Europe 2010, or My Husband is Trying to Kill Me

I married into a family of world travelers. There is nothing they like better than to be taking a trip, planning a trip, thinking about travel. The "where" is almost unimportant as long as there is somewhere to go and explore. This potentially could have been a real problem for me. Remember, I'm the girl who hated going away to a weeklong summer camp a mere 50 miles away from my home. I used to think California was a foreign country (they speak other languages at Disneyland). I'm the girl who applied for the foreign exchange program in high school, at the encouragement of my parents, only to completely blow the final interview on purpose because I was afraid I actually might be chosen, and oh, my God, what would I do IF I HAD TO LIVE ABROAD FOR SIX MONTHS?

But now that I'm all grown up, the travel bug has bit me, too. I still get anxious when getting ready for a trip, because you never know what could happen, and if you've never been there, how do you know there aren't bears (I've been camping), and the control freak in me doesn't really like all that uncertainty. But I have found the joys of travel far outweigh some of the worries that I may have.

Early in our marriage, we decided to plan a trip to Europe. Just like a military operation, we gave this plan a name, EUROPE 2000, complete with hand gestures (think of some variation of "jazz hands" here). Seeing as how that gave us about six or seven years to plan and save, we figured that was a reasonable goal. However, we were young and poor, and life got in the way, and EUROPE 2000 turned into EUROPE 2001, then EUROPE 2003, and eventually, EUROPE, someday, maybe.

Well, that day has finally arrived! For Christmas, David booked us a walking tour of the Maritime Alps. We're going in May. From the brief description in the brochure, it sounds like a fabulous trip. We will walk a few miles every day between bed and breakfasts, enjoying scenery and hopefully finding wineries that will just happen to be serving up samples of their wares. Our luggage will magically appear at our new destination at the end of each day. And the trip finishes on the French Riviera. What's not to like?

Now, I'm not a terribly athletic person. My general attitude being why run when you can walk? Why walk when you can sit? And why sit when laying down with a pillow is just so much more comfortable? But strolling through the French countryside sounds fabulous. How hard could it be? Still, I thought it would be prudent to start walking fairly regularly. So now I walk most days of the week, even if the walk is only to the nearest Starbucks. I've been feeling fairly proud of myself. I even walk hills whenever I can find them. Nothing can stop me now!

That is until we received our walking packet in the mail the other day. Now I am terrified. I just know I am going to die in the mountains of France. Besides seeing topographical maps -- which I don't really understand, but know enough to guess that lots of lines very, very close together is not a good thing -- I have never seen such detailed instructions for a trip. Instructions on what to wear, what to bring, what to avoid. Watch for snakes (most of them are not poisonous) and badgers (are those French bears?)! Bring a compass! Don't bring a GPS! Maps of southern France for GPS are notoriously inaccurate and you could end up walking off a cliff! Wear sturdy hiking shoes! Carry a hiking pole! Be prepared to ford streams, or ford fjords, or something! (What????) Allow a minimum of six to nine hours a day for walking time!

Wait a minute, six to nine hours?? The mileage per day is only six to eight miles, with the longest day being 11 miles. Having walked four miles of grueling hills today in just over an hour, I am wondering exactly what kind of walking we're actually going to be doing on this trip. It sounds like the tour company is anticipating you will only be able to cover a mile to a mile and a half an hour. That's not strolling speed, that's machete-through-the-jungle speed. So what are we going to be doing? I didn't see in the instructions that I needed to bring crampons and pitons. You won't find me rock climbing. I can barely walk with my coffee in hand.

But we're committed to going now. There's no turning back due to a little thing called non-refundable tickets. I guess I had better learn how to say, "Can you carry me to the nearest winery?" in French.