Oh my God! What happened to my finger? I dare not look down in case I might find it.

I squeeze my throbbing index finger with my left hand. Perhaps if I apply enough pressure, it will revert to its pre-accident state.

This is not supposed to happen. Not at one o’clock in the morning in a small village in the south of France. Not after our gourmet one-star Michelin restaurant celebration for dad’s 85th birthday. And certainly not when all seven of us are back in our tiny hotel rooms and I cannot cry for help.

I should have known better; remembered that hotel rooms in France are not required to conform to the high safety standards I’m used to in the U.S. But that’s what gives them their charm. And yet, I’m cursing at the lack of directions on how to close the metal shutters. You see, these antiquated hinges act like sharp knives, and if not folded in a manner known only to the French, result in a chop, akin to the guillotine. Why would this come as a surprise when all ten rooms sit on top of an antique store with bureaus dating from the eighteenth century, and rats scuttling under the rafters?

Perhaps my finger is no longer bleeding? I release my tourniquet grip and squint, hoping that a quick glance will minimize the injury. There’s a deep cut. Do I need stitches? If so, is there an emergency room in Rignac?

I have no Band-aids. Is anyone awake? I listen. The cats are screaming. They sound like newborn babies waiting for a nipple to soothe their hunger. A throat in the room next to mine sounds raw and infected.

My neighbor is coughing. I hear the phlegm in her chest. She cannot sleep and through the walls, her bed creaks as her feet hit the linoleum and tap their way to the bathroom for a glass of water. I know her husband is asleep; his snores cause the wall to vibrate.

I take a risk and tap on her door. This is my last hope, or I shall have to wrap a towel around my hand all night.

She opens the door, turns on the light waking her husband up. He sees me and within seconds, I have a couple in their seventies, taking care of me as though I were their own daughter. I feel strange. No one has nurtured me like a daughter since I was a kid. Those few seconds remind me of what it must be like to have a mother still alive.

I cherish the warmth and kindness offered to me by this couple.

Do you have any weird stories to share about something that happened during a vacation?

This post is for Robert-the-Skeptic, since he’s requested photos and videos of my stay in southwest France. I believe Robert is planning a trip to France with his wife. I hope you visit the southwest part of France. It’s beautiful, and you won’t be disappointed by the cruise on the river Lot.

There is no better way to view the history and charm of 13th Century French villages, than on a one-day “croisiere” (river barge cruise) meandering along the river Lot in southern France.

Our cruise started in the town of Cahors, located between Limoges in the north and Toulouse in the south, and meandered through eight locks ending at the charming village of  Saint-Cirq Lapopie.

How would you like to live in this house at the base of Saint-Cirq Lapopie?

My Danish friend and I wait for the “Big Bus Tours” bus stop on Park Lane, a road flanking the eastern side of Hyde Park.
We are bundled up in warm sweaters, and I’m wondering how global warming can make May feel like December.
A young man approaches. He reminds me of a college student, and I think of my oldest son.
“Want to catch the “Big Bus Tour?” he asks with tour guides fanned out in his hands.
“We already have our tickets, ” I say pulling mine out of my purse as proof.
He stays next to us, like he’s part of our group.
I turn my back to him and continue my conversation in Danish with my friend.
“Where you from?” he asks listening to us speak in Danish. I’m used to that question, especially in the U.S. where people think I’m South African or Australian, and in Britain, where they think I’m American. Even I’m confused about my own roots. I tell him.
“I’m a student from Hungary,” he says. “I study here.”
Now I’m feeling sorry for him, wondering if he makes enough money to pay his student bills. Then I remember that Hungary has been part of the (EU)European Union since 2004 and must have some sort of reciprocal study program. He probably doesn’t have the same astronomical university fees my son had for out-of-state tuition.
I start having “motherly” feelings towards this poor student. Then he says, “I like older women. They smell so good. We could have a good time.”
My throat feels all scratchy and I start to cough. Who is this young Hungarian? Do we look like Cougars?My Danish friend blabbers something I cannot repeat.
“I have a son your age,” I say, and run towards the bus.

I cannot imagine something similar happening in my neighborhood. Are Cougars  taking over the world?

The next day, on my way to South Kensington tube station, I passed Christie’s Auction and never realized it was open to the public for viewing and photography.

Auctions take place on Tuesday mornings and viewing of items is from Saturday-Monday.

I wanted to share this video before I move on to southern France.

Monday May 31st is Memorial Day, and on this day of remembrance for those who have died in our nation’s service, I thought of showing you the video of a man who lives life to the fullest. My husband sent it to me, and there’s nothing more to add.

When I first moved to California, I heard people say, “Why travel? We have it all here.”

I wanted to say, “Well I feel sorry for you. You must be blind.”

I’d like to focus on what traveling and seeing the world does for me, and share my perceptions and some cross-cultural comparisons. (For a quick sightseeing trip of Big Ben, the Natural History Museum, Oxford Street, Picadilly Circus and South Kensington tube station, please my Flip video.)

Traveling around London is easy with an Oyster card. You can catch a tube as many times as you wish. I’m happy to inform you that the English are extremely polite and patient. Even young women offer their seats to elderly women–not me yet– on the tube.

A few things you need to know if you’re from the U.S. “For here or to go,” in England is, “Eat in, or take away.” It took me a while to get the hang of it.

If you like half and half in your coffee at Starbucks, you won’t find it. They only have skim and whole milk. When you ask for cream, you don’t get to pour it in yourself. The barista will reach down, in his hidden fridge and take out a container of heavy whipping cream. He will then pour a 1/4 cup of heavy cream into your coffee, turning it completely white, and because he has been so kind, you’re too embarrassed to complain.

Trash cans in London and Paris are almost non-existant and yet, there is no litter. How come?
I have several theories: People don’t snack, therefore there’s no extra trash. I know this applies to the French who frown upon eating between meals.
All trash cans in Paris are see-through.Why?
To avoid terrorist bombs being placed inside. This is the explanation I was given.

The restrooms in London and Paris rarely have paper towels. Why? Probably to reduce waste, so the British have these high-tech hand dryers, that almost blow your hands off.

There are still holes in the ground toilets in southern France.

Fortunately, these are not as common as when I lived there.

In a small French cafe in the town of Cahors, southwest France, I heard Lady Gaga, followed by a French Brittany Spears. A couple of middle-aged French women hummed to Lady Gaga’s Pokerface, while filling out a Rapido (lotto card) and drinking their on-the-way-to-work espressos.

A pharmacie in France is a combination of a US pharmacy and a beauty supply store. They are all over the place, more common than grocery stores. With a minimum of ten people working to serve you, they give advice on medication, aromatherapy, anti-wrinkle creams, self-tanners and perfumes. Customer service in French “pharmacies,” makes it pleasant to be sick, unlike the unpleasant, overworked and stressed out local pharmacy staff in my neighborhood.

So why do I love to travel? Because we don’t have it all here. There are too many places to see, things to learn and minds to open.

News from southwest France and a meal at a one-star (Michelin) restaurant in Belcastel, a fairy-tale village. See photo below.