Khao Yai National Park (Thailand)

“All that mysterious life of the wilderness that stirs in the forest, in the jungles, in the hearts of wild men ” - Joseph Conrad

Made pleasant by the air conditioning, my minivan ride from Bangkok to Pak Chong took a mere three hours. Certainly, the distance suggested less than three hours, but considering the traffic and the absolutely confusing stops in small villages along the way - for some reason I'm sure, but none that came to mind at the time, or has come to mind since - I should not complain in any way at all. Rather, I consider the leg an ultimate success, as I found my way to the right place – Khao Yai National Park. The country side of Thailand is as one should expect it to be. There are so many tree and plant species growing out of the ground, out of the rocks, out of the houses, out of each other, that to name any of them would be an injustice to the rest of them, so I will just say it looked like a jungle; plain and simple, and end it there. The bedrock is completely limestone, so I will label it.

The Thai People – A Brief Note

They are wonderful. Perhaps it is because they live in a place where sunshine is ever present, and where life is everywhere; or perhaps it is their majority Buddhist religion that stresses good will towards others and rewards good karma. I do not know for sure, but I do know for sure that this “Land of Smiles” is exactly that; for the natives and for the visitors. They help others as if it weren't an option, just the right thing to do – the only thing to do. In general, they will go to the ends of Asia to direct and accommodate. My hospitality scale has a new high standard, and it is the Thai people. The French remain in solid grasp of the low.

My tour began in Khao Yai National Park at 8 in the morning and went until 6 in the evening on the first day. My tour group had other tourists, and they all had names and countries, but unfortunately, none of high importance, so I will just say I went on this thing with other tourists. All day, we drove around in the bed of a ford truck which had been outfitted to look like a safari vehicle from the Serengeti. It did a good enough job copying the function of what it tried to, and it allowed us views throughout the park where we could look for wildlife. Along the road, at one moment in particular, our guide abruptly stopped the vehicle and jumped out into the jungle. He went about ten yards into the thickness of it and grabbed something off of a tree. As he got closer I saw it was a long, white, skinny looking snake; a whip snake. Assuming he would just hold it for us to look at was the wrong assumption! He hopped into the bed of the truck and started reeling off facts as if they were fishing line. Mind you, the business end of the thing was swaying through the air and inching its' way closer to us the whole time. I felt it was an appropriate time to ask about how dangerous the snake was. I asked; he replied: “yes, dangerous but not poison. Bite often, and biting hurts.” This event set the tone for the day, and I prayed our guide was able minded.

We drove some more with outstanding vistas of the mountains and the jungle attached to those mountains. We passed through the set of the Jungle Book and came out through the set of Apocalypse Now. The pattern repeated itself for much of the day. On one of our stops, we joined a troop of Macaques as they were lazying about on the side of the road; seemingly doing nothing productive with their lives, besides checking their friend's backsides for parasites. Indeed, these are some bold creatures. They come right up next to tourist's and would hop aboard their laps if it weren't for the tourist's “shooing” them away. I cannot decide whether they are friendly, courageous, stupid, tame, wild, timid, dangerous, safe, careless, or all of these. They resemble us in so many ways, it is likely that they are all of these. They even have finger nails that look trimmed and groomed, albeit black as the road.

By and by, we found ourselves in the middle of the jungle, bushwhacking through the tangle of it all, on a three hour hike looking for more wildlife. We saw huge Hornbills soaring through air, spiders the size of tennis ball's, millipedes as long as my forearm, White Handed Gibbons swinging effortlessly through the canopy. We saw a hole in the ground next to a termite mound and our questionable-minded guide began poking deep into it with a stick. Out came an enormous scorpion. After some brief description of the thing, our guide began handling it, and then started towards me as he was doing such. I suppose I felt his confidence through the heavy and humid air, so I let him do whatever it was he was about to do, and before I realized what it was, I had a Forest Scorpion hitchhiking on my shoulder. If my heart didn't stop, it took a long nap, surely. Very well, I don't remember how long it was there, but I know it got off eventually and we continued on. The day ended in the search for elephants, not the finding of elephants, and we went back to the guest house for some much needed cold beer.

A half day tour followed where we explored a cave riddled with bats and statues of Buddahs, swam in natural springs, and visited a Monk encampment. I cannot say, behind honest eyes, that a string of things so surreal has happened to me before. Next stop – Cambodia... hopefully!

