T R A V E L   I had a lot of fun teasing the French when I lived in Paris in the 70’s. All I had to do was invite friends over, serve four courses instead of seven, make pancakes for lunch, put the salad at the beginning of the meal instead of the end, or – worst transgression of all – dump the meat, potatoes, vegetables and salad all in one plate, American-style, and say, “Voilà!”

It was easy to be a rebel over there, something I’m good at as long as attitude counts more than subversive action. What can I tell you? It was the spirit of the times. I never burned any bras, but, on the other hand, I didn’t wear any either.

In the playground I took off my shoes and squatted in the sand alongside my baby son. And slid down the slides after him. The other French mothers were too busy admonishing their offspring not to get water from the Place des Vosges fountains on their leather-trimmed “playclothes” to have my kind of fun. The occasional father would guide his child up the stairs of the slide like this: “First place your right foot on this step, lift your left foot up x centimeters, now pull yourself slowly up!” The poor child would lose all taste for the adventure ahead and reap the scorn of the other little ones waiting on the steps behind him.

Of course I wore jeans with an embroidered butterfly I had stitched on to cover a hole that was – come to think of it – suggestively positioned on my thigh. Let the françaises prance in their heels and summer dresses. I had scarves in my shoulder-length hair.

Still I looked French enough pushing a baby carriage for one confused American tourist to continue to talk to me in French even after I said, “Listen, you can speak to me in English!”

Other outrages of mine – putting the light on during the day in my darkened apartment before the appointed (?) hour, rinsing dishes with the water running, “insulting” a clove of garlic by not slicing it daintily enough, boorishly putting a container of milk on the kitchen table (instead of a creamer), oh, and picking up my son whenever he cried instead of letting him “make his lungs.”

Not exactly a march on Washington, but I did my darnedest to stand up for the good ole American way of life!

Janet Garber’s satiric novel, dream job, wacky adventures of an HR Manager, available on www.janetgarber.com. She’s working on a second novel about a Franco-American couple living in Paris in the 70’s.

T R A V E L  Where’s Fredy when I need him?

Fredy was my “go-to” mechanic in Costa Rica. From brake pads to fuel injectors, shocks to wheel bearings, Fredy could diagnose it, fix it and I would be on my way – usually within a day.  Sometimes he would even deliver the repaired car to the house!

I’m jinxed when it comes to used cars.

We bought a 2013 Hyundai Tucson the day after our arrival back in the U.S. – actually within hours – because our “second” Costa Rican car was a Tucson (Tooc-sun in CR) and it was reliable has heck. BTW: in 2011, we bought a 2004 Tucson for $20,000. In 2017, we paid 1/2 that for a 2013.

We bought the car on Friday, 7/28. First road trip, the A/C was iffy. Since we weren’t sure if it was the 100 degree real feel outside that the a/c didn’t handle it, we drove it the rest of the day. Next day we were convinced it was not US it was the Tucson, we took the car back to the dealer on Monday. They wanted us to leave it but we were running around like crazy house hunting. I took it in on Tuesday. They sent me back on the road after a couple hours, but Wednesday it was not cooling like should. I took it back in to the dealer, he gave us a loaner, and three days later we are still without our car.

We were told today they had reproduced the problem, but needed Hyundai to sign off on the repair. I guess South Korea is kinda preoccupied with Kim Jung Yum Yum because are awaiting further instructions on repair of our car.

Fredy could have rebuilt the damn a/c/ by now.  I’m positive.

If it’s not fixed soon, Nancy may go ballistic before Kim Jung Yum Yum does.

Mark Van Patten writes a blog called Going Like Sixty and has been married to the same woman since 1968.

T R A V E L  We’d taken a couple trips back in the day, when we were students. And we traveled together a few years ago when both our husbands were gone. This time we planned eleven days on the road: every important stop in New Mexico and Arizona from Carlsbad Caverns to the Grand Canyon and points in between.

