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August in Paris: And other travel misadventures
August in Paris: And other travel misadventures
August in Paris: And other travel misadventures
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August in Paris: And other travel misadventures

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If you love David Sedaris, you’ll have to read Marion Winik’s anything-but-traditional tales of traveling with her cranky family in tow. From lost teenagers and missed connections to overpriced drinks and gambling mishaps, Winik–author of seven memoirs, and a Morning Edition commentator on NPR– illuminates the unexpected pleasures of journeying out of your comfort zone. Ranging from Paris to Peru, from New Orleans to Uganda to the Atlantis resort in the Bahamas, these travel essays are full of life, humor, and humanity. Whether or not you’re hitting the road solo or with loved ones trailing behind, you’ll want these on your e-reader before you set out. Marion Winik is the author of the new memoir Highs in the Low Fifties: How I Stumbled Through the Joys of Single Living. It joins Telling, First Comes Love, The Lunch-Box Chronicles, The Glen Rock Book of the Dead, and others in the ongoing saga of her life, now seven volumes. She writes a column at BaltimoreFishbowl.com, reviews books for Newsday, and contributes to the Sun and many other magazines. She has appeared on the Today show, Oprah, and Politically Incorrect, was a commentator on NPR’s All Things Considered for 15 years, and was the Answer Lady for Ladies’ Home Journal. These days, she is a professor in the MFA creative writing program at the University of Baltimore and lives in Baltimore, Maryland, with a couple of her kids and a miniature dachshund. This is a short e-book published by Shebooks--high quality fiction, memoir, and journalism for women, by women. For more information, visit http://shebooks.net.
LanguageEnglish
PublisherShebooks
Release dateAug 10, 2014
ISBN9781940838649
August in Paris: And other travel misadventures

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    Book preview

    August in Paris - Marion Winik

    Author

    The Getaway

    When I had only two children and they were small, I spent a few days in a cabin in the woods at a retreat for artists and writers. I remember standing in the grocery store in Georgia befuddled. What did I like to eat? I had no idea. I was pretty sure it wasn’t Hot Pockets or sliced orange cheese. Eventually, I put in my cart a bag of rice, a bottle of Tabasco, and one can each of beans and mustard greens, chosen for their endearing Southern brand names and labels.

    Oh, coffee. And a bottle of wine, and a peach.

    A mother can forget what she likes. She can even forget what she is like. Wherever you go, there you are, say the Buddhists: but so are they. The fruit of your loins, in their Fruit of the Looms. Buy them, clean them, fold them, fix them, hunt them, buy some more. Eventually, you run out of memory, like a computer running too many applications. Before you were the finder of socks, the maker of sandwiches, the driver of carpools, the kisser of boo-boos, the full-service factotum of family life, you were a person who filled whole days with something. What was it? Who were you? There is only one way to find out.

    Though it is difficult to abandon those who count on you for their very undergarments, if you play your cards right, distant obligations arise. A business trip. Personal duty. An obligatory invitation. Really, you must go. If only to pry yourself loose from your pathetic martyrdom and see what is left.

    Good-bye! Back soon! Just microwave them for two minutes on high!

    To gaze at the ocean. To meditate on a mountaintop. To steam in lavender and eucalyptus. To this list must be added what I have found to be an equally restorative experience of spiritual solitude: to sit in the airport terminal. There are few things more stressful than being in an airport with a horde of children, but when you travel alone, the place is transformed. In its airy, comfortable reaches, wholly devoted to sitting, reading, and snacking, you are resurrected as an individual.

    One person, one seat, one ticket, one will. No arguments.

    Whatever automatic reaction people have to you when you appear in public with your family—pity or amusement, aesthetic appreciation or concern—when you are alone, those reactions are nowhere in evidence. Nor is the presumption that, because you are with children, such reactions may be displayed with impunity. No, instead of conducting your private life on a public stage with generally humiliating results, you will be as untroubled as if wrapped in a cocoon, free to read the New York Times and drink Starbucks coffee. How could aromatherapy on Big Sur be better than this?

    And you never know, perhaps they will announce a delay. When traveling with children, your powerlessness over such things is a problem, a violation of natural law that must be explained and re-explained, even

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