Bangkok Insomnia

" An intelligent man is sometimes forced to be drunk to spend time with his fools " - Ernest Hemingway

Presently, I have digested enough of Bangkok's lunacy through experience to reflect that digestion, or perhaps throw it up. Though I have been to all breeds of cities over four continents in the past year; I can say, truthfully, that none are like Bangkok in any way besides that they, too, can be classified as cities. In Bangkok, one can walk from a Grand Palace where he prays to an Emerald Buddha atop a castle of gold, to a street market where motorized scooters rush past with barely enough room to fit a pineapple. The markets here are mystifying. The smells are abhorrent. The people are mesmerizing. It took two full days for my culture shock to be downgraded to culture surprise. I feel now that I am adjusted enough to function as a regular human being should function.

Now; the people. They are timid to Westerners but have the capacity to scam them into all sorts of tourist traps. My first day in Bangkok, I was met by a man on the street wearing nice clothes who spoke decent English who asked me: “Where are you going”. I told him that I was just walking around for a bit getting my bearings. He asked me: “Where are you from” and I told him that I was from America. His eyes lit up and he said: “ I have Uncle in Detroit”. After some basic back and forth, broken and scattered conversation, a tuk-tuk pulled up next to us. The man told me to get in and that the driver would take me to a tourist information office where I could plan weeks of my trip in advance; like bus tickets and hotel accommodations. Very well, I got in and took a wild ride through the city to a broken down, beat up office, where I was told to go speak with the people inside. I did just that. It was ten minutes into the most wretched conversation with the most backwards communication I have ever been a part of, until I realized that I was being washed around and around in a tourist trap; close to buying a trip to Northern Thailand to see elephants, instead of buying bus tickets to local hotels. It hit me all at once, and I said something along the lines of: “oh, ok!, I must go now”. The women I had been talking to realized she had failed and would not even look me in the eye. Score one for the tourist. I went back to the hostel. This is one story of many scam stories I could tell, but this one was my first, and the one I got caught in. The rest I have had the luxury of experience to recognize as sewage, and have steered away.

Mayhem is everywhere in Bangkok at night. Try a few cups of coffee followed by a few rounds of drinks before leaving the hotel; and then maybe another cup of coffee. The first step into the street is like being hit by a truck of activity ( and look out for actual trucks too ); locals asking strange questions, neon lights everywhere, food stands as far as one can look, massage parlors every ten yards, shops with more merchandise than all the malls in America combined, dogs wandering around as if they were going to the market for fruit, cats walking across window sills and in restaurants as if they were inspecting their operation and monitoring their employees; people sleeping, eating talking, wandering, playing, singing, dancing, cooking. There is life and movement in all the atmosphere. There is chaos all around that somehow, though no one can say why, manages itself as if an efficient machine.

The food is as wonderful as can be expected, if the right dish is chosen. Always a gamble it is pointing to something on a menu and hoping not to get something with eyeballs or pulsating lungs. When success is reached, the combination of spice and texture is glorious. Healthy too, I should imagine, as most dishes contain all sorts of vegetables and rice. Perhaps the best part is the price, though. A full meal on the street will cost no more than 2 or 3 US dollars – as much as some candy bars at home.

Surely, Bangkok is a rare combination of dirt and cleanliness, poverty ridden streets and palm trees. Beauty and the beast kind of a city, I think. I can't decide whether I hate it or love it. In the morning I am taking a river boat up the most polluted river I have ever seen - nasty dog sized lizards eating it's trash: and in the afternoon I am getting a Thai massage for an hour in the most relaxing setting imaginable, with jungle sounds and cool breezes all around, for ten dollars! I think I love it. I think!  

Far Side of the World (Bangkok)

" Houses are full of things that gather dust " - Jack Kerouac

Before Departure:

In an effort to keep myself entertained, I will travel to Southeast Asia – the release back into unemployment; the seven vaccinations needed; the $600 malaria pills required; the prescription antibiotics necessary; the 28 hour flight to Bangkok in wait – all a good start in that general direction. I will be traveling alone, yet again, and only those I meet along the way will accompany me. I expect to find a miraculously foreign place, filled with unknown languages, strange smells, stranger food, wonderful people, odd landscapes, white sand beaches, aqua-blue and crystal clear water - the whole while under beautiful and treacherous weather alike. As always, I have made plans, and, as always, I expect those plans to be miserably misshapen and mutilated along the way. Countries on the itinerary are Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam, Laos, Malaysia, and Indonesia. Whether I get to all of these will be up to Buddha, I suppose. Four Months seems to be an appropriate window of time to do all that I plan to do, so this is how long I have planned to do it, naturally. Here's to throwing myself at Asia; let us hope it catches me!

