Le Chien de France - Avril

D. had for several years said, Absolutely no dogs in our house. They would ruin the house, he didn=t want to be tied down, and on and on. I didn't really believe he was a dog person, even though I knew he had dogs as a child, standard French poodles that his mother would get, all black, all named Pierre. Yes, my husband was a Francophile raised by parents who loved France and European travel. When we would visit friends with dogs, he didn't interact well with them, really ignoring them as much as possible. With his first wife he had a cat, which he disliked. So, I believed when we married I would never again own a dog. But I would get to travel to France a lot, not a bad trade.

Instead, I settled for a series of pets for my son. First a fish tank. Then we went through four guinea pigs, none of which lived more than 18 months (named Friendly, Mu Shu, Bubbles 1 and Bubbles 2). Finally, we agreed on a rabbit, lapin lunatique, a lovely animal which makes no noise and my son named Hoppy. Unfortunately, when I consented to the rabbit, I did so with the understanding that a dog was not a possibility until the rabbit died which might be seven years.
At that time we traveled in France once or twice a year. D. and I would notice the relationship the French have with their dogs and joke about how we should have a business for well-off Americans, especially women, traveling to France who want to fit in. We envisioned have a rent a dog service at the airports in Paris and Nice. It would rent only small dogs, that would be easy to handle, and would fit in the sac chien.

I had concluded that for a French woman, particularly a Parisian, the dog was an important accessory, like an extra hand-bag. Their Poodles, and Westies and Yorkies were treated better than my children. They are taken to every restaurant and store (except grocery stores). Then they are left tied up in a special spot. Every restaurant will give them water. Every top hotel accepts dogs and even has a menu Chien for the extra resident of the room.

We contemplated the dogs and concluded that the poodles were rather like a Chanel handbag. They are like the Chanel classic in various sizes - jumbo - the Standard Poodle, the regular classic - the miniature, and the toy - for the mini classic. The West Highland terriers were more like Louis Vuitton - more durable, more solid. The Yorkies were more comparable to Dior - something a little trendier, again in different sizes which could be dressed up with bows and ribbons, or worn a little more scruffy. Now it was difficult to determine which dog was more like Hermes, but certainly a Papillion was the closest. More rare, more elegant, more work to maintain it, but certainly beautiful and worth the price. I also liked the King Charles Spaniel, which was more like a Marc Cross handbag, charming, lovely, reliable, but not French.

D., kept looking at dogs in Europe and at home, and commenting on how cute this one is or that one. Each one he liked was a terrier or a terrier-mix. I lived through my parents' purchase of a Soft-coated wheaten terrier, and know the first two years, those dogs really should be called terrior, as they destroy your house and shoes. I was never going to own another one. Over the years, from childhood to adulthood, I had a Siberian husky, two pulis, the terrier, a vizsla, and my ex-husband's yellow Labrador retriever and a cock-a-poo. Each breed has its positives and negatives, but none were a perfect match for me.

Over several years, D. and I would go round and round in our dialogue about having a dog. He was quite resistant. I was more interested in a dog that could travel. My husband wanted scruffy. I wanted elegant. He wanted rough and tumble. I was thinking King Charles Spaniel or Papillion, but then we quite unexpectedly fell deeply and madly in love.

Just before the Westminster Dog Show in 2005 I read an article in the New York Times about new breeds in the show, including a PBGV. I had no idea what it was, but the picture was very cute, and it was French!! We watched the show and D. was definitely interested, because it had the scruffy face, was very happy and friendly looking, incredibly cute and was French. Now, this dog was more like a Givenchy handbag, not classic, more creative, more eclectic, low to the ground and stocky - definitely more us.

We then did some research on le web and learned that it was a Petit (small) Basset (low) Griffon (long-hair) Vendeen, breed to hunt small game (i.e. rabbits) in the dense underbrush of the mountainess region of France, called Vendeen. The breed is about 400 years old. There is a grande version of it. They should have a strong voice, freely used and are pack hunters. We also learned there were only about 2500 of them in the United States and they can sell for $1500 per puppy, or about $60 per pound (since the females grow to about 25-30 pounds).

But, my husband, being who he is, wanted only one from France. So we researched what you had to do to bring one home and were surprised they had to be only three months old and have their rabies vaccine with a health certificate from a vet. Before our trip to the Cote D'Azur in July 2005, without telling me, D. contacted the airline (a US carrier who I will not name) but who assured him that it was no problem to bring the dog back in a sac Chien under the seat of the plane, provided it was ten pounds or less. The agent told him, just call as soon as you have the dog to make a reservation and it will cost $150.00.@ D. even went to the airport to ask at the ticket counter to confirm this.

