France: Beginning our journey

At the predawn hour of 4:30, my iPhone's harp plays a soft riff of notes and awakens me from a restless sleep at the City Garden Hotel near the San Francisco airport. This is the beginning of our two-week journey to the land where I was born as second child to a young American military couple 55 years ago. France awaits. First, though, we must begin a series of travel chores including catching an early shuttle bus to the futuristic San Francisco Airport in half an hour.

My husband and I have been planning this trip in fits and starts since last November when we first proposed the idea over a cup of cappuccino in Boise, Idaho, with dear ones there. Arduous work schedules conspired to prevent us from traveling, but when we actually determined that we must hit the road, planning fell into place. It was time, we felt, to explore land beyond the boundaries of our own country.

We found two separate retreats to attend in France, both during the same week, but in two different cities. My husband will make a retreat to the fascinating and mysteriously beautiful Chartres cathedral while I meet other writers in the heart of Paris for a week of honing writing skills and ideas. After that, a week in Provence and then home. Of course, those are the beginning points, but beginnings are only that, a place at which you step into a stream of life that then carries you where it will.

I sit up in bed and feel a familiar lack of sleep clogging my consciousness and know this will be a long day. Hydration is key at this point. I gulp a cup of water and fumble for my clothes, assemble my few belongings and in short time I am ready to depart the hotel. I spent all day yesterday imagining what I'd need for the next two weeks as well as living in the present time, an odd split of conscious mind that left me feeling disoriented for a while. I think I've got everything I need.

It seems a treat all of a sudden to listen to American English as we board the bus. A disconcerting plunge into a culture dominated by a foreign language will signal the real beginning of the journey, so for now, the familiar slang, customs and courtesies Americans extend to each other by smiling, gesturing and allowing for each other's needs on the shuttle bus and in the airport are comforting. We Americans are a shuffling lot today, stopping to read signs and orient ourselves to terminal building layouts.

The flight to Seattle is quick, smooth and easy. Seattle's surrounding snow-laden mountains look like a rim of teeth guarding the waterways and undulations of the spreading land below them. It's a beautiful day. "The mountain is out today" is the phrase that folks say in the Northwest when Mt. Rainier stands regally naked in the midday light, unclothed of clouds or mist. If that volcanic mountain ever comes back to life, havoc will surely ensue. It appears very close to a vast and complicated metropolitan area.

We await our flight to Paris now, playing with WiFi, 3G and Data Push settings on our iPhones in order to learn how to prevent massive phone bills from AT&T. The main terminal is new, airy and offers lots of fish at its food court cafes. Airports are usually focused centers of whatever the regional economy and culture offers. Some of the most interesting art exhibits I've ever seen have been at airports.

We are on our way. The world is out there and we intend to shed almost all intention and let our noses lead us. This is good travel, in this river of humanity and life. Time to begin.