When cars were fast, airports were easy and Steve McQueen was cool
🍿 So there I was last night, doing what any reasonable person does on a random weeknight—rewatching Bullitt for approximately the 47th time. Because apparently, I need to verify, yet again, that yes, the 1968 car chase through San Francisco is still the greatest thing ever committed to celluloid.
And spoiler alert: it absolutely is.
🍿 For the uninitiated (and honestly, who are you people?), Bullitt features what may be the most testosterone-fueled ten minutes in cinema history. Steve McQueen, looking effortlessly cooler than any of us will ever manage in our entire lives, pilots a Highland Green Mustang GT 390 through the streets of San Francisco like he’s being chased by… well, a Dodge Charger, actually. Not a Challenger—let’s give credit where credit’s due to that menacing black beast of a car. These two American muscle legends proceed to bounce, screech, and fly their way through what I can only assume was the world’s most understanding city permit office.
🍿 The thing is, watching this chase scene in 2026 still feels fresh. No CGI. No Fast & Furious physics-defying nonsense where cars become sentient flying machines. Just two angry V8s, some questionable suspension systems, and what I suspect was Steve McQueen’s complete disregard for his insurance premiums. It’s automotive poetry, and it hasn’t aged a day.
But then came the airport scenes, and suddenly I was experiencing what anthropologists call “acute temporal whiplash.”
🍿 Picture this: McQueen just… walks into the airport. Right up to the gate. No three-hour security theater. No removing shoes, belts, laptops, dignity, and firstborn children. No TSA agent judging your toiletries like they’re curating a museum exhibit. People are literally seeing their loved ones off at the gate, waving goodbye through those big windows while planes taxi by.
It’s like watching science fiction, except it’s the past.
🍿 And then—oh, and then—the Boeing 707s appear, and suddenly I’m not laughing anymore. I’m having feelings. Actual feelings about an airplane that’s essentially a flying cigar tube with delusions of grandeur.
See, back in December 1973, young me boarded a TWA 707-300 for my second trip from New York to Paris. At the time, this was the absolute pinnacle of human achievement. The Concorde might have been zipping around being all supersonic and snooty, but the 707? That was my ship. Four engines screaming, that distinctive narrow-body profile, and an interior that probably had more ashtrays than seats (it was the ’70s; we all had different priorities).
Watching those 707s taxi in Bullitt hit me with a wave of nostalgia so powerful I nearly checked Expedia for time-travel flights. These magnificent machines, once the epitome of jet-age glamour, are now mostly retired to boneyards and aviation museums—where planes go to feel old and tell younger aircraft about “the good old days.”
The TWA livery. That red and white. The era when flying was an event, not a flying Greyhound bus experience where you’re fighting for armrest dominance and wondering if the person in 14C understands basic human hygiene.
🍿 So thank you, Bullitt. Thank you for the car chase that still makes my heart race. Thank you for reminding me that airports used to be places where humans were treated like humans, not potential threats who might be concealing a dangerous 4-ounce bottle of shampoo. And thank you for those gorgeous 707s, gleaming on the tarmac like the majestic aluminum birds they were.
🍿 I’ve “taped” the film—yes, that’s what we used to call it, kids, back when recording something involved actual magnetic tape and the very real possibility of accidentally recording over your sister’s soap opera—and added it to my digital collection. Which is itself a phrase that would have meant absolutely nothing to Steve McQueen in 1968, but here we are.
Some movies are just perfect time capsules. Bullitt is one of them: a reminder of when cars roared, airports were civilised, and Steve McQueen could make a turtleneck and tweed jacket look like action-hero attire.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go watch that car chase again. For research purposes, naturally.
Vroom vroom, my friends. Vroom vroom.
🇫🇷
Quand les voitures rugissaient, les aéroports étaient civilisé et Steve McQueen était cool.
🍿 Donc voilà, hier soir, je faisais ce que toute personne raisonnable fait un soir de semaine lambda—je regardais Bullitt pour la 47ème fois environ. Parce qu’apparemment, j’ai besoin de vérifier, encore une fois, que oui, la course-poursuite de 1968 dans les rues de San Francisco reste la plus grande chose jamais capturée sur pellicule.
Et alerte spoiler : c’est absolument le cas.
🍿 Pour les non-initiés (et franchement, qui êtes-vous ?), Bullitt contient ce qui est probablement les dix minutes les plus chargées en testostérone de l’histoire du cinéma. Steve McQueen, affichant un cool naturel qu’aucun d’entre nous n’atteindra jamais de toute notre vie, pilote une Mustang GT 390 vert Highland à travers San Francisco comme s’il était poursuivi par… eh bien, une Dodge Charger, en fait. Pas une Challenger—rendons à César ce qui appartient à César pour cette bête noire et menaçante. Ces deux légendes du muscle car américain procèdent alors à rebondir, crisser et voler à travers ce qui ne peut être que le bureau des permis municipaux le plus compréhensif au monde.
Le truc, c’est qu’en 2026, cette scène de poursuite semble toujours fraîche. Pas de CGI. Pas de délires à la Fast & Furious où les voitures défient les lois de la physique et deviennent des machines volantes douées de conscience. Juste deux V8 énervés, des suspensions pour le moins discutables, et ce que je soupçonne être le mépris total de Steve McQueen pour ses primes d’assurance. C’est de la poésie automobile, et ça n’a pas pris une ride.
🍿Mais ensuite sont arrivées les scènes d’aéroport, et soudain j’ai vécu ce que les anthropologues appellent “un coup de fouet temporel aigu”.
Imaginez ça : McQueen entre dans l’aéroport. Directement jusqu’à la porte d’embarquement. Pas de théâtre sécuritaire de trois heures. Pas besoin de retirer chaussures, ceinture, ordinateur portable, dignité et enfant premier-né. Pas d’agent de sécurité qui juge vos produits de toilette comme s’il était en train de créer une exposition de musée. Les gens accompagnent littéralement leurs proches jusqu’à la porte, leur font au revoir à travers ces grandes fenêtres pendant que les avions circulent.
C’est comme regarder de la science-fiction, sauf que c’est le passé.
🍿Et puis—oh, et puis—les Boeing 707 apparaissent, et soudain je ne ris plus. J’ai des émotions. De vraies émotions pour un avion qui est essentiellement un cigare volant avec des délires de grandeur.