Over the years I have learned with D. sometimes he does research and asks questions to satisfy his curiosity, but without the intention to follow-through, so before we got on the plane to Geneva that summer I had no idea that he was really planning to buy a dog in France.
We arrived in Geneva and drove from there to where we were staying outside St. Remy, in a town called Plan D'Orgon in a fabulous chateau called St. Esteve. At that time it was a small bed and breakfast with several rooms in the main house, and a separate apartment with its own kitchen and four bedrooms and three bathrooms. We had stayed there before, in fact, spending our first anniversary there. The chateau has since been returned to a private residence but it has a fascinating history. Great writers stayed there with the family who owned it, including Diderot. It was situated on about 12 acres of land in the middle of Provence, with open fields, air conditioning in the bedrooms (which is rare in these rentals) and a lovely swimming pool.
We got there and relaxed for a week. We, as usual, explored the countryside. We went to the fabulous classic Provence market they have in St. Remy every Wednesday morning. It is so big it takes over the entire town. Everything from housewares and clothes, to knives, cheeses, cooked chickens, and local crafts. Of course they have all the Provence table clothes, bedding, and kitchen wares. We purchased a beautiful french-ocre set of bed quilt and two pillow covers for our bed at home which I had designed to feel as much like France as I could get in suburban New Jersey. I bought fresh spices, miele lavandre (lavander honey) and jams.
One day we took a ride to Romans, an ancient town on a river which is the shoe capital of France. Historically, it was where all the shoes were made for the major designers. But now it has become too expensive, and like many countries, France is losing those type of manufacturing jobs. We tracked down the factory store of Robert Clergeri, where I bought two pairs of ankle boots, normally $500, but on the sale about $60 per pair. We bought my step-daughter a pair of beautiful sandals with a little heal for $100, shoes I knew I would quickly inherit since she was still growing, and the sandals were my size. D. bought a very sexy pair of shoes for about $200 and two pairs of sunglasses for about $40 per pair. We found the Charles Jordan outlet where I bought a pair of off-white pumps for work for about $60, then ate lunch overlooking the river and drove back to the chateau.

We explored the town of Cavaillon, home of the Cavaillon mellon. It has a wonderful, small synagogue that is no longer in use but is now a Jewish museum. It is one of the oldest synagogues in France, but there are few Jewish families left in the town. Most were killed or left during World War II and few returned. Now to worship they must go to Avignon. It is charming and sad at the same time. Under the main sanctuary is the area that was used to bake matzah for Passover. Beneath that we were told was a mikvah or ritual bath, but that is no longer open to the public.

We also went to a small boutique, Pat's, where I bought several fabulous hats, which are so hard to find in America, unless you want to spend a small fortune.

At the house, we relaxed by the pool. There was no television at the chateau, except in French. Can you believe it, no CNN? So the kids watched old movies on VHS like Annie and Oliver, that the owner, a wonderful, eclectic British woman named Judy, had in her collection.
I am always so busy during the year, that even though I love to read, it is nearly impossible for me to focus enough to read books. I usually read only newspapers and magazines, and always end up feeling a great sense of accomplishment when I manage to read the New York Times the SBe day it is published. But, when we are on vacation it is different. Then I can devour five or six books in three weeks.

So, at the chateau I read four books and got some sleep. I cooked a lot. Down the road was a farm stand with fresh fruit and vegetables. Every morning D. would go out and buy from the local boulangerie, fresh baget and fresh croissant. He would go to the farm stand and buy whatever I needed to make meals. His favorite was garlic and shallots sauteed with olive oil over pasta with fresh bread. That was all he wanted. The garlic was unlike any I buy in America, even at the farmers' markets it is not as fresh as what I bought there. The exterior leaves were still fresh, like it had just been pulled from the ground. In America, by the time it comes to market it is dried out and losing its taste. The French garlic was easier to peel, easier to cook with, tasted more pungent, but was easier to digest.

