We made it!

OK, so this post is a bit late in coming. We've actually been settled into our wonderful new village home for about 27 hours... and we love it. Getting here -- now that's another story. But we are thrilled, delighted, amazed, impressed, and in love with La Maison des Chaumes, a perfect French house in a wonderful French village. I plan to be writing a lot more about it (and Villers-la-Faye, our village) in the coming days and weeks.

As for the getting here. Wow. What a journey. We finally boarded our plane (a new 777 -- very impressive) about four hours later than scheduled -- but we were relieved to be boarding it at all. The kids did pretty well with the wait. I cracked out some of the toys and surprises I had planned for the flight, and we figured if we kept them awake til 9 p.m. (well past their regular bedtime) there was a chance they'd sleep through the flight.

Kate and Liv did just that. They crashed before the plane even took off (hmmmm... crash, plane, and take-off are not usually spoken of so cheerfully in the same sentence. Sorry about that!). Jack stayed awake for a bit but fell asleep pretty quickly too -- and so John and I had a much less stressful trip than the Japan one (where we were awake all flight with one or more kids).

The weirdest worry this time was a TON of TSA people at our gate. They were walking around the waiting area, staring at people, and when it came time to board, about 10 of them were there (looking ready to search anyone who looked at all sketchy). Maybe they had just gotten out of a training session and used our flight as a way to practice new-and-improved profiling skills... maybe there was someone sketchy on our flight. But as someone who has had a huge fear of flying (tied to my time covering the crash of United Flight 93 in Shanksville on 9/11 and having kids), it did not do much to instill comfort (although I supposed I should have been relieved they were at least checking people out).

We boarded early, so I didn't see if they took kept anyone off the plane. I did find myself looking at the other passengers with greater intent than I usually do -- and thought of how much things have changed in the way we travel in the last decade or so.

At any rate -- it was a pretty good flight... but we arrived, not unexpectedly at that point, four hours late in London. We rushed through customs, plopped the kids on a subway to the train station (where several different people told us at several different points how "brave" it was to be traveling with three children. At first, I was pleased, then I wondered if they really meant "crazy".) All three fell asleep on the subway and looked very sweet... and then we rudely woke them to race to King's Cross/St. Pancras to catch the Eurostar. Jack wanted to take a detour to search for Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters (having just finished another Harry Potter book) but we had to promise him that when we return to England.

We knew there was little chance of making our scheduled train, but we had slim hopes it, too, was running late. It wasn't. Thankfully, we were able to get on the next train to Lille -- but that one, if it arrived on time, would give us just minutes to catch the TGV (fast train) to Dijon. With four large checked bags, two rolling carryons, three small backpacks, one stroller, and three jet-lagged and travel-weary kids, we knew it'd be unlikely. But we took it anyway and made our way to the very lovely fast-train that, to Jack's delight, travels UNDER the English Channel.

The Eurostar was about seven minutes late arriving -- and that seems to have made a difference. A very kind man waiting to disembark with us saw all of the luggage and offered to help us race to the connection... but even with that help, we just missed the TGV. We were told to talk to a ticketing agent to see about rescheduling. I thanked the kind French man (whose named I asked but have forgotten in the haze of travel) and joined a new line.

This began a kind of hilarious exchange of what I have heard people talk about (how the French love bureaucracy, but also love to find a way around it if it suits them). I spoke to the man in French, and explained (or so I thought) how we had just arrived from the Eurostar and missed our TGV, which would have been a direct train to Dijon (skirting Paris -- a deliberate choice on our part). I rambled (in French... see, I can do that in TWO langauges) about snow in London, beaucoup de baggage, un avion that arrived 4 heures late, and so on. I smiled. Sweetly. Desperately. And... he looked at me and said there was nothing he could do. Moreover, since John and I had insanely cheap tickets (purchased back in October when no one knew about the coldest winter in Europe in 30 years), we'd have to buy new, extremely expensive TGV tickets for a train tomorrow.

And, he added, looking even more somber... unless we wanted to wait 24 hours, we'd have to travel to Paris, change rail stations from one in northwest Paris to one in southeast Paris (with four large bags, two rolling carryons, etc.), and get a train to Dijon.

I sighed. I asked if there way ANYTHING we could do. He said that if it was the fault of a train, they'd be happy to help us. But since it was the fault of a plane, little could be done. However, he said he'd talk to his "chef." He did. He returned from the boss. He said there was nothing to be done. I sighed again. I asked if, since we were clearly une famille nombreuse (a large family -- a class of family that exists for train travel in France), perhaps we could get a discounted ticket that way? Alas. No. I mentioned that my husband -- gesturing to the exhausted looking man sweetly entertaining three patient, well-dressed and equally exhausted children -- was a professor. Perhaps there was a discount for teachers? He said, with a bit of sadness, il n'y a rien a faire (there was nothing to be done).

I pulled out our tickets and sighed again (sighing seems to happen a lot in France, at least so far) and said it was dommage (too bad) that we weren't able to take our original Eurostar train... as we wouldn't have had any trouble making our connection.