Voyez-vous, en décembre 1973, le jeune moi montait à bord d’un TWA 707-300 pour mon deuxième voyage de New York à Paris. À l’époque, c’était le summum absolu de la réussite humaine. Le Concorde faisait peut-être le malin en mode supersonique et snob, mais le 707 ? C’était mon vaisseau. Quatre moteurs hurlants, ce profil fuselage étroit si distinctif, et un intérieur qui avait probablement plus de cendriers que de sièges (c’était les années 70 ; on avait tous des priorités différentes).
Regarder ces 707 circuler sur le tarmac dans Bullitt m’a frappé d’une vague de nostalgie si puissante que j’ai failli vérifier sur Expedia s’il existait des vols dans le temps. Ces machines magnifiques, autrefois l’incarnation du glamour de l’ère du jet, sont maintenant pour la plupart reléguées aux cimetières d’avions et musées de l’aviation—là où les avions vont se sentir vieux et raconter aux appareils plus jeunes “le bon vieux temps”.
La livrée TWA. Ce rouge et blanc. L’époque où prendre l’avion était un événement, pas une expérience de bus Greyhound volant où vous vous battez pour l’accoudoir en vous demandant si la personne au 14C comprend les rudiments de l’hygiène humaine.
🍿Alors merci, Bullitt. Merci pour la course-poursuite qui fait encore battre mon cœur. Merci de me rappeler que les aéroports étaient autrefois des endroits où les humains étaient traités comme des humains, pas comme des menaces potentielles susceptibles de dissimuler un dangereux flacon de shampooing de 100 ml. Et merci pour ces magnifiques 707, resplendissants sur le tarmac comme les majestueux oiseaux d’aluminium qu’ils étaient.
🍿J’ai “enregistré” le film—oui, c’est comme ça qu’on disait à l’époque, les jeunes, quand enregistrer quelque chose impliquait une vraie bande magnétique et la possibilité bien réelle d’enregistrer accidentellement par-dessus le feuilleton de votre sœur—et l’ai ajouté à ma collection numérique. Ce qui est elle-même une expression qui n’aurait absolument rien signifié pour Steve McQueen en 1968, mais nous y voilà.
Certains films sont de parfaites capsules temporelles. Bullitt en est un : un rappel d’une époque où les voitures rugissaient, les aéroports étaient civilisés, et Steve McQueen pouvait faire d’un col roulé et d’une veste en tweed une tenue de héros d’action.
Maintenant, si vous voulez bien m’excuser, je dois aller revoir cette course-poursuite. Pour des raisons de recherche, naturellement.
Chez nous, il y a la Chandeleur. Le 2 février. Date fixe, rassurante. On parle de lumière, de soleil, de prospérité, on fait sauter une crêpe avec une pièce dans la main et tout le monde fait semblant d’y croire. En réalité, on mange des crêpes parce que quelqu’un, un jour, a eu la très bonne idée de décréter que c’était traditionnel.
De l’autre côté de la Manche, ils ont Shrove Tuesday. Même pâte, autre alibi. Là-bas, on vide les placards avant le Carême, on brûle les dernières calories autorisées et on appelle ça de la préparation spirituelle. Les pancakes sont plus épais, l’excuse un peu plus courte, et certains courent avec une poêle pour la forme — histoire de mériter le sirop.
Conclusion provisoire : qu’on invoque le soleil ou la pénitence à venir, la crêpe reste le point fixe. Les traditions passent, les justifications évoluent, la poêle reste. Et franchement, c’est très bien comme ça.
🇬🇧
In France, we have La Chandeleur. February 2nd. A fixed date, which already feels comforting. Officially, it’s about light, the sun, and prosperity. Unofficially, it’s an excuse to make crêpes and pretend that flipping one with a coin in your hand has some bearing on the future. Nobody really questions it.
In Britain, there’s Shrove Tuesday. Same ingredients, different justification. It’s the day before Lent, which means using up butter, eggs and sugar while one still can, and calling it preparation. The pancakes are thicker, the mood slightly more earnest, and in some places people feel obliged to run down the street holding a frying pan, presumably to demonstrate moral commitment.
The conclusion is fairly obvious. Whether it’s about light, repentance, or tradition, everyone ends up at the same point: standing over a pan, eating something warm and unnecessary. The reasons vary. The batter doesn’t. And that, one suspects, is the whole point.
I am now starting my third week of injecting my weekly dose of what I shall simply call the Wonder Molecule. I will not name it. I will not promote it. I will not pretend I was sent it for free. I am not an influencer. I don’t do partnerships, hashtags, or “You guys asked me so here it is”. I just inject myself once a week and get on with my life. My way.
The official mission is sensible and responsible: further stabilise my diabetes. The unofficial mission is older, more emotional, and frankly more exhausting: losing weight. A battle that has been ongoing since the beginning of last summer.
I tried to be virtuous. Diet-wise, I did everything right. I even went weeks without alcohol — a heroic sacrifice that deserves recognition, if not a medal. The result? Almost 5kg lost in the first five weeks. I briefly believed I had finally outsmarted my metabolism.
Naturally, it all came back. Possibly overnight. Possibly laughing.
So here we are again, but this time with chemical reinforcement. Two weeks in, I am already 3kg down, and — plot twist — I’m not constantly hungry. No gnawing cravings, no dramatic staring contests with the fridge, no existential despair caused by lettuce. This alone feels suspiciously miraculous.
The goal remains unchanged: 77kg maximum. This morning, I dipped under 81kg, which may sound trivial to the untrained ear, but in my personal mythology this counts as a significant victory.
There is, however, a price to pay. There is always a price.
To give this experiment a fair chance, I have temporarily put my social calendar into low-power mode. Because seeing friends almost inevitably involves a drink being offered, followed by someone saying the most dangerous sentence in the language: “Shall we eat out?”
Fortunately — and this is where seasonal timing saves me from myself — many bars and restaurants are currently closed for their annual holidays. Temptation is therefore limited. So is fun. It’s a quiet time. A little dull. The kind of dull that makes you wonder if this is what monks feel like, minus the spirituality.
And as if that weren’t enough, the weather has turned aggressively wet. Not “refreshing rain”, but “biblical inconvenience”. Going for long walks, which would help in my quest, has become impractical unless I plan to swim part of the way. I admire commitment, but I’m not training for an amphibious lifestyle.