In Flight:

I would not be telling the whole truth if I said that I didn't feel a tad reluctant flying over countries like Syria and Iraq, in order to arrive in Dubai for my connecting flight to Bangkok. Civil war and international conflict tend to do that to a Westerner, I suppose. A rational mind does not stand a chance against an irrational thought, I've found. Anyway, my experience in Dubai was very limited, but as far as I could tell, luxury is the way of things in the city. I shall say no more and let the length of this paragraph reflect the amount of time I spent there, and my total knowledge of it. I must come back – this I know.

Upon Arrival:

Culture shock is as inevitable in a place like Bangkok as it is that it's streets will ever resemble anything other than what could be mistaken as, if only briefly, civilized. The man whose job it was to paint lanes on the streets here must be forever sad, as his efforts have been entirely ignored. The sensation and feeling of apprehension one should get before entering a taxi or tuk-tuk in this city is the same one should get before getting on a particularly rickety roller coaster, or before storming the beaches of Normandy even, I should think. The manner in which they function is not of this world; it isn't human. The driver I was blessed with left only inches between the vehicle in front of us and the poor excuse for a motor bike behind us as he was making blinker-less, blind turns into raging traffic; and he was highly certified, as he insistently pointed out a time or two by showing me the pictures of him receiving his certifications, rather than the certifications themselves, of course; while driving, mind you. If driving conditions should be classified as white water rapids are classified, the streets here would be Class-5 or perhaps even the catalyst to invent higher degrees. And the colors! The taxis are neon green, sky blue, hot pink, bright yellow, and eye-sore red. What a mess. Kind of a wonderful mess though. I'm not sure that I would want Bangkok to be any different than this. It is precisely how I imagined it would be, and not a measure off. This all after only hours in the city. Wonderful.

The Belly of the Beast (Berlin)

“A man cannot be comfortable without his own approval.” - Mark Twain

Unquestionably, the most interesting city of the 20^th century was Berlin. Two world wars were waged in its' front-yard , and the threat of an earth shattering third created tension that manifested itself deep in the cities psyche. Fascism, Communism, and Capitalism have all made visits; some longer than others. The city has welcomed great thinkers like Albert Einstein; and radical ones like Adolf Hitler. Gustav Ludwig Hertz, Max Planck, the brothers Grimm, and Karl Marx all studied at its university - certainly, it is a city of ideas. It has been host to the Olympics, and the Holocaust - the Victory Column, and the Berlin Wall. It has been divided, united, divided, and united again. John F. Kennedy, Ronald Reagan, Bill Clinton, and Barack Obama have all given speeches within it's limits. Perhaps it is easy to imagine then that I arrived feeling a tad inconsequential.

Fortune has favored me on my trip thus far, and it was no different in Berlin. I met up with an old family friend who was kind enough to let me stay with him for the week; as I felt I needed a week to experience this fascinating city. The first thing I thought of, when walking down the streets with no destination in mind, rather hoping to get lost, was how much the city must have went through in repairing it's appearance after the second world war. It was relentlessly crushed with airstrikes, and most of the city was in rubble. How then do you proceed? Where do you start? Where do you end? These are questions I can't imagine trying to answer while looking at what must have seemed like Armageddon. It was repaired though, and then divided into four sections amongst the allied powers - for those of you whose history has gone absent since high school. Then shit got crazy. The Soviet Union pushed Communism while the West pushed Capitalism and this led to something called the Cold War. Joseph Stalin needed privacy, so he closed the borders with the West, and then Nikita Khrushchev was feeling constructive, so he decided to build a wall around it. This wall not only separated a city, but also a world, and became a symbol of the Cold War. It was where the East ended and the West began, or if you were a Soviet, where the West ended and the East began. I don't mean to bore with history, but this was the very wall I was standing next to, where only twenty three years ago, I could not go across. My impression of this monumental structure which separated the civilized world? - “ it is kind of small, I could easily get over this”. In fact, I probably could have gotten over it, but what is sometimes left out of the description, is the “death strip” between the wall I was at and a second wall of similar proportions. This was the challenge for those wishing to get to the other side, for Soviets with guns would be stationed at towers every so often, willing and ready to gun people down - lovely folks.

