A street in Cannes (left)

Headed Home
By Stan Morse
April 2, 1998

I stay in Cannes on the French Riviera for three days, trying to defeat the cold I caught in Sicily. The weather cooperates, climbing into the low 70's each day, and blue sky reigns over a calm Mediterranean.

On Sunday, I discover a public market and feast on brie, fresh bread, oranges and a cafe au lait for breakfast.

I sleep well and drink plenty water, but my cough persists. I'm faced with potentially being ill and miserable for a month in Europe, or admitting that five months plus a week (plus making it all the way around the earth) is long enough.

I finally relent. It's time to go home.

I book the TGV high-speed train for Paris. It's the end of March, and my ticket to Seattle on British Airways isn't till May 5th, but I trust I can talk them into letting me go early.

I almost miss the train, unaware that daylight savings time has occurred over the weekend. On Monday, I go to the lobby to check out. "S'il vous plait, Mademoiselle; is there somewhere close where I can buy batteries?" I ask the receptionist as she processes my bill. My digital camera has run low and I need four new AA cells.

"Oui, Monsieur. Just around the corner there is a shop. But what time is your train?"

"Not till 1:17," I say confidently.

"But Monsieur, it is already 1:00!"

"But--"

"It was daylight savings time this weekend," she continues, reaching for the phone. "I will call a cab."

I tip the cabby generously when he gets me to the station with seven minutes to spare. I had been told to arrive 40 minutes early, to obtain a special ticket. I have no time for that now. Reluctantly, the conductor accepts my Europass.

It takes just six hours to reach Paris. At speeds exceeding 100mph, we zip through the vineyards of southern France, then the orchards and grazing lands of the center, and finally the grain fields of the north.

It's cold in Paris; rain threatens from the west. I've forfeited the benign weather of the Riviera. Here, winter and spring still duel for supremacy.

After a night in a hotel, and a glimpse of the Arch d' Triumph from the cab that takes me to Charles De Gaull airport, I fly to London. My one recurring thought this morning is this was the flight Diana, Princess of Wales would have taken had she not died. I remember the tears as we watched the funeral on television.

In London, I wait-list for the Seattle flight. It's full, due to spring-break travelers. I plead, "Just fly me to anywhere on the west coast."

My request results in a flight to Calgary. I arrive shortly after 4:00 p.m. My luck holds; there is a 6:00 p.m. flight to Seattle, and an 8:00 p.m. connection to Wenatchee.

At 8:45 p.m. on March 31st I'm met by my neighbors, Chris and Tammy, whom I called from Calgary. They drive me the last 35 miles. I'm finally home.

Too excited to sleep, I run loads of laundry, wipe the dust off furniture, and try to convince my body-clock that I'm tired. But it keeps telling me it's morning.

Around midnight, I finally slow down. But before climbing into bed, I jot a few notes on a new travel project I've begun to outline. I may have circled the planet, but the adventure phase of my life has only begun.