He grasped the ticket. "Quoi?!" he said (what?!). Apparently, in my rambling French, I did not make it clear to him that we were late because of a train (I thought I had, but hey -- whatever works). That was a very important point, he said. He would talk to his chef again. There might be something, just something, he could do.

And the lovely French ticket agent returned from his boss with a huge smile on his face -- and said, since the Eurostar was seven minutes late arriving, they would be happy to book us (at no additional charge) the next day. I called John over to figure out times. John asked if, instead of making the dreaded change in Paris, and not wanting to wait til 6 p.m. to leave, perhaps we could take a direct trip to Lyon (1.5 hours south of Dijon by train) and come back north on a local train.

Quelle bonne idee, he said! Then, he asked, would we like help booking a hotel. Bien sur! He looked at all Lille hotels in the region and found two -- one (expensive one) across from the train station, and another (fairly expensive one) near the airport. We picked the train station hotel (not wanting to have to endure any extra travel), started gathering up the kids, and realized it would be great to be getting to a bed at 7 p.m. local time.

But as we were wrestling Kate and Liv into the stroller, they bonked heads/faces. Not a big deal usually, and I think it's been happening since they were in utero. But it caused a complete, full body melt down from Liv, and an unbelievable bloody nose from Kate (and the first major meltdown of the whole trip, which, all things considered, was pretty impressive). But oh, we looked pathetic. Dragging all those suitcases, seeing Katie covered in blood (we only had a handful of tissues and they were soaked), carrying a limp and sobbing Liv, we made it to the hotel. When we walked in, the front desk people looked like they might possibly turn us away however much money we might be willing to pay.

Undaunted, I approached the woman at the front desk. This did NOT go as well as the conversation with the ticket agent did. Part of the reason for the expensive price the ticket agent gave us was that, as a family of five, we had been booked into two rooms. I pointed to the girls and noted they were tres petites (bloody and bawling, sure, but small). Didn't matter. Four people could stay in one room. Five could not. I didn't think that appealing to her "chef" would make much of a difference, and we figured that what we had saved by NOT having to buy new TGV tickets could just go to the very fancy hotel.

So we took our two adjoining rooms, and I asked for one more favor -- please, please, would it be possible for her to call the hotel we had been planning to stay at in Dijon to cancel the reservation for us (phone calls in French are tricky at best, and I was feeling far from my best). She literally rolled her eyes. She sighed (see, I'm not the only one... although all of my sighs were sad and pathetic and hers was, rather, well, witchy.) S'il vous plait? I said. C'est difficile avec le telephone....

She said, basically, just this one special time she will help me out... but I better not ask for anything from her ever again in my entire life and even if she sees me stranded by the side of the road one day with four flat tires, she will just drive on by because this is the last time she will EVER help. (Ok, my translation might not be exact, but I've captured the gist and tone pretty well).

And then she sweetly made the call for me, and said "pas de probleme" as long as I emailed the hotel, too, through the online booking website I had used.

After several sweet and heartfelt "mercis", and wondering if for future French conversations I should talk to the men and John should talk to the women, we made it to our rooms. They were beautiful. Fancy. And large enough to each hold a family of five, but whatever. We quickly hooked the kids up with a free on-demand movie in English, I emailed the Dijon hotel as well as our parents and Laura and Franck (from whom we are renting this gorgeous house and who were helping with taxi arrangements the next day), while John took a wonderfully long shower. He gave the kids some food while I took a wonderfully long shower. And we collapsed.

But we made it!

The next day was was smooth sailing. We slept til 7:30 a.m. I went out to a boulangerie for breakfast food and coffee to bring back to our lovely rooms. We repacked, and woke the kids, and made our way to the train station.

And it was a great day. We took the fast train three hours south to Lyon, then had a VERY easy transfer (just to the other track) to a local train back up to Beaune, a city of about 22,000 that I had visited during my time in Burgundy in 1993. The countryside began to look familiar (and in a good way). We arrived to find a minivan taxicab waiting in the queue -- and he happily took all of us -- and our luggage -- to our new home.

I'll write later about our home, our village, and the region, but wanted to get the details of the trip down before it starts getting fuzzy (which could happen sooner than usual given the state of exhaustion). I also hope to post some pictures in just a minute or two.

But before I do, I want to thank anyone who was sending us good travel vibes the 13th to 15th. We needed all of that good energy -- and appreciate it.

I also want to say how I am simply in awe of our kids. They continue to be such great travelers. And if I had had extra hands, I would have loved to have gotten pictures of Jack racing while pulling the two small rolling bags to Kings Cross, of Kate and Liv skilfully handling escalators and subways, of John navigating with the four big bags (two in each hand with one strapped on each) and even of me struggling with an unweildly stroller, piled with carryon luggage and sometimes two wiggly girls. It was truly a sight to see.

And it is so good to be here. We can't wait for the adventures ahead.