I learned that day-old croissant make fabulous French Toast, not that the French would know to call it that. A totally American food invention, like calling pomme frites french fries. But it was delicious with fresh preserves - fraise or framboise. The kids unwound and played frisbee outside by the pool. They played with the owner's dogs. Then, sadly, our week in the country came to an end. And we moved on to the excitement of the beach and the fashion scene.
We checked into our hotel, the Majestic Barriere, on Friday, and that first day, D. immediately spoke to the concierge, Terry, who we have known for years, to ask him about breeders. We learned that they are all registered with the Ministry of Agriculture and when they have a litter, that has to be registered with the ages and genders of the dogs. So, D. asked Terry to look at Papillion and PBGV litters and let us know which ones are not too far away and have puppies old enough to travel. Again, I know that D. does do a lot of research and I never believed he would really buy a dog. Generally, D. is a lot of talk, but in a fun way.
Like the day he took me into Boucheron, my favorite jeweler in France. It was our first trip to France together, we had left my son behind. SB was then four years old. It was very painful for me to separate. I was used to my single-parent existence. But I knew it was the only way to see who we were without children, his or mine. So, off we went for ten days in the Cote D'Azur, Cannes. What a tough life.

I remember making the typical American mistakes with clothes. When I traveled in the summer I wore shorts. Although not attractive on a mature woman's body, I wore them because we wear them at home in America. Within two days at our five-star hotel, I realized that no French woman wears shorts, only skirts and trousers. The only thing I got right were a few of my evening outfits and the Chanel backpack D. had bought me just before we left, along with a lovely eight-twisted-strand of pearls to wear in the evening.

I was fascinated by the women with the Hermes and Chanel handbags, shoes, clothes and just the general style that the European women had. The real classic French woman all had certain core possessions. At least one good Channel handbag. Not so much in the summer, but other seasons, scarves, particularly from Hermes. The women all had one good, thick, heavy solid-gold chain with a similar bracelet, and a good gold watch. Every morning at breakfast was a fashion show of clothes and accessories. I was hooked.

We were particularly fascinated by a middle-aged couple who had the only reserved table in the restaurant. The hotel staff was more attentive to them than to any other customers. We were intrigued. We studied them. Clearly they were quite wealthy. He was not attractive. We quickly nicknamed him, the toad. She was very elegant. Like many French women, not beautiful, but with great style and finess. One morning she came down to breakfast in this unbelievable chiffon dress, clearly coutour. We dubbed her the chiffon lady. She became my goal. Here I am a short, solid but not fat, Jewish girl from New Jersey, but I guess I needed something to shoot for, however unattainable.

D. took me into all the best shops, bought me a belt in Hermes, the classic H belt, which to him was something all high-end people should have. The H belt is like a uniform that we see all over Europe, like demonstrating you are a member of the club of people who are in the know of the best things to own and best places to go.

We went to Cartier. We looked at all the jewelry displayed in the hotel lobby by the finest jewelers, but my favorite was Boucheron. So off we went one day. D. brought me in, and was sitting chatting with the saleswoman. She was young and very charming. I thought I would fall off my seat when I was trying on a ring with a three-carat Burmese ruby and diamonds worth about $56,000. D. calmly had the girl write down all the information to identify the ring and the costs, took the catalogue from the store and we left. I was never to be the SBe again. I was enamored of Boucheron. Later, D. took the picture in the window of the ring and the set of jewelry that matched it. Something to shoot for he said. I told him that my head was spinning with the stuff, the fashion, the people. It was overwhelmingly different than America, even Fifth Avenue in New York.

By the time we returned home, we were certainly a couple. And I immediately changed my wardrobe, removing all shorts, adding skirts and beginning what would become my prodigious collection of scarves (foulard). D. shortly thereafter bought me a beautiful vintage Corum Romulus watch, and a good gold chain. I was on my way to becoming the chiffon lady.
But back to the summer of 2005. By Monday, we had settled in and done some of our usual things. We had been to Juan Les Pin to let the kids go on the go-carts and some other rides. We ate dinner there at our favorite restaurant, La Bodega, which has the best veal milanese. We went to Fragonard where I buy my perfume for the year and my favorite olive-based soap, and almond oil hand-creme. I visited my favorite pharmacy that has a fish tank with live choi under the floor. I hit the sales at Lancel for a new beach bag, had checked out the sale at Celine, had gone to Gallery Lafayette for the semi-annual lingerie and bra sale, to Minelli and Francois Pinet for the shoe sale (yes I have a shoe obsession, a la=Imelda Marcos), walked to the flea market, and strolled Rue D'Antibbes to see what type of sales were in each store.
One thing most Americans don't know and don't understand about France is the twice-yearly government sale. They are always in January and July. How and when the mark-downs are allowed is all structured by the government. Now that is something that would never happen in free-enterprise America!