Checkpoint Charlie was the famous border crossing in this wall that was controlled by the United States during the Cold War. It is the epicenter of the confrontation between the United States and the Soviet Union during that time period. Now a days, it is a major tourist attraction, where people from around the world come to be in the very place where two worlds met in stand off; the planets future depending on the outcome. Right next to this is a museum full to capacity with documents, video footage, treaties, letters, speeches, maps, etc., of Cold War related material. When one walks through the front door, he looks above at a display of all the famous individuals who had been there throughout history. He sees the names of presidents and diplomats from all over the world, famous celebrities who took political stands, poets, writers, musicians, directors, and Olympic athletes. Then, as he is turning away, one sign catches his eye at the last moment, and he looks closer, then he squints: “Does that say David Fucking Hasselhoff!?...........It does!”. In fact, it really does, and the absurdity doesn't end there – he is labeled “American Musician”; bear with me:

Who is David Hasselhoff?:

I know the answer to this question; it is plain, and my intentions are not to defy hopes and shatter dreams; rather to enlighten and shed wisdom. David Hasselhoff is a mediocre American ACTOR who starred in Baywatch and Knight Rider. Entertaining – yes. Funny – yes. Charismatic – why not? Absolutely, in no way, is he anything more. I apologize Germany for this blunt testimony; it is never pleasing to discover that Santa Claus is a broke man, who has been out of work since September, and is trying to keep the lights on in his third story apartment, or that professional wrestling may not be telling you the full truth, but you must know - so goes life. This farce ends now.

Indeed, Berlin has many great places to visit, and one could stay for years and never learn all the details, or experience all the history, but then you would miss out on the nightlife, which has become famous on it's own. The city parties and does not stop. In Spain, I said this figuratively, here, it is a literal sentence. Seemingly, nothing ever closes. The first wave of delinquents come early and end up leaving to “fall asleep”, passing by the second wave, who come a little later. Then, the second wave drinks until mid morning, and leaves to “fall asleep”, passing by the first wave who have taken what must have been a nap and are back at it again. I haven't even mentioned the wave that comes and doesn't leave; primarily because they are not a wave; more of a tide. Crazy - this city; I can only imagine what happens on the weekends!    

The Black Forest

"The proper function of man is to live, not to exist.  I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them.  I shall use my time." - Jack London

In Southwest Germany lies an area small in comparison with most regions of Europe. It is a cozy place where myths and fairy-tales are plentiful; roaming freely around the mind, and taking residence in the imagination. It is a place where history has routes so deep, they have routes of their own; and where people come to breathe in comfort, and exhale stress. Rich in majesty is this place in Southwest Germany. It understands you as you try to understand it. It goes by a simple name, yet perfect – The Black Forest.

Many towns lie within it's realm, but I chose Freiburg as my locale for experience. It is a medieval town with Gothic cathedrals, cobbled streets, trolley systems, old defense towers, and a spectacular above ground drainage system. The houses have a style all their own; different from anywhere else in Europe I've seen. They manage a dark-age look while utilizing welcoming, bright colors – and they pull it off; mores the wonder. Gargoyles watch down on people from the most peculiar spots, and one gets the impression they are being accounted for at every moment. Sure, it has become a tourist destination, as is the inescapable truth with areas so unique, but if one is careful, the masses can be avoided by staying off the main shopping expressways. Outside the town is a whole different story. The forest raps around the fringe of the city like an encroaching army of crows; ready to devour anything that drops. At first, it is an intimidating monster, but once in it, it becomes a loveable acquaintance; a reliable companion - it is a worst enemy who turns best friend. I experienced this from my camping ground, where I began my 16 km hike through the Black Forest to the town of St. Peter.