So I stay in.
I read. A lot. Books. Comics. Entire worlds unfold while I sit perfectly still, burning almost no calories at all. Irony is everywhere. And yet, despite all this reading, I haven’t felt particularly inspired to write. Maybe it’s the weather. Maybe it’s the lack of wine. Maybe it’s just the winter blues quietly doing their thing.
Or maybe it’s simply one of those phases where you’re doing the right thing, patiently, stubbornly, without fireworks. The kind of phase that doesn’t produce great stories — yet.
Still, the scales are moving. The rain will eventually stop. And inspiration, like weight loss, tends to arrive when you stop chasing it too aggressively.
As always, I’m doing it my way. Even if my way currently involves a syringe, an umbrella, and saying “no thanks” far more often than I’d like.
🇫🇷
Chronique d’un hiver sans pastis
Voilà donc que j’entame ma troisième semaine de piqûres hebdomadaires d’une molécule merveilleuse. Je ne dirai pas son nom. Pas par mystère, non — simplement parce que je ne suis pas influenceur. Je n’ai pas de code promo, pas de partenariat, et personne ne m’a demandé de dire « franchement, c’est incroyable ». Je me pique. Une fois par semaine. Calmement. À l’ancienne. Et on n’en parle plus.
L’objectif officiel est respectable, presque sérieux : stabiliser encore un peu mieux mon diabète. L’objectif officieux, lui, me poursuit depuis l’été dernier, comme une vieille connaissance un peu envahissante : perdre du poids. Définitivement, si possible. Sans qu’il revienne avec sa famille au premier relâchement.
J’ai pourtant essayé. Oh, que j’ai essayé. Côté alimentation, j’ai été exemplaire. Des semaines sans alcool — une performance qui, chez nous, mérite au minimum une médaille communale. Résultat : presque cinq kilos envolés en cinq semaines. J’y ai cru. Comme on croit aux beaux discours et aux lendemains qui chantent.
Évidemment, tout est revenu. Tranquillement. Sans même frapper à la porte.
Alors cette fois, j’ai sorti l’artillerie moderne. Et voilà que, deux semaines plus tard, trois kilos se sont déjà fait la malle. Et le plus étonnant — tenez-vous bien — c’est que je n’ai pas faim. Pas cette faim sournoise, collante, qui vous fait négocier avec le placard à dix heures du soir. Non. Le calme. Presque la paix.
Le cap reste le même : 77 kilos maximum. Ce matin, je suis passé sous la barre des 81 kilos. Pour certains, ce n’est qu’un chiffre. Pour moi, c’est un événement. Une petite victoire silencieuse, mais savoureuse.
Seulement voilà… dans la vie, rien n’est jamais simple. Même quand ça va mieux.
Pour mettre toutes les chances de mon côté, j’ai mis ma vie sociale en veille. Parce que voir les amis, chez nous, ça commence rarement par « une tisane ». Il y a toujours quelqu’un pour proposer un verre. Puis un autre pour suggérer un restaurant. Et avant que vous ayez compris, vous êtes perdu.
Heureusement — et c’est là que la saison joue pour moi — beaucoup de bars et de restaurants sont fermés pour leurs congés annuels. La tentation est limitée. L’ennui, lui, est bien ouvert. C’est une période un peu creuse. Silencieuse. Presque monacale. Il ne manque que la bure.
Ajoutez à cela une pluie persistante, épaisse, généreuse, une pluie qui vous pénètre jusqu’aux intentions. Aller marcher ? Bien sûr. À condition d’aimer les flaques, le vent et les chaussettes humides. J’ai renoncé. Même la volonté a ses limites.
Alors je reste dedans.
Je lis. Beaucoup. Des livres, des bandes dessinées. Je voyage sans bouger. Je m’évade sans brûler la moindre calorie. Et pourtant, malgré toutes ces histoires, je ne me sens pas très inspiré pour écrire. Peut-être est-ce le temps. Peut-être l’absence de vin. Peut-être ce qu’on appelait autrefois les humeurs de l’hiver.
Ou peut-être est-ce simplement un moment de transition. Un de ces moments où l’on fait ce qu’il faut, sans éclat, sans fanfare, en attendant que les choses se mettent doucement en place.
Le poids descend. La pluie finira bien par s’arrêter. Et l’inspiration, comme les beaux jours, revient toujours quand on ne la presse pas trop.
En attendant, je continue. À ma façon. Même si, pour l’instant, ma façon ressemble à une piqûre, un parapluie… et beaucoup de patience.
Une arnaque intemporelle qui a juste changé d’adresse
Ah, la nostalgie ! Le bon vieux temps où on se faisait enfumer en personne…
Vous vous souvenez ? Cette époque bénie où un vendeur en chemise à carreaux vous regardait droit dans les yeux pour vous mentir avec chaleur humaine ? “Excellent choix, monsieur ! J’ai exactement le même à la maison.” Bien sûr, Gilbert. Bien sûr que tu as cette chaîne stéréo à 2000 Francs dans ton salon, toi qui roules en 2CV 1957 et qui apportes des sandwichs au jambon dans un sac en papier brun.
Mais avouons-le : c’était une époque artisanale du mensonge commercial. Un mensonge prononcé avec conviction, les yeux dans les yeux, parfois même avec une petite tape complice sur l’épaule. Presque touchant, non ?
Le jeu du “qui dira la phrase en premier”
L’auteur de ces lignes avoue candidement avoir été complice de cette mascarade lors d’un emploi d’été. Lui et son meilleur pote transformaient les livraisons d’électroménagers en compétition : qui sortirait le premier le fameux “Ah, j’ai le même chez moi !” en parlant d’une laveuse, d’un grille-pain ou d’un réfrigérateur ? Deux ados qui s’amusaient à perpétuer une tradition vieille comme le commerce lui-même. Au moins, il y avait de la créativité, du timing, de la performance.
Bienvenue en 2025 : même arnaque, zéro charme
Mais aujourd’hui ? Oh, aujourd’hui c’est tellement mieux ! Maintenant, on se fait mentir par des robots ! Plus besoin de regarder quelqu’un dans les yeux. Plus besoin de talent. Juste “JeNnIfEr2847” qui commente sous chaque publicité Instagram ou autre: “OMG j’ai reçu le mien hier et c’est IN-CRO-YABLE !!! Ma vie a changé !!!”