We had a lovely baby-sitter helping us with our kids, then age 9 and 11. Lilly was originally from near Albertville and her family had moved a few years earlier to Cannes and purchased an ice cream location on the Croisette by the beach. She was working at the hotel for the summer helping with child-care to earn money for college. She was already studying in a hotel school and trying to improve her English. The kids loved her. It gave us some freedom to go shopping in the afternoon without them and go out to dinner sometimes without them.
So, Monday rolled around and after breakfast Terry saw us and told us that he had the list. We had already narrowed it down to PBGV's only. We decided that it suited us. If you believe the adage that pets and owners begin to look alike, I suppose we would start off that way. Neither of us is particularly skinny. The dog would be more stocky and scruffy than elegant, and we determined it was us, particularly that adorable, scruffy, friendly face. So we looked at the list. I told D. only a female puppy. We tried to figure out what breeder was located closest to us. Terry was telling us some of the breeders would be willing to ship the puppy to us, but I knew we really needed to see the parents and be more selective. There was one breeder near Marseille but he did not call back, and there was another one outside Montepellier who did. By 1:00 p.m. D. had directions and we were deciding whether to take the kids with us. After much discussion, they decided to stay in the hotel with Lilly and relax and watch movies. We had our mobile phones and could communicate with them (no one in Europe calls them cell phones). We knew the hotel manager and the assistant managers and most of the top staff. Soooo, D. said to me let's go, we don't have to buy the dog if don't like it and don't want it, but let's go on the adventure. That is D. to the core. All about the adventure.

So we got in the rental car, a Renault wagon, and grabbed a towel to put on the seat with the directions in French and drove off for a three hour tour. We drove down the Autoroute, the European highway system. I have learned over the years to navigate the roadways there. Luckily I have a good sense of direction. The signs are quite different then American roadways. In the States, we actually tell you the direction i.e. North, South, East or West. In Europe, the signs just tell you the cities, direction Lyon; direction Marseille, etc. So it took me a few years to understand where the major cities are located to I could have that internal map visualized in my head as we drove.

We also learned, via bad experience not to use Maporama, a European version of MapQuest. One year we got lost coming and going to Frankfort airport. On the way to Paris, leaving the airport, we got totally discombobulated and ended up in a German town called Worms. D. had to go into the train station and get a map, in German, and I then figured out how to get us to Paris.

We have learned the best mapping website is Via Michelin which gives fabulous precise directions, including tolls and their cost, advising you where the speed traps are located, and important road markers. But here we were, driving toward direction Barcelona with no map, just directions from the internet, in French. We are driving and driving. At one point we had to get off the road and get gas. We checked in with the children but everything was ok. As we drove weird things began to happen. One car lost a tire, but kept driving at first not realizing what had happened. Then traffic stopped, as a family in a mini-van was being pulled out. It had flipped on its side, and a man climbed out of what was now the roof, but was really the window. He then, with help from passers-by, pulled out several children and his wife.
We continued on, passing the turn-off for Marseille and Montepellier. Finally, we got to the turnoff for the smaller roads. Unfortunately, although D. is fairly fluent in French (I am a mere beginner and speak only restaurant and shopping French), that day he could not remember how to say right and left and we were trying to figure out the directions - gouche turned out to be left, and droit was right, but only after we made several false starts. After over three hours on the road, we finally arrived in Pinet, a town of about 750 people. Pinet is a famous town in France for wine and champagne. We could not find the water tower the breeder was describing as the marker for his house, so we called him, for the fourth time. He drove into town in a little truck with a friend and we followed him back to his home, several miles away. Without following him we would never have found it. It was a lovely Mediterrean-style farm house hidden in the middle of a large farm and vineyard. He had ducks and chickens, goats and cows. Dennis, the breeder told D. that he makes money on the dogs, and sends many to the States.
Although D.'s French is quite good, he had difficulty understanding Dennis and his Basque accent. But we managed to make a deal. He took us to the kennel where he had several dogs about nine months old, and then we saw the breeding age dogs. The father of the litter we were looking at escaped and started to walk around the farm, strutting and baying. The dogs are fascinating to watch as they run. The long tail is wagging. The face is in motion with the tongue out, the hair flying, quite happy to be out and running. The body is so long in relationship to the short legs, that it almost skips, because the back legs are having difficulty keeping up with the front. If you watch from behind, the back legs are moving a little off-center and lop-sized, but fast as they must be to chase rabbits.
The puppies were in another area because they had recently been weaned. They were dirty but adorable. Dennis and his friend brought out two females. One, the eyes seemed glassy and as I held her, I did not like the way she was breathing. Dennis was telling D. that this one was ready to leave and had a good personality. The other puppy was running around and trying to get to her mother. She ran under the gate, and Dennis grabbed her hind legs and pulled her out like a piece of meat. But then, as I held her, it was love at first sight, as one can only fall in love with a puppy.

