Traveling to foreign countries is always a mind-altering experience. You know? Seriously? Forget lighting up, tuning in and tuning out or turning on or whatever they called it in the Sixties. If you live in America, traveling outside of this country will blow your mind.

Because it all happened in a blurry dream state, I barely remember the past 24 hours. I know that we woke up at 3am in Los Angeles and drove to LAX, parked in a reliable airport parking spot which shuttles you to the airport. I know that they dropped us off at the Delta terminal but that it was the wrong terminal and so we had to roll our baggage half way around the airport (“It’s just about a five to seven walk. I do it on my lunch break every day.”) to Alaska Air, which partners with Delta. I know we waited about 45 minutes to check-in and get on board. This, because of heightened security measures which did not let you check things in automatically.

An instragram shot of Alaska Air's check-in line

I know that we then flew to Seattle, where we had about a four layover. We wandered around that giant airport — which has its own subway system — and I know, at some point, I used their free wi-fi. I know that we got on the plane there, Air France this time, and flew seven hours to Paris. I know that we had our neck pillows and our eye covers and our blankets. I know I tried to sleep that whole time but really just laid there, with my eyes closed.

Emma looking like a prisoner of war

I know that, at some point, they began serving breakfast. Somehow we would get to Paris, wait in two more very long lines before finally getting on a plane to beautiful, peaceful, extraordinary Nice. And we would rent a car and get lost driving around the hills behind Nice. We would drive a long time before realizing we were lost. We would find ourselves on toll roads with no euro, having to use the intercom to speak to the workers to explain in English (which none of them speak) why we had no euros. What morons they must have thought we were. One guy just let us through without paying. An alarm went off. I hope I don’t get charged a fine.

But through all of this, a running dialogue is going on in my head as I explain to my daughter yet again why I am making yet another stupid person mistake: “This is how you learn things,” I said. “You make a mistake and you learn something.” And it’s true. We keep learning things as if we’re headed for some kind of plateau of knowledge – because THEN, maybe then we will have figured it all out. Only to then die. Yes, life. Ah, life.

Painted nails and nearly black hair - ready for Cannes

She looked at me like she felt sorry for me. Poor mom. Someday she’ll realize how cool I am. Right? Right? Kids are funny when they travel. They always want to come until they actually start realizing what a hassle it is. Things are made so comfortable for Americans. We really are like those soft, chubby passengers on that giant cruiser in the sky in Wall-E. Just hook us up and take our money.

But when you travel to other countries you see that it’s so not about you, especially here in France in parts that don’t cater to American tourists. I keep saying “je suis Americaine!” as if it’s some excuse as to why I’m so clueless. They just blink back at me: “And I’m supposed to care because…?” In America we are mostly raised to respect the almighty dollar. That’s really what customer service is all about. You know they can’t really treat you that badly because it will cost them in the end. In France and Italy, the two foreign countries I’ve traveled in most, they don’t give a crap about that. They appreciate your politeness more. It’s hard to get your mind around. In America, it’s backwards: the customer is always right. Here, it’s more like, the nicer you are the better service you will get. Act like an entitled American and be prepared to have people treat you poorly.

It is surreal.

Today is officially the first day here. We will drive from Juan Les Pins, where we ended up staying, to Cannes proper, where I will fight the crowds for a parking spot, then walk into the Palais du Festival. The South of France, the coast near Cannes, has many beautiful villages. Like Italy, there are those the tourists flock to and those the tourists don’t yet know about. All up and down the coast — except Cannes and places that everyone already knows — you can find the prettiest, quietest, sweetest little French towns. And those are really what France is all about, I dare say. I am acting as though I’m an expert when in fact, this is my third visit to France and two out of three of those times I was only in the tourist areas. Now we’re staying in Juan Les Pins, which really doesn’t have many Americans. The reason being, most people who comes to the Cannes Film Fest prefer to stay within walking distance. Now that I’ve rented a car, I know the reason why: it’s god-awfully expensive.

For the amount of money the car cost, plus the hotel, we could have stayed in one of the expensive hotels close to La Croisette. Oh well: live and learn. Make mistakes, lots of them, and then learn more.

Onward and upward. Day One.

World’s worst plane flight from Chicago to Zurich had me crunched in like a sardine with no leg room, no way to sleep and a flight wherein I had to sleep because come the next day I would be dragging all of my over-packed luggage down La Croisette looking around like a bumbling tourist. “Where is the place where you get the thingys?” And then dragging my too-heavy luggage up the street to find the place where I’ll be staying.

