare de Lyon was delayed by 30 minutes. I was supposed to pick up the boys, have a civilised light lunch in the Train Bleu before hopping into a waiting taxi to take us to Gare du Nord. Hmm, some hope. The ex was super late with the boys which meant no lunch, a queue for the taxi stretching back to Belgium and a desperate run for the RER to get to Gare du Nord in 30 minutes including buying tickets. The sort of travel I had intended avoiding like the plague.

I had to attack two innocent gendarmes with a request for WHICH LINE A or D which they answered immediately upon seeing the wild look in my eye and even kindly pointed in the right direction. They must get used to that sort of thing...

When we arrived at the Eurostar terminal, there was chaos, but it was nothing to what was just about to happen. People queuing all over the place because they hadn't opened the check-in, even to the point of blocking the exit from the escalator. When a solitary suitcase travelled up the escalator without an owner this set off all the bomb alerts and we all had to troop down the escalator again as they cleared the terminal just in case.

Almost an hour later (could have sat quietly in a queue for a taxi and made it quite comfortably!!) we were finally allowed to get on the train, whereupon we headed straight for the restaurant car. It was well passed lunch time, the boys and I were starving and nothing was going to stop us getting there first! For the record, my bacon bagel was very tasty with the little bottle of white wine. The nice thing about train travel is, at the other end, you don't have to wait for your luggage to turn up, and wonder if it's yours that got lost this time... And my little bro was even there to meet us!

The return journey was smoother but not without trouble. We got on at Ebbsfleet along with half a school's worth of adolescents. It's a nice, civilised place to be in because it's small, not too busy, and lovely and clean. The only problem is the risk of all the suitcase holds being taken once you get on the train. We managed to find enough room after a bit of jostling around of other people's stuff...

At Gare du Nord, we sailed into a taxi, no queue, paid 10€ for a lovely little tour around that part of Paris, arrived calmly at the Gare de Lyon where we went for a light supper at the Train Bleu. The boys were terribly impressed to be there what with the Belle Epoch ambiance, superbly painted ceiling and courteous waiting staff. My youngest even called the Maitre d'hotel over as he passed to inform him that his Caesar salad was quite delicious. This went down very well and we were treated with much solicitude from there on.

The lift took us back down to the concourse where we had to wait, unfortunately, for half an hour. This was the day that trains to and from Nice were being delayed for up to 10 hours so I suppose we had nothing to complain about. Or not as much... Our first class seats were extremely comfy, connected to electricity, and a delight for the next 3 hours.

Despite delays and such, I do prefer train travel. I love train stations where I detest airports. Stations are romantic (or the big ones are), while airports are functional and full of stress. My carbon footprint remains a gentle plod rather than a giant leap so I can even keep my environmental halo intact on a visit to home shores. Perfect!

MMA from AF

I had a Mother's Moment of Anguish this evening. It's the first weekend of the month when the boys go to see their father. Until now, he's been coming down from Paris on the train, and taking them back, then doing the reverse journey on the Sunday.

This weekend, however, they had to go up on the plane under the Air France accompanied children scheme. It all went like clockwork except that I don't know my ex's address and had to ask my eldest. Luckily he knew it or I'd have been obliged to ring my ex to ask. It's needed to identify the person who collects them at the other end. Once that little form had been filled in, the boys were given a blue plastic folder to go round their necks containing their passports and tickets.

We then went up to customs and waited for the AF person in charge to take them through. My MMA happened as they went through and were taken off to board the aircraft WITHOUT ME. This has never happened before, of course, and it was strangely upsetting seeing them go off into the waiting area perhaps never to be seen again... The plane didn't crash - my ex was kind enough to call to let me know they'd arrived safely. Ouf!

You'll be totally unsurprised to know that there were another 8 children flying alone (accompanied). Divorce oblige. From the age of 12 they don't need to be accompanied and there were another 3 at least who were flying all alone. Very blasé they looked about it too. I was impressed with these mini jet-setters.