She was beautiful and sweet with dark eyes and a black nose. The coloring of her fur was one that women in New York pay big bucks for, basic white, but with lots of brown, black, beige, and grey highlights and spots. She had spots on her skin, particularly her belly and her ears, and brown spots in her mouth and even on the pads of her big feet. I was fascinated by the spots as I had never owned a spotted dog before. Her mother was nothing to look at, but her father was quite handsome. They both looked healthy and friendly. No vicious streak there. These dogs had long straight tails, and when they walked their tails waved side to side like a metronome.
So we quickly made a deal for the puppy, for 500 euros or about $600. Dennis informed us we had to go to the vet in town, he was waiting for us, to fill out the paper work, and for the dog to get her final rabies shot and certificate of good health so she could travel. He told us that we could take the dog in the car with us and just follow him. Before we left, Dennis gave us two travel cases with wine - three bottles for the concierge who made the deal and three bottles for us. Now in America I cannot imagine a dog coming with bottles of wine! But everything in France is about wine.

We then drove about ten-minutes into town to the vet. Just before we left, Dennis told us we had to pick a name for the papers and that it had to be an name that began with A because in 2005 all dogs had to have names that began with an A. Such conformity would never exist in America.

As we traveled to the vet, I held the dog and checked her again, looking at her eyes, mouth and feet to make sure she was healthy. I also checked her fur and skin and realized that she had fleas. D. and I contemplated the name issue and tossed around a few names, trying to think of something French, but coming up blank.

We got to the vet who spoke some English. He explained to us that in 2005 the Ministry of Agriculture requires all dogs to be registered with A names, 2006 AB@ names and so-on. I didn't know what to do. The vet says, not to worry and point to the chart on the wall with 2005 at the top and a list of about 150 acceptable French names, female names on the left side of the chart and male names on the right side. We had learned that the puppy's birth-date was April 13, As I scanned the list, down at the bottom I saw Avril, and so she became Avril.

Another French requirement was that Avril either had to be chipped or get tattooed with identifying numbers. The vet said that he did not recommend a chip because the numerical system would not match in America, so we should have her tattooed. He then had to anesthetize her. Dennis was beginning to prepare Avril for the procedure and began to pluck the hair from the inside of her long floppy ears. The vet performed the tattoo procedure which seemed to hurt the dog a little bit. D. observed that Dennis looked like he had done this a lot, and treated the dog like a commodity, not unkind, just businesslike. Avril also needed her final rabies shot in the series, which the vet accomplished.

When I discussed the fleas, Dennis said the dog did not have fleas but then I showed him the little bugs crawling in her fur. The vet gave us pills to give the dog in the morning and told us to wait a few hours, then give the dog a bath with flea shampoo he gave us and the fleas would fall off and not return. I knew whatever that was did not exist in America. The vet gave us a starter bag of puppy food, gave Dennis some flea pills for the other dogs and we were on our way. Just before we got in the car to go back to the hotel, D. realized Dennis had never taken the money for the dog, so we gave him the money.

The vet also gave us the health certificate and the animal passport needed to take the dog home. (Yes, the European Union requires that the animal travel with a passport attesting to its health and vaccinations.) So, off we went with Avril for another three-hour tour. I sat in the back seat with her so she could relax. At first she seemed to be dazed and sleeping, but then as the drugs wore off she got restless. Eventually she got up and went to the other side of the car and vomited. We pulled off into a rest area to clean up the car, and get some water and a snack. We called the kids to tell them we were on our way back to the hotel and to tell Lily to order them dinner.

It was already nearly 6:00 p.m. We traveled on, getting back to the hotel after 9:00 p.m. The kids were waiting up for us. We ordered dinner and settled in. Avril was totally traumatized. We let her stay out on the terrace, and put out water and food, but she would not eat, only drinking a little water.