Jennifer, ma chérie, tu n’existes même pas. Tu es un algorithme avec trois points d’exclamation et des emojis cœur. Tu n’as pas de vie à changer parce que tu n’as pas de vie, point.
Le progrès selon Internet
On a donc réussi l’exploit de prendre une arnaque classique et de la rendre encore plus insupportable en la dépersonnalisant complètement. Au moins, Gilbert le vendeur, il essayait. Il mettait de l’énergie. Les bots, eux, copient-collent leur enthousiasme synthétique 10 000 fois par jour sans même transpirer.
Et le pire ? On est censés trouver ça pratique. “Regardez tous ces témoignages positifs !” Oui, regardez tous ces mensonges générés automatiquement, c’est merveilleux.
Conclusion mélancolique
Alors voilà. Si vous avez la nostalgie du bon vieux temps où on se faisait au moins arnaquer avec une touche humaine, vous n’êtes pas seul. L’auteur de ce témoignage partage votre douleur.
Parce qu’entre nous : si on doit se faire mentir de toute façon, autant que ce soit par quelqu’un qui a au moins pris la peine de prétendre s’intéresser à nous.
RIP Gilbert et sa chemise à carreaux. Tu nous manques.
🇬🇧
“Yeah, I’ve got one of those at home too”
Ah, nostalgia — remember the good old days when being sold something meant eye contact, a firm handshake, and maybe even a dad-joke along the way?
You know the stereotype: the guy in a plaid shirt looks you square in the eye and assures you, with total sincerity, “Great choice, sir! I’ve got exactly that same model at home.” Sure you do, Gilbert. Absolutely. That stereo system that cost three months’ rent, sitting right next to your 1957 2CV that’s held together with optimism and duct tape.
But let’s be honest… back then it was almost charming in its own way. A little performance, a dash of personality, maybe even a wink. You weren’t just buying a thing — you were part of the emotional theater of commerce.
And I’ll admit it: I once played that game myself. One summer job, one friend, one delivery truck, and a contest to see who could be the first to proclaim the sacred line: 👉 “Oh, I’ve got one of those at home too!” It was like Olympic sport for teenage sales reps. Medal ceremonies definitely would’ve included awkward high-fives and maybe a participation trophy.
But welcome to 2025 — Same scam, zero soul.
Now? Robots do the deceiving. No eye contact. No awkward shoulder pat. Just a thousand identical profiles with names like JeNnIfEr2847 blurting out variations of: “OMG I got mine yesterday and it’s LIFE-CHANGING!!! ❤️🔥”
Sweetie, you don’t even have a life, let alone one that needed changing. You’re an algorithm with emojis. That’s it.
We’ve managed to take a time-honored deception — the honest-to-goodness human sales pitch — and strip out every last bit of charm. Bots copy-paste enthusiasm like they’re printing money, and we’re all supposed to think it’s practical. Yes, that testimonial is definitely authentic… said no one ever.
Conclusion (with a sigh and a smirk)
So if you find yourself secretly longing for the era when lies were delivered with a smile, you’re not alone. At least Gilbert tried. At least somebody cared enough to pretend.
And between us? If we must be bamboozled, let it at least be by someone who pretends to give a damn.
RIP Gilbert and his plaid shirt. You were an algorithm we never asked for — but secretly, we kind of miss you anyway.
☃️ You know that feeling when you check out of a hotel at 10am and then watch from the taxi as they start handing out free champagne in the lobby at 10:15? That’s roughly how I felt yesterday when photos arrived from my son in the Hannover region showing a proper winter wonderland.
☃️ Apparently, we left Germany a few days too early. Mother Nature, in her infinite sense of comedic timing, decided to dump snow all over Hannover after we’d packed our bags and headed south. The HAZ newspaper – which I still read online daily because apparently I enjoy torturing myself with news from places I’m not currently inhabiting – made it front-page news. Front. Page. News. The kind of snow that makes headlines, and we missed it by mere days.
☃️ It’s the meteorological equivalent of leaving a party at 11pm only to hear the next day that David Bowie showed up at midnight. (Yes, I know he’s passed, but you get the point. It would have been spectacular.)
☃️ Now, before you break out the world’s tiniest violin, I should mention that I can see the Pyrenees from my window here in Carcassonne, and they’re absolutely plastered in snow. So I suppose I’m not entirely bereft of winter scenery. It’s just that there’s something particularly charming about being in the snow rather than viewing it from a safe distance like it’s an exhibit at a museum: “The Pyrenees, Winter Collection, 2025-26, observe but do not touch.”
Screenshot
☃️ The weather has turned properly Baltic here too – minus one this morning, which for southern France is the meteorological equivalent of the apocalypse. People were looking at their thermometers like they’d betrayed them personally. I half expected to see someone file a formal complaint with the mayor.
☃️ So what’s a person to do when they’ve narrowly missed one snow event and are too cold to properly enjoy viewing another? Simple. I’ve made the executive decision to stay inside by the fire and crack open one of the new books I was lucky enough to receive for Christmas. It’s not quite the same as crunching through fresh snow in Hannover, but at least my toes won’t go numb.
☃️ And really, isn’t there something wonderfully civilized about watching winter happen to other people while you’re wrapped in a blanket with a good book? The Germans have a word for everything – surely there’s one for “the smug satisfaction of being warm while others shovel.”
If not, there should be.
Stay warm, wherever you are. And if you’re in Hannover with snow up to your knees, just know that someone in Carcassonne is thinking of you. Warmly. Very, very warmly.
🇫🇷
La grande évasion hivernale
(Dont nous nous sommes échappés trop tôt)
☃️ Vous connaissez cette sensation quand vous quittez un hôtel à 10h du matin et que vous regardez depuis le taxi comment ils commencent à distribuer du champagne gratuit dans le hall à 10h15 ? C’est à peu près ce que j’ai ressenti hier quand j’ai reçu des photos de mon fils dans la région de Hanovre montrant un véritable pays des merveilles hivernal.
