Today’s the day we drive over the Millau Viaduct.

As we motored down the A10, then the A75, from Orléans to Clermont-Ferrand today, we stopped at every highway rest stop that had a playground (about one of every two, it seems). The playgrounds were each different from the other, and they were all inventive and lots of fun. Oddly, one of the rest stops incorporated a “forest spirits” theme, and had a long explanation of western Canadian native practice vis a vis trees.

While Oliver, of course, was in heaven, I think we’ve raised the vacation expectations bar quite high now, and we might be expected to visit 4 new playgrounds a day for the duration.

The other highlight of the day was a visit to the Orléans Médiathàque (see picture here), which is their central public library branch. It’s an architectural masterwork, complete with a massive children’s area, a “newspaper and magazine pod” that you enter as if entering a spaceship, and a bright, bright, bright orange stairway that would send Jodi reeling.

Actually, the real highlight of the day was encountering the “new washroom system” here at the Clermont-Ferrand Formule 1 hotel: as soon as you enter, the toilet pre-flushes and digital birds start to chirp. Then new-age music starts to play as you alight the toilet. Upon completion, there is a small automatic sink, which auto-sprays soap on your hands, then starts up water, and finishes with a powerful blast of hot air to dry them off. We might as well be in Japan.

We’re off to the Clermont-Ferrand market to get something for dinner…

I always forget how completely exhausting jet lag is. Or rather I forget how determined my body is to forge on despite all suggestions to the contrary. Nonetheless, we managed to have a successful first day here in France after a sleepless Air Canada flight from Montreal.

France is a surprisingly easy country to get into. Our biggest problem at customs a Charles De Gaulle Airport was that Oliver’s passport photo was taken at 9 months of age, so bears less resemblance to him than is normal. The customs agent actually came out of his booth and held the photo up to Oliver to confirm his proper identity. Fortunately, he bought it, and we were in. No questions asked. Literally.

I had read that the French don’t line up for things, and the airport certainly proved this to be true. However rather than the chaotic dog eat dog frenzy I imagined a lineless world to be, the line for customs was more like a gentle collective amble and was rather pleasant for its complete lack of frenzy.

From customs we collected our bags and made our way to the oddly-located car rental hall, in the basement several terminals over. Once there we easily found the phone at the Peugeot desk, and with 30 minutes we were proud owners of a Peugeot Partner, which is a sort of mini-van that bears most resemblance to the old Eagle Summit we used to drive. It’s a tiny vehicle on the outside, but has vast amounts of interior space — a full foot or more above my head in the driver’s seat.

Somehow, in my catatonic state, we managed to navigate our way to buy gas (diesel, actually, which is confusingly called gazole here), and then out into the Paris morning. Our directions south from the woman at Peugeot were excellent, and we made it to the A10 south towards Orleans without getting lost. Or at least not really lost. By 1:30 p.m. were here on the suburban edge of Orleans at the Formule 1 Hotel.

Formule 1 calls itself a “super budget hotel,” and at 27 euros for a clean room for 3, it certainly qualifies. Rooms are tiny, but not too tiny. A double bed on the bottom and a bunk bed on the top, a sink in one corner and a desk in the other, with TV above. Washrooms and showers are just down the hall, and work on some magic “clean themselves after every use” system, which appears to actually work.

Of course in our catatonia, any bed looked inviting, and after checking in — using a automated credit card kiosk at the front door — we were all fast asleep.

A couple of hours and an auto-shower later, we got back in the truck (Oliver refuses to let it be called a van or a car) and drove into the rainy downtown Orleans afternoon.

We found the (very pleasant and helpful) tourist office, walked around the old city, had a snack of Thai food at a take away place, and then settled in at a bizarre Catalan tapas bar outfitted with comfortable easy chairs, loud punk music, and a very child-friendly bar keep who gave Oliver a glow-in-the-dark bracelet.