The children were buzzing with excitement. They could not believe how beautiful she was. D. and I were exhausted. We had nothing for her, no collar or leash, no sac chien to bring her home, no brush, no toys. So more shopping ahead of us. Darn!
We finally settled down enough to go to sleep by about midnight. I placed a few towels on the floor for Avril to sleep on the floor near my side of the bed. After her getting sick in the car I did not want to risk giving her the flea pill for a few hours so I slept, but by 5:00 a.m. I got up and gave her the pill. I then waited for an hour and gave her a bath in the sink. Once clean, she was a beauty.

I wrapped her in a towel and lay down on the floor to sleep with her until the kids woke up. I gave her a blow-dry using the hotel dryer. SC then had to sacrifice to the newly formed cult of Avril, a brand-new brush purchased at Monoprix, so I could beautify her before she made her grand appearance for the every-day breakfast fashion show. Yes, I finally had my extra accessory, a scruffy Givenchy handbag, one who needed some accessories of her own.
Now I will say that when we appeared that first day at breakfast, although we had traveled to this hotel for years, having the dog opened many new doors. The French who normally would not speak to an American, would now want to admire the puppy and discuss dog-talk. Not interested in children, just dogs.

After breakfast, we walked to Lancel to purchase a sac chien, to carry the dog home. I had to carry the dog like a baby since I had no leash. Yes, the French we passed were all admiring her. My gorgeous children don't get that kind of action in France. Fortunately, the sale solde was still ongoing, and we were able to purchase Avril her down Lancel duffle bag for the ride home, in black, for about $75. Lancel did not sell collars or leash so we went onward to the pet store.

Now in America, you have Petsmart and Petco and even the supermarket has a myriad of dog food, treats, toys, with which to pamper our pets. But in France, it is much more limited. We went to the small store about three blocks from the hotel, where we found the faux Hermes collar and leash, in a lovely shade of Pink with leather trim. The collar was too big, but we knew she would grow into it, and D. felt he could add some extra holes to it. We purchased a small squeaky toy, an Orange fish, but noticed how little there was in the store. Lots of leashes, colors, and sacs, but not the panoply of stuff that you would find in an American pet store.
We returned to the hotel, to wait in the lobby for friends who were arriving from New York. I called the vet in New Jersey to make an appointment for a checkup upon our return. And I settled in to my new French obsession.

By Wednesday D. began to call the airline to get us home. That was when the trouble started. They now informed him that he was previously misinformed. We could not take the dog in the sac under the seat, because it was an international flight. She would have to go in a crate in the hold of the plane as freight and we would have to pay for her as freight, approximately $500. But (of course there's always a but) because we were flying from Geneva, and we were flying on Sunday, the freight office is not open on Sunday. We would then have to arrive in the airport during business hours on Friday, with the crate, for inspection. The dog would have to sit in the crate in the freight area until we boarded on Sunday morning.

So much for traveling on an American airline with a dog. We contacted Air France. It was like night and day. As the ticket agent for Air France said to D., You can travel with a goat, so long as it has the health certificate. He informed us we simply had to purchase an animal fare for $150.00 one way, and the dog could travel under the seat, if it was under 5 kilo or 10 pounds. Avril was just at that weight.

D. and I then had a lively debate about which one of us would travel with the dog, and which would travel with the kids. He, being the alpha-male that he is, wanted to be gallant and put me on the plane with the kids for the easy, direct flight home. To fly from Geneva to New Jersey, via Air France, required changing planes in Paris. But, as I argued, he was a man, purchasing a one-way ticket at the last minute, not checking any luggage. In our post-9/11 world, I knew he would never make it home with my precious Avril. So, I knew, and he agreed, that I would have to suffer through the flight alone. When I say suffer, I mean it. I hate to fly. I fly only because I refuse to let my claustrophobia and my fear rule my life. I view flying as a necessary evil of modern society. I have been known to get sick on planes, and usually check when I get on to see if there is a vomit bag there among the in-flight magazines and catalogues. So, I look forward to when I can say, beam me up Scotty and in seconds be traveling to France or wherever I want without the horror of sitting on the aluminum tube of death as an adversary once said to me before I traveled to depose his client in Sacarmento.
We made the reservation for me, and spent the rest of the week exploring France from a new angle, from that of le Chien de France. We learned that you can take the dog to the beach, but not the pool. Now the beaches in France, particularly the Cote d'Azur are not like American beaches. As most people know, women go topless, with no one batting an eyelash. Se normal.
When D. and I eloped in 2001, we took our children to France for a family honeymoon for two weeks. To the SBe hotel in Cannes. Before we left, we talked with SB (then age five) about the topless beaches and how when you travel to different countries you experience different cultures. Sometimes it is different than our culture, and you can experience it without judging it. We explained the French attitude toward going topless and initially everything seemed fine.
A few days into that trip, we were at the beach and D. began to encourage me to take my top off. I am no prude and have done it without my children, so why should this be different? So, I took my tankini top off. SB was playing by the water with SC. It took a few minutes for him to notice that I had taken my top off. But when he did he was a prime example of kids say the funniest things. He pointed at me and my breasts with one hand, and put the other hand over his mouth. He then walked up to D. and said, You know, those used to be mine, I used to get milk out of those. Yes, you can't make this stuff up.