☃️ Apparemment, nous avons quitté l’Allemagne quelques jours trop tôt. Mère Nature, dans son sens infini du timing comique, a décidé de déverser de la neige sur Hanovre après que nous ayons fait nos valises et pris la route du sud. Le journal HAZ – que je continue à lire en ligne quotidiennement parce qu’apparemment j’aime me torturer avec des nouvelles d’endroits où je ne me trouve pas actuellement – en a fait sa une. La une. Le genre de neige qui fait les gros titres, et nous l’avons ratée de quelques jours seulement.
☃️ C’est l’équivalent météorologique de quitter une fête à 23h pour apprendre le lendemain que David Bowie est arrivé à minuit. (Oui, je sais qu’il est décédé, mais vous comprenez l’idée. Ça aurait été spectaculaire.)
☃️ Maintenant, avant que vous ne sortiez le plus petit violon du monde, je dois mentionner que je peux voir les Pyrénées depuis ma fenêtre ici à Carcassonne, et elles sont absolument recouvertes de neige. Donc je suppose que je ne suis pas entièrement privé de paysage hivernal. C’est juste qu’il y a quelque chose de particulièrement charmant à être dans la neige plutôt que de la regarder depuis une distance sécuritaire comme si c’était une exposition dans un musée : « Les Pyrénées, Collection Hiver 2024-25, à observer mais ne pas toucher. »
Screenshot
☃️ Le temps est devenu vraiment glacial ici aussi – moins un ce matin, ce qui pour le sud de la France est l’équivalent météorologique de l’apocalypse. Les gens regardaient leurs thermomètres comme s’ils les avaient trahis personnellement. Je m’attendais presque à voir quelqu’un déposer une plainte officielle auprès du maire.
☃️ Alors, que faire quand on a raté de justesse un événement neigeux et qu’il fait trop froid pour profiter pleinement de la vue sur un autre ? Simple. J’ai pris la décision exécutive de rester à l’intérieur près du feu et d’ouvrir un des nouveaux livres que j’ai eu la chance de recevoir pour Noël. Ce n’est pas tout à fait la même chose que de marcher dans la neige fraîche à Hanovre, mais au moins mes orteils ne seront pas engourdis.
☃️ Et vraiment, n’y a-t-il pas quelque chose de merveilleusement civilisé à regarder l’hiver arriver aux autres pendant qu’on est enveloppé dans une couverture avec un bon livre ? Les Allemands ont un mot pour tout – il doit sûrement y en avoir un pour « la satisfaction suffisante d’avoir chaud pendant que les autres pellettent. »
Si ce n’est pas le cas, il devrait y en avoir un.
Restez au chaud, où que vous soyez. Et si vous êtes à Hanovre avec de la neige jusqu’aux genoux, sachez que quelqu’un à Carcassonne pense à vous. Chaleureusement. Très, très chaleureusement.
🇩🇪
Die große Winter-Flucht
(Aus der wir zu früh geflohen sind)
☃️ Kennen Sie dieses Gefühl, wenn Sie um 10 Uhr morgens aus einem Hotel auschecken und dann vom Taxi aus zusehen, wie sie um 10:15 Uhr anfangen, in der Lobby kostenlosen Champagner zu verteilen? Ungefähr so fühlte ich mich gestern, als Fotos von meinem Sohn aus der Region Hannover eintrafen, die ein richtiges Winterwunderland zeigten.
☃️ Offenbar haben wir Deutschland ein paar Tage zu früh verlassen. Mutter Natur hat in ihrem unendlichen Sinn für komisches Timing beschlossen, Hannover mit Schnee zu überschütten, nachdem wir unsere Koffer gepackt und uns auf den Weg nach Süden gemacht hatten. Die HAZ – die ich täglich online lese, weil ich mich anscheinend gerne mit Nachrichten aus Orten quäle, an denen ich mich gerade nicht aufhalte – hat es zur Titelseite gemacht. Zur Titelseite. Die Art von Schnee, die Schlagzeilen macht, und wir haben ihn um wenige Tage verpasst.
☃️ Es ist das meteorologische Äquivalent dazu, eine Party um 23 Uhr zu verlassen, nur um am nächsten Tag zu hören, dass David Bowie um Mitternacht aufgetaucht ist. (Ja, ich weiß, dass er verstorben ist, aber Sie verstehen, was ich meine. Es wäre spektakulär gewesen.)
☃️ Bevor Sie jetzt die kleinste Geige der Welt auspacken, sollte ich erwähnen, dass ich von meinem Fenster hier in Carcassonne aus die Pyrenäen sehen kann, und die sind absolut mit Schnee bedeckt. Ich bin also nicht völlig ohne Winterlandschaft. Es ist nur so, dass es etwas besonders Charmantes hat, im Schnee zu sein, anstatt ihn aus sicherer Entfernung zu betrachten, als wäre er ein Exponat in einem Museum: „Die Pyrenäen, Winterkollektion 2024-25, bitte ansehen, aber nicht anfassen.”
Screenshot
☃️ Das Wetter ist hier auch richtig eisig geworden – minus eins heute Morgen, was für Südfrankreich das meteorologische Äquivalent der Apokalypse ist. Die Leute starrten auf ihre Thermometer, als hätten diese sie persönlich verraten. Ich hätte fast erwartet, dass jemand eine offizielle Beschwerde beim Bürgermeister einreicht.
☃️ Was also tun, wenn man ein Schneeereignis knapp verpasst hat und es zu kalt ist, um ein anderes richtig zu genießen? Ganz einfach. Ich habe die Entscheidung getroffen, drinnen am Feuer zu bleiben und eines der neuen Bücher aufzuschlagen, die ich zu Weihnachten bekommen habe. Es ist nicht ganz dasselbe wie durch frischen Schnee in Hannover zu stapfen, aber wenigstens werden meine Zehen nicht taub.
☃️ Und hat es nicht etwas wunderbar Zivilisiertes, dem Winter zuzusehen, wie er anderen Menschen passiert, während man selbst in eine Decke gewickelt mit einem guten Buch dasitzt? Die Deutschen haben ein Wort für alles – sicherlich gibt es auch eines für „die selbstzufriedene Genugtuung, warm zu sein, während andere Schnee schaufeln.”
Falls nicht, sollte es eines geben.
Bleiben Sie warm, wo immer Sie sind. Und wenn Sie in Hannover mit Schnee bis zu den Knien stehen, wissen Sie, dass jemand in Carcassonne an Sie denkt. Warm. Sehr, sehr warm.