I am hoping to do some good work on my book this weekend - no gallivanting, no blokies, no going out on the town. Those opportunities usually come up on weekends with the boys, such is life. I'm not even sure one can still get to the beach either. As it's being re-sanded, there are barriers up everywhere, so marching along by the sea is out too. I'll be writing instead with impunity, you'll see!

No Train, No Gain

As an organiser, my ex-h has always been somewhat chaotic. Now that he has moved some 500km away, I was wondering if he would have to become more organised concerning the boys, because he had to buy train tickets.

I needn't have worried, at his end, he gets himself sorted - well, the cheaper tickets have to be bought in advance, don't they? As far as my end goes, he's as chaotic as ever.

The boys are on holiday this week and next. I have them for the first week, him the second. The second could start any time from Friday evening to Sunday. All last week I had been wondering exactly when I would hear of his plans.

"Should I ring and ask?" I thought to myself. That would be the obvious thing to do. But an evil little part of me said "No, wait. See how long it takes for him to make contact". So I waited, and waited... and waited.

The boys went off to the centre aeré (day care during the school holidays), and yesterday the whole group went to La Grande Motte to the swimming pool. They would not be back before six and I had no means of contacting them. I still had heard nothing from my ex-h, so I had not packed any bags; I still had to iron their clothes, and I was considering what to cook for dinner with them in mind.

At 4.30pm my mobile rings. It's my ex-h. "Ooooh," I thought, "Contact." He tells me he's on the train from Marseilles and could I bring the boys to the station for the 18.36 train. "Oh" I say, and tell him that he hadn't actually told me when he was expecting the boys; that I had thought by now it must be Saturday, and they wouldn't be off the bus before 6pm (quite apart from the fact that I had to pack their bags having ironed their clothes!).

"Oh" said he, and I hope a little message of "note to self: remember to email Sarah with times and dates" passed through his mighty brain, or maybe he was irritated because I wasn't telepathic and didn't automatically know (I'm going with the latter, from experience).

I left work early and dashed home, ironed the clothes, packed the bags including activity bags for the train, plus a teatime (he never feeds them on the train), and had a cuppa. Would the bus be late? That was the crucial aspect to the possible success of the whole business. It takes, on a Friday evening, roughly half an hour to get to the station, so we were cutting it extremely fine.

One bus arrived, with one of the boys. Where's the other damned bus, I muttered through gritted teeth. It had gone a different way and had got stuck on the autoroute, in the mass of people leaving for the long Easter weekend. I could see failure in my sights, though really, why should I care?

The bus arrived, the other boy got off, and both were bundled into the car which set off at breakneck speed behind a dawdling Fiat Panda which was probably the only car in town that respected the speed limit simply because it could go no faster... Finally, on the dual carriageway we were able to leave it behind and shot off towards town. We were lucky with most of the red lights, getting caught only at a few. We passed the hospital, the Fac de Pharmacy, the stadium, and arrived beneath the Arc de Triomphe, version Montpellier, splat bang into a traffic jam.

It was 6.20pm and we knew it would take ten minutes to clear it down to the bottom. Eventually we got near the station, and instead of going round the houses, up the hill over the rail track bridge, down again, U-turn, back up over the bridge, turn right into the station carpark and dash belatedly to the platform, we went where we shouldn't really, got as close as we could, and walked the 50 remaining metres.

At 6.30pm my ex-h was still collecting papers from his old office!

I told him we were at the bottom. In his panic-driven state, he heard we were up at the top. At 6.35pm he rang demanding to know where we were, and telling us to get to platform C for godsake! So we did.

A guard asked me which carriage we wanted, but of course I didn't know! Suddenly we saw the mad figure, overloaded with backpacks and bags that was my ex-h, he dashed over, found which carriage and on jumped the boys. I remembered to throw in the bags, but not my handbag...

There was just time for a quick kiss and the doors closed.

He doesn't do 'living on the edge' by halves, my ex-h!

I wonder when they're coming back...