Fortunately, by now, SB is inured to the French beaches. He is still fascinated by the different people, the different languages spoken and how to communicate with the other children at the beach via toys. Be it a game boy, or transformers, or a simple pail and shovel, children can always find the international common language of play. How sad that we adults lose that commonality, and are left to argue about differences rather than similarities.
I often describe our hotel as if it was Switzerland, a neutral zone, where everyone can put aside their differences and relax. We stay there with all nationalities and religions. We know who the other is, but we nod and smile. We let our children share toys and play together in the pool. We say bon jour at breakfast, and bon soir in the evening. And eventually we will go home to our respective countries and cultures and back to our political and cultural differences. But in Cannes, for a few weeks each summer, we are all the same, enjoying the food, the sun, the beauty of the Mediterranean, and knowing that in the end we will all leave and go home to our other everyday lives, wherever and whatever that is.

But back to 2005. As always, we watched the Bastille Day (July 14) fireworks from the terrace of our room. On the Cote d'Azur each year there is an international fireworks competition. In Cannes each week, usually on Saturday night but beginning on Bastille Day, a country is the exhibitor. A theme is assigned for the year, and the exhibit must match the theme. The displays are quite amazing, accompanied by music, set out on barges on the water. Boats begin to amass at least a day before, and then throughout the day of the exhibit. People come into the city from all over to see the show. Speakers are set up along the Croisette so everyone can hear the music. Hundreds of boats are lit up on the bay, so after dark it looks as if there is another city on the water.

When the show begins, the boats turn their lights off, the hotels do the same, and traffic stops. It is as if time stands still while the fireworks soar into the sky. Everyone can forget their troubles for a brief time and just experience the beauty and artistry as the lights splash and explode over the night. When it is concluded, the boats begin to move away, snaking slowly across the water.

we enjoyed the next few days until we had to say goodbye to Cannes and take the long drive to Geneva staying overnight in a hotel in the airport, where the dog was not allowed in the restaurants like France. D. took the kids to eat while I stayed in the room with Avril. The next day was insanity.

D. and the kids got on the plane with no problem. Air France could not find my reservation, then was sending me to different airlines because they claimed they could not get me on the plane, they were all booked. I had no luggage, just my carry-on with no clothes, and the dog in a bag with no supplies. Avril was wimpering in the bag. I was in tears. Eventually the ticket agents took pity on me and found me a seat. Off I went to Paris with Avril under the seat. The first leg was easy, one hour with nice staff on the plane and other passengers who were dog people so Avril could poke her head out of the bag and no one was complaining. Then came Paris.

I basically ran through the airport to get to security and make the next flight. Security had a very long line since the terminal had been shut down and evacuated due to some problem with someone leaving their luggage alone, and now everyone was lined up again. Fortunately my flight was delayed due to this issue and I made it. No time for even a bathroom stop. I got on the plane, got in my seat and did not move for eight hours home. The staff was not pleasant about me letting the dog pop her head out of the bag, give her some water, etc. So I covered us with a blanket so no one could see her. And she slept with her head resting in my feet.

I was fascinated to see what customs would do with her. I filled out the form stating that I was traveling with a live animal, but no one stopped me, no one asked to see her or her health forms. I just walked through.

We landed and D. met us, since he had the direct flight, had already left the kids at home and come back to get me. We got Avril out of the bag, but she was tired and disoriented. We got her to her new home, immediately went to the store for supplies, and she quickly settled into her new, very spoiled American life.