Happy New Year! That magical time when we all pretend we’re going to become completely different people overnight. Gym memberships skyrocket, salad sales boom, and somewhere, a dusty notebook whispers, “Maybe this year…”
But forget resolutions. Those are for amateurs. I’m talking about redefined strategies, which is just a fancy way of saying “resolutions with a better PR team.”
🐢 The Current State of Affairs
First, let me paint you a picture of my current writing situation. I’ve been on an absolute tear these past few months—so prolific that I’m starting to suspect I might actually be three people in a trench coat. I’ve even dusted off “Whispers of the Past,” my book project that had been gathering more dust than whispers. It’s alive! cue Frankenstein lightning
Oh, and did I mention I run seven active blogs? SEVEN. Not one, not two, but a full week’s worth of digital children, each demanding attention, fresh content, and probably therapy for being neglected during the holidays.
And because apparently I have a PhD in overcommitment, I’ve also decided that “staying in touch” with friends shouldn’t just mean liking their Instagram posts at 2 AM. Revolutionary, I know. I’m talking actual email correspondence—you know, those things our parents used to send with full paragraphs and proper punctuation.
🐢 The Master Plan (AKA My Descent Into Madness)
So here’s my brilliantly insane strategy for 2026:
1. The Book: One Page Per Day Just one measly page of “Whispers of the Past” every single day. That’s approximately 250 words, or roughly the length of a strongly worded email to customer service. Totally doable, right? nervous laughter
2. The Blogs: A Daily Rotation of Digital Chaos One blog post per day, cycling through all seven blogs weekly. Monday is Blog A, Tuesday is Blog B, and by Sunday I’ll have forgotten what I wrote on Monday. It’s like a literary version of that memory game where you flip cards over, except all the cards are my own content and I still can’t remember which one is which.
3. The Social Life: 15 Friends in 30 Days Here’s where it gets really spicy. I’m going to write to one of my 15 closest friends every other day. Let’s do the math together: that’s 15 friends, one email every other day, which means… pulls out calculator …I’ll have contacted everyone once a month! It’s like a friendship subscription service, except the content is my rambling about my day.
🐢 The Tools of My Trade
At this point, I’m fairly certain I’m going to need an Excel spreadsheet just to keep track of what I’ve written, to whom, and which blog is currently gathering cobwebs. I’m literally becoming a human content management system. Next thing you know, I’ll be color-coding my life and using pivot tables to decide what to have for breakfast.
The real question is: Do I have enough inspiration for all this?
Spoiler alert: I have no idea. But that’s what makes it exciting! Or terrifying. Probably both.
🐢 The Fine Print
Of course, I reserve the right to completely abandon this system when I’m on holiday. Because let’s be honest, nobody wants to be that person frantically typing blog posts on a beach in Bali while everyone else is sipping cocktails. In those cases, I might pivot to a newsletter strategy. One-to-many communication: the lazy person’s guide to staying in touch.
🐢 The Bottom Line
So there you have it. My 2026 plan to write approximately a gazillion words while maintaining both my sanity and my friendships (results may vary on the sanity part).
Am I setting myself up for spectacular success or equally spectacular failure? Only time will tell.
But hey, at least “Whispers of the Past” won’t be whispering accusations of abandonment anymore.
Wish me luck. I’m going to need it. And possibly an intervention by March.
P.S. If you don’t hear from me by February, please send coffee and a time-turner. I’ve clearly miscalculated.
🇫🇷
Mon plan d’écriture ridiculement ambitieux
Comment je suis devenu une usine à contenu humaine
Bonne année ! Ce moment magique où nous prétendons tous que nous allons devenir des personnes complètement différentes du jour au lendemain. Les abonnements aux salles de sport explosent, les ventes de salades grimpent en flèche, et quelque part, un carnet poussiéreux murmure : « Peut-être cette année… »
Mais oubliez les résolutions. C’est pour les amateurs. Je parle de stratégies redéfinies, ce qui est juste une façon élégante de dire « des résolutions avec une meilleure équipe de relations publiques ».
🐢 L’État Actuel des Choses
D’abord, laissez-moi vous brosser un tableau de ma situation d’écriture actuelle. J’ai été sur une lancée absolue ces derniers mois—tellement prolifique que je commence à soupçonner que je pourrais en fait être trois personnes dans un trench-coat. J’ai même dépoussiéré « Murmures du Passé », mon projet de livre qui accumulait plus de poussière que de murmures. Il est vivant ! éclair à la Frankenstein
Ah, et ai-je mentionné que je gère sept blogs actifs ? SEPT. Pas un, pas deux, mais une semaine complète d’enfants numériques, chacun réclamant de l’attention, du contenu frais, et probablement une thérapie pour avoir été négligés pendant les vacances.
Et parce qu’apparemment j’ai un doctorat en sur-engagement, j’ai aussi décidé que « rester en contact » avec mes amis ne devrait pas se limiter à liker leurs posts Instagram à 2 heures du matin. Révolutionnaire, je sais. Je parle de vraie correspondance par email—vous savez, ces trucs que nos parents envoyaient avec des paragraphes complets et une ponctuation correcte.
🐢 Le Plan Maître (Alias Ma Descente dans la Folie)
Voici donc ma stratégie brillamment insensée pour 2026 :
1. Le Livre : Une Page Par Jour Juste une misérable petite page de « Murmures du Passé » chaque jour. Ça fait environ 250 mots, soit à peu près la longueur d’un email bien senti au service client. Totalement faisable, non ? rire nerveux
2. Les Blogs : Une Rotation Quotidienne de Chaos Numérique Un article de blog par jour, en rotation à travers les sept blogs chaque semaine. Lundi c’est le Blog A, mardi c’est le Blog B, et dimanche j’aurai oublié ce que j’ai écrit lundi. C’est comme une version littéraire de ce jeu de mémoire où on retourne des cartes, sauf que toutes les cartes sont mon propre contenu et je n’arrive toujours pas à me rappeler laquelle est laquelle.
3. La Vie Sociale : 15 Amis en 30 Jours C’est là que ça devient vraiment épicé. Je vais écrire à l’un de mes 15 amis les plus proches tous les deux jours. Faisons le calcul ensemble : ça fait 15 amis, un email tous les deux jours, ce qui signifie… sort la calculatrice …j’aurai contacté tout le monde une fois par mois ! C’est comme un service d’abonnement à l’amitié, sauf que le contenu c’est mes divagations sur ma journée.