The terrain is no different than Virginia, with it's rolling hills trying desperately to obtain mountain status, and it's farms that dot the landscape in between stands of forest. The difference is in the vegetation; trees in particular. The Black forest owns an encouraging diversity of them. Deciduous trees are abundant (Beech, Oak, Elm, Larch), but also are enormous conifer trees (Spruce, Pine, Douglas Fir). The mixture gives the Black Forest a look like no other; bright green and embracing with dark green and rejecting. With a lack of thick underbrush, this makes a scene perfect for the tall tales of fairy's, dwarfs, and gnomes that are so common to the area. Hiking through the forest, I felt like I was being watched by one of these mythic creatures; though I had my doubts of it! What I knew was the woods had an allure that I've rarely felt before, and would be surprised to feel again – outside of the Black Forest.

At the dusk of my hike, I went walking through old farmlands, where the farmers I came across; wearing a mix of modern and traditional clothing, greeted me with “Gutentag!”. I felt so ensconced in the culture; like I was a farmhand on the way back from a trek to the next village for supplies; and neighbors, going about their daily chores, were kind enough to wish me on my way. Only if they had treated me to a cold German beer, would I have been happier. Continuing through to my destination at St. Peter, I kept a steady pace, and when I reached the cathedral in St. Peter; I had been hiking for a mere 5 hours. It felt a lot longer; it felt like days, but when I reached the town, I was ready to get back to Freiburg. I found the road and began thumbing for a ride, until coming across a bus stop. Someone there told me, in a wonderful German accent, that hitch-hiking died in the area a long time ago and that I should get on the bus – so I took his advice and did, though I maintain I would have been picked up shortly; when hitching, one gets a good sense of these things. Upon reaching Freiburg, I had dinner with a couple from a small town outside Frankfurt. We talked a long time about the differences in their country versus mine, and I learned more about Germany than any one American has the right to know. Do yourself a favor and look up the history of the German Region (as it did not become a nation until after three wars waged in the late 19^th century) and you will be anything but disappointed.

By and by, preparing for my exit of Freiburg, I felt like leaving a friends house . The Black Forest has become one of the best places I've visited. There is nothing wrong with it! The people are lovely, the scenery is gorgeous, the stories are incredible, the history is fascinating, and the food is great. I feel that, had I looked for days to find something negative to say about this place, I would have failed absolutely. Even as I was departing the town, trying to catch an early train at 7:00am., I couldn't escape the glorious culture. Across the street I was walking on, and through sleepy eyes, I saw what can only be described as wonderful; people drinking outside bars as if it were still mid-night! They were laughing, talking loudly and chugging beers like true Germans. I looked at the sky, and then my watch, to confirm it was the morning, and low and behold, it was. Magnificent.

Rest in Avignon (France)

"The man who has begun to live more seriously within begins to live more simply without" - Ernest Hemingway

Avignon is in the south of France. The older part of the city, and where all the tourism exists, is contained within one continuous medieval wall. This wall looks like you might imagine. It was made of old stones, beaten by erosion and time, and every 50 to 100 meters, a watchtower arises. My campground is right outside this wall and over the wide and swiftly running Rhone River; a convenient location for exploring the area for a few days, but, not exactly “camping” in the way most Americans are used to - more like tailgating. The campers and tents are packed together as if they are the last open spaces on the face of the earth, and efficiency is the primary objective for survival. Moreover, campfires are as foreign to them as using English:

The French and the English Language:

France is the only country I have been through thus far that has shunned the English language. Most European countries, and even poor, corrupt North African countries like Morocco, cater to English speakers. In doing so, they also cater to the rest of the world, as English is the international language. I didn't make it that way, it's just the way it is, but France refuses to either believe this or accept it. They only use French: announcements, signage, general conversation, it doesn't matter, their stubbornness is all encompassing. Am I being hypocritical? - I don't know French, why should they know English? The answer is an intelligent no. Like I said before, French is not the international language and English is – a simple reality.

As I was saying, the campground is compact, which takes some getting used to, but, in their defense, is also in close proximity to the city center. This is perfect for me in Avignon. I am able to take a ten minute walk to the central part of town where everything necessary is located, and also walk around outside the city walls alongside the river. The town itself is wonderful. Cafes are located all over; on main streets and in narrow back alleys. The streets are mostly cobbled which, in my mind, is as European as it gets, and the people are great – besides choosing not to speak my language! Luckily, I came to Avignon, lest I may have pegged all the French as snobby and pretentious as Parisians. Honestly, these people are very different. For instance, they smile, and every once in a while, when they expect no one is watching, they even laugh! Go figure.

