We finally got on board our Air France puddle jumper to Carcassonne and were relieved instantly as Air France gives out toys. For the hour trip, William delighted in pulling a little cotton duck in and out of a bag and lifting and jangling plastic keys. The stewardess showed me a game called open and close the armrest ashtray, entertaining William for at least twenty minutes. It was a Godsend. My in-laws met us at the airport with a rental car, and we had to quickly hustle to find a car seat to rent, as they had forgotten we’d need one. Luckily, there was one available at the tiny airport and we were off for our thirty minute drive—the only time the whole trip—when both my husband and I breathed a sigh of relief and William slept soundly.
Holiday Not for a Toddler
During this ten-day holiday, I became extremely ill. So much so, I was coughing up blood into the toilet and not sleeping at night—counting each bell chime from the adjacent church tower. Luckily, my husband and mother-in-law are fluent in French and ran to a bigger town to find a pharmacist who had cough medicine and fever reliever. Unfortunately, even if I hadn’t been sick, the trip would still have been stressful. Our tower had large, steep, winding stone stairs—a nightmare for a toddler. It also had a huge open fireplace with no covering. And, to add insult to injury, the owner didn’t provide a crib for our son. We had asked her to provide a crib—the owner, who was British, didn’t know what that word meant—and instead, provided a twin bed. This meant that our toddler could wander out and fall down the steep stairs at any point as none of the doors stayed closed. Needless to say, my husband and I were on high alert this whole time. Nothing about the place was baby-proofed at all and I kept wishing that we were at a hotel. The weather was brutally cold the entire time as well, making my flu worsen. Only when we were safely back in Santa Monica’s dry air, did I actually start to breathe well again.
PREVIOUS PAGE