She lives in the Midwest and I’m in the Southwest. We put the trip together over the course of a year, conferring by email and on the phone. We both noticed an interesting phenomenon: almost any time we mentioned the trip to someone they came back with “Oh, Thelma and Louise.” And then when I returned, friends urged me to write about my Thelma and Louise “experience.” I wasn’t sure I’d had a Thelma and Louise experience and it had been at least 25 years since I’d seen the movie. Truth be told I didn’t even remember which one was which anymore.

Undaunted by my hesitation, a few friends secured a copy of the movie and we made a festive evening of it. Snacks, pizza, margaritas. And the movie was good. Thelma and Louise are quite clearly delineated and now I know the difference again. So how did our trip stack up against theirs?

Well, let’s see. First there are the cars. They drove a 66 Thunderbird. Pretty cool. We ventured out in my 2009 Subaru Forester, newly overhauled by professionals to insure its safety on the road. They drove off the road a number of times while being chased by police. We never did. Our only encounter with the law was at a border patrol stop in southern Arizona. There was a short line and we spent the time rifling around in the car for our purses so we could produce our drivers licenses when asked. Our turn came, an agent stuck his head in the car, looked at the two of us, and said, “Both American?” We nodded and he waved us on. Thelma and Louise should have been so lucky.

Then there was the rowdy bar. Nope. The assault in the parking lot. Thankfully, no. Stolen money? No way, we used credit cards. And at the Grand Canyon, the highlight for sure, we did not drive off into the abyss. I’m not expecting that anybody will want to make a movie of the Susie and Norma trip any time soon. After all, no sex, no death, but I swear, it really was fun.

Norma Libman is a journalist and lecturer who has been collecting women’s stories for more than twenty years. You can read the first chapter of her award-winning book, Lonely River Village, at NormaLibman.com.

T R A V E L  Summer camp for baby boomers? Yes, that’s a thing. And it’s probably great if you loved summer camp the first time around when you were 10 years old. Or if you never had the summer camp experience back then and want to see what all the fun is about. If your only summer camp experience was not having a belt to hold up your shorts and resorting to using the rope that came with the duffel bag, it may be more of a “not so much” proposition. (Yes, that was my camper experience. My belt was at the bottom of my brother’s duffel bag…a fact that he denies to this day).

Camps geared to adults are becoming a big deal. According to the American Camp Association, about a quarter of their accredited camps offer adult-only programs. Prices range from $375 on the low end to more luxurious camper digs for $1,170. Adults in their 60s and 70s are signing up in big numbers.

Canoeing, swimming, archery, tie-dyeing and crafts are still mainstays of the camp experience. But the counselors are there to provide support rather than keeping an eye on rambunctious kids. There is still storytelling and singing songs around the campfire, so nostalgia is very much a factor if you’re wondering what would motivate a 70 year-old to sign up for summer camp.

My memories are a little fuzzy (except for the missing belt….that part is seared into my brain), but I remember the canoes being fun and we made potholders (OK, hotpads for some of you) to bring home to Mom. The highlight for me was making a lanyard out of something called gimp. I think we were supposed to use the lanyard to hold a key. I didn’t own a key so it’s unclear what use I would make of it, but I was pleased that I could learn how to do a box stitch to create a multi colored marvel. Little things can entertain little minds.

I get why a baby boomer would want to relive summer camp life, especially if the away camp experience was the highlight of their adolescent years. I’m going to stick with independent travel that does not include potholders and gimp. And I’m going to wear one belt and pack a second one just in case.

Jay Harrison is a graphic designer and writer whose work can be seen at DesignConcept. His mystery novel, Head Above Water, is available on Amazon and Kindle.

T R A V E L  I love London! The city has fabulous options for the walking challenged. The Southern Railway had portable ramps and helpers, the Thames Clipper made cruising the river a breeze and the sidewalks sloped at the intersections. Don’t get me started on how great the Tate is.