We ordered “Catalan pizza,” which turned out to be creme fraiche, potatoes, ham and cheese on a huge piece of toast. Very filling and just what we needed. Halfway through our meal and very tattooed and pierced couple came in and sat down at the table just behind us. Oliver found them fascinating, and spend the rest of the meal staring at them.

Fed and rested, we walked back out into the rainy night, found our way back to the Formule 1 in the suburbs, and fell fast asleep.

As I type, it’s 7:00 a.m. The air is fresh, the rain has stopped, and it’s 10 degrees outside. Off we go…

And so off we go. Catherine, Oliver and I are headed to France for the next month. We leave in an hour, and so, as you might imagine, we’ve spent much of the last 24 hours mired in packing, locating plug adapters, answering email, paying bills, and taking care of most anything else that can’t be done without us.

We fly tonight to Paris via Montreal, pick up our Peugeot Partner and veer south to the village of Aniane, where we take possession on Saturday of a small house that will be home until May.

You can expect updates here as our temporarily relocated life continues as I’m able to stumble across WiFi.

Take care of North America for us.

Here are six things I learned at the barber this morning.

• It’s those damn seals that ate all the cod.
• Why hasn’t anyone blown up the Sea Shepherd yet?
• Pretty soon it will be the corporations running everything.
• A 1250 lb. cow only fetched only $180 yesterday.
• Sears has free parking; why would anyone shop downtown?
• There are no potatoes out in the ocean — what else are the seals supposed to eat?

While we’re speaking about Blue Cross, here’s the quote I got for Travel Medical Insurance from them:

On the left if their quote for insurance for one 29-day trip. On the right is their quote for unlimited trips of 30 days or less in one year. Note how the annual plan is $46 cheaper than the one-time plan? I called Blue Cross to ask why this was and they seem surprised that anyone would find this surprising.

I’m not exactly sure why anyone would buy the package on the left when offered the package on the right. Maybe I’m missing something?

UPDATE: I decided to forge ahead, confusion be damned. I entered all of the information about our trip, all of the information about us, and here’s what I received in return:

Quick, name one Canadian provider of health insurance. If you’re like me, Blue Cross was a likely choice. Except Blue Cross has decided that, at least here in Eastern Canada, they need a new name. From their website:

Medavie is the new name adopted by Atlantic Blue Cross Care in March, 2005 as a result of our expansion into the Ontario and Quebec regions. We needed a name that would work in all three markets and in both official languages to position ourselves for continued growth. Medavie is a combination of the English and French words for ‘medical to life,’ and we think it’s a great representation of the products we sell. Rest assured, we’re still the same Blue Cross. And we’re always there for you.

In related news, the Charlottetown Sewer and Water Department is repositioning their brand too, and will henceforth be known as AquaPoo.

A couple of notes of specific interest to Charlottetown travelers:

• Coop Taxi has taken over the Charlottetown Airport franchise from Yellow Taxi. They’ve both lowered the fare (down to $10 from $13 from downtown) and commited to more reliable service (a minimum of four cars on site for every flight, for example). This is good news for anyone who likes supporting worker coops, and also for those who were tired of waiting for Yellow’s cabs to show up.
• The teller at Metro Credit Union told me today that the fee for using ATM machines outside of North America to withdraw money from my Metro account has gone up to $4.00, which gets piled on top of any fee the ATM itself charges. On a $100.00 withdrawl, that’s a 4% surcharge. Got to remember to take out more money less often.

Here are some of the more interesting Google Maps satellite images I’ve stumbled across:

• Denver Airport
• Parliament Hill in Ottawa
• Niagara Falls
• National Water Research Institute in Burlington (where Dad worked)
• CN Tower in Toronto
• Experience Music Project in Seattle
• St. Louis Arch
• Brackley Drive-in Theatre, PEI

In our family the surprise is everything. Take any momentous occasion — birthday, anniversary, retirement — and our family is sure to attempt to build a sneaky surprise event around it.