The Zurich airport, and the Swiss in general, are quiet people. It’s a quiet and well-mannered culture, I’m finding. Or perhaps I am just imagining it. It’s always strange to be in Europe with the oddly pronged outlets and the toilettes, all that smell curiously of the sea, even if the sea is miles away.

I’m already blinded by lack of sleep and am hoping the next three hours and subsequent flight to Nice go decently.

Sitting in Chicago O’Hare. It’s a giant airport. It’s like a BIG city. I swear it was about five miles to the terminal in which I now sit waiting for my connecting flight to Zurich on my way to the Cannes film fest. It occurs to me only now that I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing and no business pretending as though I do. But we forge ahead now that we have the room, the flights, the babysitter. But speaking of which, I really thought I was a brave person until I had to say goodbye to the kid. I really miss the kid.

And I know that I’m supposed to not miss her because I’m “working” and she “understands.” But I worry and I fret and I have the dreaded separation anxiety. I know that I need to drop that like a bad habit because cut-to – she’s 35 and won’t leave the nest.

Incidentally, I keep hearing the following things over and over:

The threat level is at orange. Do not leave any bags unattended or they will be collected by the Chicago Police Department.

And…

The city of Chicago would like to remind you to cover your mouth when you cough or sneeze. Please ensure you wash your hands after you cough or sneeze.

I feel lucky I’m doing neither.

So, I accidentally made my plane reservation for the wrong day to fly to the Cannes Film Fest. Now I have to change it to a day earlier, if you can believe. My chaotic mind knows no bounds and cannot be tamed, despite my own verbal abuse, and sometimes physical. So yesterday the plane fare was under a grand. Today when I to an Expedia search it has soared to $1600. I am now looking at the possibility of missing the first day of the film festival because I’ll be damned if I’m going to shitcan $600. Am I being cheap? It’s all a write-off, I say, pretending to actually be a person who makes money and has write-offs.

Here I sit, broken hearted, trying to change my ticket but only…

This might be a good tie to pray to that God I don’t acknowledge. Yeah, good luck with that. On the upside, Expedia told me I had until May 9 to make this change and maybe, just maybe, the prices will drop again.

There is always the chance that the airlines have travelers by the balls right now due to a certain volcanic eruption.

I am going to the Cannes Film Fest in the middle of May. This is terrifying news. I’m going to cover the films, the fest, the goings-on, the haps. It will be my first time ever covering a film festival, but something I’m going to be doing a lot more of if I plan on doing this job (“Hey dad! I think I can really do this job!” – Broadcast News).

It breaks my heart that I can’t bring my little kid traveling pal along but she has school and testing and all of that. This will be our first extended time apart since she was born. I remember after she was born I held her to my chest and I swear I didn’t let go for two solid weeks. She is almost taller than I am now so it’s hard to imagine her a tiny tot, but a tiny tot she once was. I think her birth was fairly traumatic for me, being that I’m an alarmist, a hypocondriac, a fatalist and an atheist all rolled in one – so you can imagine.

The worst was that they kept insisting upon bathing her before giving her to me. I took upon myself, 18 hours in, Memorial Day, 1998 to shout at the nurse, “humans are primates and primates have to bond with their young! I need you to bring her to me!” The nurses wanted her all cleaned up and ready to be held in that picture perfect way we’ve become accustomed to – I wanted her as is, uncut cord and all. I’ll spare you details of the ripping and the sewing back up.

Needless to say, that kid didn’t leave my arms for weeks. There is something very scary about knowing you are responsible for the life of another human being. I know this is partly due to being a single parent — I simply didn’t have the man around to make it all better. There were a few here and there but for the most part, it was me. The thing that really brought it home to me was putting that carseat in the car and dealing with the stroller.

Something about the mechanics and every-day aspect made me want to drop dead on the spot. Eventually it all becomes second nature. The first thing one has to do, though, is abandon those ideas about the perfect baby and the perfect life. There is a conspiracy of sorts in the media to make it seem like having a baby and raising a baby are easy. But they aren’t. Having a toddler who just wants to test the boundaries constantly will leave you in frothy panic day in and day out. That sweaty panic it pretty tough to take. We have a lot more to fear now than we did oh, say, 4 million years ago.

Anyway, off to the French Riviera I will go. I promise to take lots of pictures and report back. I told my sister that it’s going to be like, “okay should I see this movie I’ve never heard of or that movie I’ve never heard of?”