Ah, Eurostar! If I ever nursed doubts – and I don’t think I ever did – that

rail travel is far superior to air travel, whizzing through the French

countryside on a spacious, almost silent locomotive, has put those doubts to

rest. I always feel happy in trains; I always feel disgruntled in planes.

Plane travel just got a whole lot more disgruntling, in fact: the flight

we’re supposed to take tomorrow, to get us back from London to New York, is

with British Airways, and the ground staff at BA have just come out on

strike. This morning’s newspapers are all full of horror stories about

passengers stranded at Heathrow, mobs of enraged travelers storming the

ticket desks, etc.

Well, I won’t think about that today. I’ll think about that tomorrow. Five

minutes work with a penknife and some insulating tape – this is a WAY

experienced traveler you’re reading here – got my Italian plug (which five

previous minutes of ditto last week got wired up to my American plug) to fit

into the French-style power receptacle next to my seat, so I can run my

computer all the way to London if I feel like it, though I probably won’t.

Can’t help but wonder why, half a century into the glorious project of

European Union, Italy and France (not to mention Britain) have utterly

different types of power receptacles.

However, rural France is sliding by; my dear family is in a different

carriage due to some mix-up about seating assignments that I have made not

even the feeblest attempt to correct; I have had one and a half excellent

breakfasts; and all’s well with the world. Life is good, even in France.