🐢 Les Outils de Mon Métier
À ce stade, je suis pratiquement certain que je vais avoir besoin d’un tableau Excel juste pour suivre ce que j’ai écrit, à qui, et quel blog est actuellement en train de ramasser des toiles d’araignée. Je deviens littéralement un système de gestion de contenu humain. La prochaine fois, je vais coder ma vie en couleurs et utiliser des tableaux croisés dynamiques pour décider de mon petit-déjeuner.
La vraie question est : Ai-je assez d’inspiration pour tout ça ?
Alerte spoiler : je n’en ai aucune idée. Mais c’est ce qui rend ça excitant ! Ou terrifiant. Probablement les deux.
🐢 Les Petites Lignes
Bien sûr, je me réserve le droit d’abandonner complètement ce système quand je serai en vacances. Parce que soyons honnêtes, personne ne veut être cette personne qui tape frénétiquement des articles de blog sur une plage à Bali pendant que tout le monde sirote des cocktails. Dans ces cas-là, je pourrais pivoter vers une stratégie de newsletter. La communication un-à-plusieurs : le guide du paresseux pour rester en contact.
🐢 Le Bilan Final
Voilà donc mon plan pour 2026 : écrire environ un gazillion de mots tout en maintenant à la fois ma santé mentale et mes amitiés (les résultats peuvent varier concernant la santé mentale).
Est-ce que je me prépare à un succès spectaculaire ou à un échec tout aussi spectaculaire ? Seul le temps nous le dira.
Mais bon, au moins « Murmures du Passé » ne murmurera plus d’accusations d’abandon.
Souhaitez-moi bonne chance. Je vais en avoir besoin. Et probablement une intervention d’ici mars.
P.S. Si vous n’avez pas de mes nouvelles d’ici février, envoyez du café et un retourneur de temps. J’ai clairement mal calculé.
As one sometimes does in the quiet days just before—or just after—the New Year, I found myself looking back at the main events of the past twelve months. It’s a reassuring ritual: a mix of memory, curiosity, and the comforting illusion that we might somehow make sense of it all.
While wandering through various “year in review” web pages, I stumbled upon a list that immediately caught my attention: the ten busiest flight routes of 2025. What struck me first was not the numbers, but the geography. Remarkably, every single one of them is located in the Asian region. Not a single transatlantic hop, no European shuttle, no New York–Los Angeles in sight. Just Asia, Asia, and more Asia.
Here’s the list:
🇰🇷 Jeju (CJU) – 🇰🇷 Seoul Gimpo (GMP)
🇯🇵 Sapporo New Chitose (CTS) – 🇯🇵 Tokyo Haneda (HND)
🇯🇵 Fukuoka (FUK) – 🇯🇵 Tokyo Haneda (HND)
🇻🇳 Hanoi (HAN) – 🇻🇳 Ho Chi Minh City (SGN)
🇸🇦 Jeddah (JED) – 🇸🇦 Riyadh (RUH)
🇦🇺 Melbourne (MEL) – 🇦🇺 Sydney (SYD)
🇯🇵 Tokyo Haneda (HND) – 🇯🇵 Okinawa Naha (OKA)
🇮🇳 Mumbai (BOM) – 🇮🇳 Delhi (DEL)
🇨🇳 Beijing (PEK) – 🇨🇳 Shanghai Hongqiao (SHA)
🇨🇳 Shanghai Hongqiao (SHA) – 🇨🇳 Shenzhen (SZX)
I have passed through several of these airports myself over the years, and I must say: I am not surprised at all. These are routes that connect economic powerhouses, political capitals, holiday destinations, and cities where air travel is often faster—and sometimes more practical—than the train. Anyone who has stood in Haneda at peak hours or watched the endless stream of departures in Shanghai will immediately understand.
What this list quietly illustrates is how the centre of gravity of global travel continues to shift. Dense populations, thriving economies, and a deeply ingrained culture of domestic air travel make these routes pulse day and night. Planes take off, land, refuel, and repeat—efficiently, relentlessly, and with barely a pause.
It’s also a gentle reminder that while we often think of “busy airports” in terms of Heathrow, JFK, or Frankfurt, the real heavy lifting of global aviation happens elsewhere, far from the Atlantic headlines.
Looking back at the year through such details is oddly satisfying. It doesn’t explain everything—but it does tell a story. And sometimes, a list of flight routes says more about the world than a dozen political speeches.
Food for thought, somewhere between two boarding calls.
It feels exceptionally good to be home after ten excellent days in Germany, spent doing what holidays are meant for: seeing family, meeting friends, eating far too well and completely losing track of time. I have now been home for exactly 24 hours — and yes, for the record, my suitcase is still missing. Apparently, it decided to extend its stay abroad. I hope it’s enjoying itself.
After the first truly restorative night’s sleep in one’s own bed — arguably the single greatest luxury of returning home — I eased back into my daily routine. This begins, as always, with the first (and very probably only) coffee of the day, followed by the ceremonial ingestion of morning pills. With that done, it was time to start the computer and catch up with international news, just to confirm that the world has continued spinning perfectly well without my supervision.
While away, I had taken a surprising number of notes — proof that holidays are excellent breeding grounds for good intentions. As a result, several new items have now been added to my ever-growing to-do list, a document that shows no sign of ever becoming shorter. I also managed to write a few blog posts, and somewhat alarmingly, my imagination is unusually vivid today. I shall enjoy this while it lasts.
There were emails to write, thank-you notes to send, and then a major administrative milestone: we finally took the plunge and applied for the new Miles & More credit card, following Lufthansa’s recent announcement that they were moving things over to Deutsche Bank. What followed was a solid hour of online form filling, topped off with a video interview to complete the authentication process. I emerged victorious, and as far as I can tell, our application has been accepted. The only remaining mystery is how long it will take for the actual cards to arrive — possibly before, possibly after my suitcase.
The rest of the day is refreshingly free of obligations. The plan is simple: listen to music, maybe write a couple of pages of my book Whispers of Yesterday, rest a little, and attempt to keep at bay the beginnings of a cold that made itself known this morning. Should all preventive measures fail, I have promised myself a generous dose of whisky this evening. Medical advice varies on this point.
