Neither Carol nor I believe in the Heaven or Hell handed down to us by organized religion. In fact, we agreeably disagree on the idea of the existence of an Afterlife at all. Without boring you with details, let’s say the core of my belief in an Afterlife is that we have perfectly reversed our ideas of “birth” and “death;” namely I  believe our birth here is actually a death from our previous life, and our death on this earth is actually our birth into the next one.

  I grew up in New Orleans, but have never been to Emeril’s, Commander’s Palace or Brennan’s. I lived in the Philadelphia area for the better part of twenty years and never saw the Liberty Bell. I’ve lived in the Seattle area for six years, but have never visited it’s underground. And although I’ve only lived in the Los Angeles area for a few months, I’m pretty sure I won’t bother seeing the famous Santa Monica pier or stroll down Sunset and Vine or Rodeo Drive. So as Carol and I plan our next trip together, I still have no idea what I don’t want to see.

   It was our second Thanksgiving alone. We were with family, of course, but our own. As widows, though, Carol and I were alone for the second Thanksgiving in a row, but the first since we became a couple. Maybe that’s why the emotions bubbled just below the surface.

Carol and I continue to ask ourselves about finding each other, “How did this happen?” The mutuality of the question may be differently shaded: mine reflecting a childlike wonder; hers more of a grownup’s wonder over a perplexing child.

   For instance, our first Thanksgiving together will be celebrated apart. She will be the matriarch of the Madigan family’s feast here in California, and I will serve as a  sous chef for my daughter’s in Chicago. Both families would have perfectly understood had we chosen one over the other for the sake of being together for the holiday, but Carol and I agree this is the right way to celebrate it this first year. At least when it’s over, I will not be returning to an empty house in Seattle, and Carol will not be returning to a room carved out of her daughter and son-in-law’s home. That alone is more than enough to be thankful for, regardless of the miles separating us when we do sit down and give thanks.

   Those who have stumbled upon this blog looking for practical travel tips and unique experiences to discover have, no doubt, been sorely disappointed. On the other hand those who’ve returned from trips and proudly answered the questions, “What did you see?” (“nothing”) or, “why did you go there? (“I don’t know”) have been richly rewarded.

If three weeks in Europe on twelve trains to seven French cities with me didn’t reveal to Carol why she should hit LAX running and just keep running, I should probably conclude we’re a good match. There would be precedent. After all, I’d spent five years with Carolyn fully expecting to hear her crying out in a dream, “the horror, the horror!” That never happened, so I guess I should feel pretty good about Carol and I as a couple. I do, but it’s not because I at all believe I bring any special gifts or skills to any relationship, let alone this one. The grounds for success, I truly believe, were, as they say, pre-existing conditions for Carol and I to become a team.

Three weeks on the road should have revealed one of us to have been completely incompatible with the other. I’m talking about me, of course. For three weeks we rode trains from one French city to another with no real itinerary or objective in mind. We stayed in hotels of my personal choosing, which is a euphemism for “surprisingly habitable.” We walked everywhere, with everywhere serving as our primary sightseeing objective. In short, our three weeks of companion travel came very close to the response of “nothing” that I gave to Carol the time she’d asked me what I was looking for when I traveled. And she remarked several times she was having the time of her life. For someone more accustomed to hearing that phrase uttered more in a context of “doing time” rather than having it, I was relieved. I’m also encouraged, which may or may not be a good thing. Probably not.

Our apartment was on the second floor (third floor in American nomenclature), a sharply angled and narrow creaking wooden stairway leading up to it. At the landing, the manager opened both doors of the opposing rooms and bid us enter.

The 12:04 to Strasbourg

   One of the traits that I first saw in Carol was how firmly her two feet were planted on the ground. With me, my life reads more like my feet are firmly planted in mid-air. So from the beginning I thought we’d make a good match. Then came Lyon, and I’m no longer sure where our feet are firmly planted, if they’re firmly planted or if they’re even our feet

   Worse than sightseeing, for me anyway, is sightseeing with a group. And the worst of all is sightseeing with a group on a wine tour. As Carol and I walked to the pickup point in downtown Lyon for our group tour of a Beaujolais winery, my stomach knotted over the thought of listening to a bunch pseudo experts extolling the virtues of a young pinot noir “with notes of eucalyptus and bok choy,” and the ever-present “soupcon of asparagus.” I only wanted to know one thing: how do you get red wine from white grape juice.