Often when we travel, we have an experience or interaction (good or bad) that just sticks with us. And because I keep my travelogues to 2,000 characters or less, I don’t have room to tell the story then/there. 

Trying to come up with a name for this occasional feature wasn’t easy: 

{Update: The WordPress censor brigade didn’t like the original version of the conversation below, so I had to re-write. You’ll figure it out.}

Ken: You want to attract the most attention? It’s the Internet, babe. Go with, Highly Attractive People Unburdened by Articles of Clothing.

Me: [silent eyeroll of exasperation].

Ken: What? See Internet Rule #34. (Google it.)

Me: What if I want to attract the 17th most attention?

And . . . Welcome to my occasional feature: The Highlight Real. The moments (good or bad) on a trip that just stick with us. And, bonus: if I write them down, my menopause brain is less likely to file them away in some mental drawer I won’t open again.

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Today’s Highlight Real is something utterly dumb I did in Champagne, France. It’s been years, and I’m still kicking myself. Enjoy!

I learned my 19th word of French last month:  Merde.

A few years ago, we took a two-week European Family Vacation to Germany and France. We completed (and mostly successfully, I might add) a rather ambitious itinerary that included Bavaria (to visit Opa), Metz, Verdun, Paris, Normandy, Metz again, and finally, back to Bavaria.

We spent a lot of time in the car (learning the ins and outs of the French highway system, aka, the French National Toll Road), and I spent a lot of time counting.

1-2-3-4.

Mom, what are you doing?

Counting passports.  As long as we have our passports, we’re good.  Anything else, we can replace.

I must have counted our passports 432 times on that trip.  My kids (and Ken) rolled their eyeballs and dismissed me as paranoid, but my trip motto was, “paranoid gets us home”.

Our itinerary took us right through the Champagne region of France, so much to the displeasure of the kids, we stopped.  For a like 20 minutes (ok, it might have been four hours).

Enjoyed a glass or two of bubbles at a wonderful little wine bar in Epernay – C. Comme. We estimated we had the luggage space (and weight allowance) for two bottles of Champagne. So I asked the hostess for a recommendation.  My only criteria was that I shouldn’t be able to buy them in the USA.  She came back with two bottles of Champagne and we left.

We wedged the Champagne into our clown rental car and headed down the road to Metz.

Our hotel in Metz was a 17th century building.  17th century buildings have tons of charm, but they do not have elevators.  They have four flights of creaky, 17th century stairs.  And naturally, our rooms were on the top floor.  Call me lazy, but I don’t enjoy lugging 4 suitcases across the cobblestone streets of Metz (17th century hotels don’t have parking, either), and up 4 flights of 17th century stairs, just for one night.

Having stayed at this same hotel on our way to Paris, we knew the drill.  Park in the garage down the street.  Unload the suitcases and take out just what we need for over-night, and throw it into our backpacks.  Reload the suitcases into the car.  Ignore the side-eye from the Metz-ians.  Head to the hotel like genius light-fighters.

Brilliant, right?  Well, it was until exactly 5:07am, when I woke up in a panic.  OMG.  I took the Champagne bag out of the car when we repacked, but did I put it back in the car?  I don’t remember putting it back in the car.  Maybe Ken put it in the car.  Maybe one of the kids put it in the car.  Oh, no.  No, no, no, no, no.

Houston, we have a crisis.

As soon I didn’t think he’d kill me for waking him up and sending him outside to a parking garage looking for a bag of Champagne, I woke Ken up and sent him outside to the parking garage looking for a bag of Champagne.  Was the Champagne still there?

Of course not.

Merde.

Merde.  Merde.  Merde.  Merde.  Merde.

For the record, I was very grown-up (mostly) about the loss.  I didn’t throw a tantrum or anything.  There may or may not have been some sulking.  And not because it was expensive Champagne (it really wasn’t), but because it was I-can-only-get-this-Champagne-in-Champagne Champagne.  How could I be so scatter-brained?!?  There was a time in my life when I would never have forgotten to put the Champagne bag back in the car. Sigh. Middle-age brain sucks.

And then this from my smart-assed peanut gallery . . .

Hey mom, you still have our passports, don’t you?

Cheers!