Like the time Dad brought us all home to Ontario — from two coasts — to surprise Mom on the day she retired. We all arrived on schedule, and hid down in the basement waiting for her arrival. We heard her car pull in, heard her walk up the steps, heard her come in the door. She obviously sensed that something was up because she yelled out an inquisitive “Hello?!”

My grandmother Nettie, unable to let a greeting go unacknowledged, let out a tentative “Hello!” from the basement, and the surprise was uncorked. I don’t think she saw it coming.

Mom returned the favour several years later when we all returned to Burlington for Dad’s retirement party. With military precision we decamped from brother Mike’s condo and headed to CCIW where we descended on Dad’s office. I don’t think he saw it coming either. And we all got the added bonus of being able to tuck in to a cake with a picture of Dad printed on it — where else can you eat your Dad’s beard without getting into trouble?

These two joined the “surprise trip to Greenland” and the “surprise balloon ride” in the Pantheon of Rukavina surprisery.

To this point my most successful surprise for Catherine — and this was admittedly minor league stuff — was the time I phoned her from the office and managed to do an accurate enough impression of her Grandma Kerr that she believe I was she. At least for 10 seconds. It was sweet. And preceded by about 50 earlier attempts, over 5 years, to pull it off. So perhaps not as much a surprise as a clever deception.

A couple of birthdays ago Catherine Hennessey whipped up a good surprise birthday party for me; I almost ruined it because I wasn’t feeling well, and thought I’d phone in my regrets for her “dinner invitation.” Fortunately Catherine [Miller] jumped in and “encouraged” me to go. Ah, the boiled icing — there’s nothing like it.

Last night, though, Catherine pulled off a “perfect surprise” for me — a surprise 39th birthday party that I didn’t see coming. At all. Despite the signs, the obvious signs.

She had the advantage, of course, that I was away for the week, so she could connive and conspire without need for cover. So much of the planning went off in advance.

Saturday morning I got up to the smell of cake baking in the kitchen. I ambled downstairs to inquire as to the reason for the baking and Catherine told me she was going to a “spinners and weavers meeting at the Notre Dame Convent” later in the day, and had to bring dessert. I should have sensed that something was up when my further questioning about the reasons for this meeting — why at the convent? why so much dessert? — had fuzzy answers. But I came away thinking she was simply distracted.

Later in the morning, Oliver tried to tell me something was up: “birthday surprise cake” he insisted. I insisted back that my birthday — last Tuesday — was over now and did my best to explain that we all only get one birthday, and I would have to wait next year to have a birthday again.

For lunch Oliver and I went to the Formosa Tea House. I should have known something was up when they wished me a Happy Birthday, and insisted that Catherine had told them that my birthday was that night. I chocked the confusion up to language and didn’t think anything more of it.

My instructions from Catherine were to meet her at the house at 7:00 p.m. — after the big spinning dessert shindig — when we would go on our weekly Saturday night dinner and movie outing. I showed up a little late, with movie picked out and car at the ready in the driveway.

Catherine came out of the kitchen with a big grin on her face. Then Johnny and Jodi jumped out from somewhere. And then I noticed that the dining room table was festooned with all manner of desserts — everything from pumpkin pie to cheesecake to chocolate chip cookies.

It was only then that Catherine let the plan spill: this was my surprise birthday party. She was, I think, absolutely convinced that I had figured things out and knew exactly what was going on.

I didn’t.

I was completely surprised.

Catherine has now raised the family surprise bar to a new level.

Twenty minutes later the guests started arriving and soon thereafter our house was as full as it has ever been. Much dessert was consumed. Cynthia Dunsford and I got mildly toasted on a mysterious currant-based alcohol concocted by a hypnotist from Argyle Shore. My friends from the Formosa arrived with apologies for almost ruining it all (if only they knew the depths of my haze!). A good time was had by all.

Thanks to all who came, and all who sent wishes. And thanks to Catherine for pulling off the perfect surprise. I love you.