The first trip I remember with Maman:

Amtrak.

I am three and a half. We left D.C. and headed here … to Cincinnati. Meeting up with the rest of the clan.

That’s family. Not the clan — no white supremacists here. In fact, I’m willing to bet any supremacist would definitely not care for my “let’s love one another” views.

I wonder if we had ever traveled, just the two of us before that Amtrak experience? Probably, but nothing I can recall that early.

I can’t tell you much of that train … except we had a sleeper car that I thought was totally bad ass and I got a lot of free food … how is it little kids can score so much loot and then what happens as we get older? Where are the free goods for looking cute?

That Amtrak sparked a love of travel for me and Maman. We’ve had many a trip since then … from numerous cruises, beaches – is it weird that I’ve been to more beaches out of country than in? – England, France, Spain, Netherlands, other places I’m forgetting, and of course, France.

Maman and I will always have France.

When we travel, something happens. It’s like we enter this magical realm of the infinite.

I suppose it’s partly us just being … us. Put the two of us together and we’re definitely … out there. In a good, open, rolling with it kind of way.

We attract amazing people. And I gotta give Maman a lot of credit for that, cause she’s just plain amazing. It’s only natural that amazing + amazing meet.

See, isn’t she a-maz-ing?

We’ve been invited to family parties, random parties, wedding parties and dinner parties.

We’ve gone on the blind faith and trust in strangers.

We’ve probably consumed the equivalent of hundreds of bottles of wine and champagne with people we barely knew and have never spoken to again.

Yet somehow, were so connected to in that moment.

That’s the thing about traveling that I just love … being in the moment. You have no choice.

Plans must be revised, rethought. The unexpected will always happen. I find that very fun and thrilling.

Suitcases might not show up — which happened to us once in Nice and in Sanibel. Nothing a little Veuve Clicquot couldn’t handle.

Travel opens up the entire Universe. I almost feel like it’s there, right at my fingertips.

For as many amazing people we’ve met, there’s also been a fair share of weirdos and entertaining characters — which is bound to happen with us bumbling around with big cheesy smiles slapped across our welcoming faces.

One of my all time faves, holding the #1 spot: Claude LaCroix.

First off – yes, this is his real name. I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried.

Good ‘ol Claude.

Maman and I are sipping champagne, terrace side, in Nice. Admiring the sunset, people watching on Promenade des Anglais.

I leave to go check email and give strict instructions: talk to no one. Smile at no one. And god damn, don’t invite anyone to sit down if they start talking to you.

Do I know my Maman or what?

She happens to be much friendlier than I … when traveling. I’m the one who tries to weed out the psychos so we don’t end up in jail or on Nat Geo’s Interpol Investigates.

I seriously couldn’t have been gone more than 15 mins … 20 max. And what do I return to?

Maman sitting with some old{er} gentleman.

His back was to me so she could clearly make out my: WTF look on my face.

Meet Claude LaCroix. Local butcher and marriage proposer.

Who does this happen to? Really? A marriage offer in under 20 minutes?

How the hell does Maman do it?

He was dead serious — he wanted to marry Maman. In fact, he already had the church picked out and thought he was being very considerate, given its central location. 4p.m. they would meet.

He would provide a lifetime of … meat … and happiness.

I wanted to inquire what other meat he was talking about, but Maman shot me the look of death.

I shamelessly intervened. I knew Maman was desperate, because she had actually given a fake name … sort of … she used my middle name. Creative, I know.

In all my wild nights of partying with Maman, never has she given a false identity.

Clearly she needed help. I laid down the law.

No one could marry my mother without me knowing him – before I could continue, he pulled out his identification card, which was of him from literally 45 years earlier {he was quite the hottie then – notice I said then}.

Not good enough. Identification cards don’t matter to us Americans.

Then I had to bust out with the mood killer – Maman was married. Did he really want to be a homewrecker?

LaCroix was not deterred.

It took me another 25 minutes to get him to leave. After finally breaking it to him bluntly that the marriage was never going to happen, he left – still holding out hope that we’d show up at 4. I could be the witness.

I wonder about M.LaCroix.

Did he show up to the church? Does he still wonder about Maman? Well, I’m sure I can answer that with a definitive: yes. Who wouldn’t think about Maman?

There’s a quote that I find perfect related to traveling:

“Once you have traveled, the voyage never ends, but is played out over and over again in the quietest chambers. The mind can never break off from the journey.”

This captures my trips perfectly.

They’re all still there … being played out … simultaneously.

Where I’m still living in Paris, and the Caribbean, barefoot island hopping with a killer tan.

Where I’m still admiring countless views. Where I’m shouting out in exhilaration and where  … Maman is married to a butcher with the last name of a sparkling water beverage.

The adventure never ends, just changes terrain. Kinda like everyday … right?