We flew into Gatwick Airport around midnight. An attendant pushed me through customs and the airport to the Yotel. All the citizen had to deal with was our luggage. Snuggled into our cozy but very nicely appointed itsey bitsy soundproof room with our duty free bottle of scotch, we planned the next day in London. The Yotel is terrific, low cost and nice amenities…plus Gatwick’s train connections to everywhere in the UK.

We wander around Parliament, take the obligatory selfie, saw Big Ben (it was very shiny), then boarded the Thames Clipper. Our all day pass would show us London from the river and get us around without the citizen having to push me everywhere.

There it was, The Tower of London. It is so English! Beefeaters, Ravens and history. One of my guilty pleasures is reading historic fiction about Henry’s wives, I was obsessed seeing where Anne Boleyn lost her head. There it was, the glass pillow in the exact spot poor Anne laid her head for the last time. My idea of heaven.

By the way, the Tower of London was the stuff of my dreams but if you can’t walk well you don’t get to see upstairs and the downstairs torture stuff. But, you do have unlimited viewing of the Crown Jewels. Adored Queen Victoria’s little crown, I imagine it as her “everyday” crown and want one just like it.

The Tate Modern is free and fabulous! They have complimentary scooters and the citizen had booked one for me. I am still haunted by pieces in the collection. Beautiful and thought provoking work from all over the world.

A couple of pubs later we were back in our Yotel. Next day we boarded the train to see the citizen’s Mum in Devon. I had been so frightened by the thought of making this trip. Didn’t think I could do anything “normal”.

So happy the citizen talked me into it. I might not have a hip but I can still have great adventures!

Constance left the U.S. not for spiritual enlightment (Eat, Love, Pray), or to run away from anything, but to challenge herself in a new culture, living a simple life. Portugal seemed to be the best fit, and so far it is just the right size. Read more at her blog An Adventure Abroad.

T R A V E L   It has long been a secret desire of mine to spend my life living in a hotel. It doesn’t matter where, although the larger the city, the more appealing that life becomes. If money were no object, if family could re-adjust the values I planted in them about hearth and home, kith and kin, yeah, I could live indefinitely in a hotel. Sure, having your room cleaned, your laundry washed, and your bed made by someone else every day, not to mention the convenience of hotel restaurants, room service, reduced long-term rates and all that, makes it a sweet trade off for utility bills and fees we pay to “sit tight,” but there’s more to it than that. Hotel life isn’t for people with children, dependent elderly parents, or collectors of Hummel figurines, but it works for some people.

It doesn’t matter in what city I’ve stayed, or what hotel. As long as they have a bar the clientele never changes. There’s the woman in the slinky dress sitting on the corner of the bar sipping a split of champagne. Is she a hooker? Hard to tell. There’s the older businessman, distracted, but eyeing the women from either the end of the bar or from a table while he tries to look important as he makes text after text. There’s the loudmouth who bellows about his room, the service, the price of the drinks, anything he can think of. Anything to be noticed by everyone else, who largely ignores him. He’s the one who pisses off the bartender, who angrily throws the empty beer bottles in the trash with a deafening clang while she impatiently watches the last fifteen minutes of her shift tick by on the clock. There’s the couple, usually sitting at a corner table kissing and nuzzling, preparing to go upstairs to their room for a night of wild monkey love. There’s the dad who slipped down to the bar for a beer (no glass) after his wife and kids finally fell alseep in their room. There’s the group of conventioneers complaining about the traffic and sweating themselves through glasses of Jim Beam and gobbling the overpriced burger plate while trying to outdo each with how early their wake up calls are going to come in. And then there’s me, sitting at the bar, largely invisible, listening to the conversations and studying the human condition.

Yeah. That’s what I love about hotel life. It’s not about the room or the service or the little soaps, it’s about the people. Forget the gym, forget the pool, forget the spa. The bar is the only place you’ll encounter hotel humanity.

Steph Waller is an author and composer. Books One and Two (With A Dream and With A Bullet) of her rock and roll series, Beyond The Bridge,  takes places in late 70s London. Read more at Bucksnort Chronicles and SKWaller.com.