My quest for a full stomach in Europe advances into virgin territory. Portions go from “reasonable, but small” in Spain, to “where is the rest of my order?” in France: “but you don't understand sir, you pay for the quality and presentation as well as the amount” - In an ideal world, I would be fed more fries rather than that horseshit. In fact, throw some horseshit on there, at least it will satisfy my hunger, and fill the rest of my plate. I will concede though, the food here is well prepared and full of flavor, but that is not going to stop the growling in my belly. I am beginning to rely heavily on picnic style meals in order to get the job done. These include bread, cheese, some sort of sliced meat, a few vegetables, and of course, wine. One gets these items at the rare and elusive supermarket. When located, these can be life savers, as the prices are only a little too high. Despite all it's aggravations, Avignon has been a great place to visit. The country side is gorgeous with it's rolling hills speckled with ruined castles, and the city itself is great to walk around and explore. Feeling comfortable and relaxed during ones stay is a perfect sign for an appropriate place to visit. Very well, on to Germany.

Journey Back to France

"Where all think alike there is little danger of innovation" - Edward Abbey

The Sahara Desert is out of this world, but it is also out of the way. Traveling south to the Moroccon border with Algeria meant I then needed to travel back north to France, through Morocco and also Spain. I decided against flying because it would have been more expensive and also because I wanted to stop in a few places on the return trip. Very well, I began on a shuttle from the Sahara to some small city in Southern Morocco (forgive me for not remembering the name), and from there, took a bus to Fez – a ten hour bus to Fez. How it takes a bus ten hours to travel 400 km is a question for the Moroccon government, not me. Maybe it was the rotaries every 2 kilometers, or maybe the tight turns going over the Atlas Mountains, or maybe even the police checkpoints for seemingly no reason at all; but maybe it was something else!

Let me take this opportunity to provide an insider traveling tip: Africa is fucking hot! I could handle the time it took on the bus; traveling a lot has a way of dulling the pain of idleness, but the heat was almost unbearable. The bus had no air conditioning, and also windows that didn't open – great design Morocco, and to add on an extra layer of uncomfortable, there was a full house of sweating passengers. If it sounds real bad, imagine it twenty times worse and you may start to get the picture.

I feel I should say a little something about the Moroccon Police Force; the ones who carry around guns with duck-taped handles. On that never ending ride in the grill, we were stopped, as mentioned, many times by law enforcement, or at least that's what they call themselves - I'm not sure what law they enforce. One particular incident was revealing. They boarded the bus and walked directly to the back, where three men from Senegal and myself were sitting. Since we all looked different; three black guys and a white guy, our passports were checked. No big deal, but then the Senegalese men were taken off the bus for further questioning and with no cause at all, their bags were searched. I'm not sure the atrocities ended there either, as I was not outside with them at the time, but I can say they were all taken away in separate cars. My U.S. Passport saved me a lot of trouble and inconvenience; something I can't say about my travel neighbors, but I suppose that is the way of corrupt countries, like it or not.

By and by, I made it to Fez and spent the night. The next morning I went to Tangier and then over the water to Tarifa, Spain - Back in Europe! Tarifa is a small city on the intersection of the Atlantic ocean and the Mediterranean, and therefore is extremely windy. It is the kite-surfing capital of the world. In the ocean, there are hundreds participating in this activity, but on the beach, no one is sun bathing, or throwing frisbees, or building sand castles; it is just too windy - the strangest beach I've been to, that much I'm sure. Anyways, this is where I spent some time to break up my long trip to France. Nothing interesting happened during my stay there, which is a good thing for a place one wishes to rest, but my theory of Southern Spain having the most attractive women in the world was verified. This conclusion is the result of a lifetime of investigation and vigorous scientific methodology.

From Tarifa, I took a bus to Algeciras, - from Algeciras, I took a train to Madrid, - From Madrid, I missed the last train to Barcelona – From Madrid, I took the metro to the other train station in Madrid – from the other train station in Madrid, I caught an overnight train to Barcelona. In Barcelona, I spent a night with Matt (fourth time we've met on my trip). From Barcelona, I took a train to Cerbere – from Cerbere, I took a train to Avignon,..........FRANCE! I never imagined in my life I would be so happy to be in France. That happiness lasted until I heard the French language again. I wonder when the next flight to the Sahara Desert is?