Tomorrow, we head off to Toulouse for the réveillon, with a strategic stop at the Nailloux outlet village along the way. Rumour has it that the January sales have already begun. I feel it is my duty to investigate.
Somewhere, my suitcase is no doubt watching approvingly.
🇫🇷
Se réinstaller
Quel plaisir de retrouver la maison après ces dix excellents jours passés en Allemagne, à voir famille et amis, à bien manger et à oublier toute notion raisonnable du temps. Cela fait maintenant exactement 24 heures que je suis rentré — et, détail important, ma valise est toujours portée disparue. Manifestement, elle a décidé de prolonger les vacances sans moi. J’espère qu’elle m’enverra une carte postale.
Après une nuit de sommeil profondément réparatrice dans son lit — l’un des grands bonheurs du retour à la maison — j’ai repris doucement mes habitudes. Tout commence par le premier (et très probablement unique) café de la journée, suivi du rituel matinal de prise de médicaments. Une fois ces formalités accomplies, allumage de l’ordinateur et lecture des nouvelles internationales, histoire de vérifier que le monde a continué à tourner sans mon intervention.
Pendant le séjour, j’avais pris un nombre étonnant de notes, preuve irréfutable que les vacances sont le terrain idéal pour les bonnes intentions. Résultat : plusieurs nouvelles tâches sont venues s’ajouter à ma liste déjà interminable, ce document mystérieux qui ne raccourcit jamais. J’ai également écrit quelques billets de blog et, fait plus troublant encore, mon imagination est particulièrement en forme aujourd’hui. J’en profite tant que ça dure.
Il y avait aussi des courriels à envoyer, des messages de remerciement à écrire, puis un grand moment administratif : nous avons enfin sauté le pas et demandé la nouvelle carte Miles & More, suite à l’annonce récente de Lufthansa concernant le passage chez Deutsche Bank. Une bonne heure de formulaires en ligne plus tard, couronnée par un entretien en visioconférence pour valider l’authentification, je peux annoncer que la demande semble acceptée. Reste à savoir quand les cartes arriveront — probablement avant ou après ma valise, sans plus de précision.
Rien de très précis au programme pour le reste de la journée : écouter de la musique, peut-être écrire quelques pages de mon livre Whispers of Yesterday, me reposer un peu et tenter de tenir à distance le début de rhume qui s’est invité ce matin. Si toutes ces mesures préventives échouent, je me suis solennellement promis une dose généreuse de whisky ce soir. Les avis médicaux divergent sur l’efficacité du traitement.
Demain, direction Toulouse pour le réveillon, avec un arrêt stratégique au village de marques de Nailloux en chemin. Il paraît que les soldes de janvier ont déjà commencé. Je me dois évidemment d’aller vérifier.
Quelque part, ma valise approuve sans doute cette décision.
Far too early really. So early, in fact, that even the alarm clock seemed to apologize when it went off at 4:45 a.m. But there are moments in life when sleep must be sacrificed on the altar of aviation, and this was one of them. Destination: Hannover airport. Objective: catch our first flight to Paris. Optimism level: unjustifiably high.
I had, of course, no intention whatsoever of giving up my hand luggage. I am one of those people. The kind who believes a small suitcase is not just a convenience but a philosophy, a way of life, a moral stance. Unfortunately, the Air France agent had a different belief system and insisted—politely, firmly, mercilessly—that the Paris–Toulouse flight was completely full. The tone suggested resistance would be futile and possibly frowned upon by international aviation authorities.
So I capitulated. I handed over my case. It was a moment of weakness. The suitcase left me with a look that clearly said, “You’ll regret this.”
The flight to Paris was pleasant and mercifully short. We even arrived a luxurious 20 minutes ahead of schedule, which in aviation terms is practically time travel. The transfer from Terminal 2G to 2F by shuttle was swift, efficient, and suspiciously smooth—never a good sign in retrospect. We had plenty of time before our flight to Toulouse, which, true to prophecy, was indeed completely full. Every seat occupied, every overhead bin bulging with coats, bags, and quiet resentment.
Just before landing, the captain cheerfully announced that the brilliant sunshine had been replaced by thick fog and that we would be circling northeast of the airport for about seven minutes. Seven minutes, he said, as if we were going around the block to look for parking. Still, we landed on schedule because aviation likes to keep you guessing.
Straight to the luggage area we went. And guess what.
The cases did not make it out of Paris
This information was delivered not by a human, but by the brand-new tracker discreetly nestled in one of the suitcases—an investment that proved its worth instantly and smugly. Paris, it said. Still in Paris.
Now, under normal circumstances, this might have caused mild irritation, dramatic sighing, or possibly interpretive dance. But context is everything. Only ten days earlier, arriving in Hannover, we had enjoyed a thrilling five-day experience called Living Without Luggage, complete with emergency shopping for clothes, toiletries, and other essentials—currently the subject of a still-pending reimbursement claim with KLM.
So this time? Nothing. No anger. No despair. Not even sarcasm. We’re going home. Everything we need is already there. Toothbrushes, clothes, dignity—well, most of it.
What fascinates me is the pattern. I normally travel only with hand luggage. The two times I don’t? The suitcases decide to explore Europe independently. Coincidence? I think not. My luggage clearly has a rich inner life and a deep affection for Charles de Gaulle Airport.
No doubt the cases will turn up within 24 hours. There are plenty of planes shuttling daily between CDG and Toulouse, and my suitcase has always struck me as the patient type—once it’s done making a point.
Lesson learned (again): never betray your luggage philosophy. It remembers. And it travels.
🎄 Final day
The final day began in the only sensible way possible: lazily. Absolutely nothing planned for the morning, which I dedicated almost entirely to the noble arts of relaxation and advanced canine interaction. The dogs and I reached a mutual understanding: they demanded attention, I provided it, everyone won.
Lunch was swift and nostalgic, consisting of the heroic leftovers from an Asian takeaway consumed two days earlier. I am fairly certain it had become spicier with age. Either that, or my taste buds were simply trying to entertain themselves. Let’s call it maturation rather than imagination.
Early afternoon saw us driving to Algermissen to say goodbye to the two kiddies and their parents. A temporary farewell only—we might bump into each other again in about six weeks somewhere in southern Europe, because that’s how families work these days. The visit also had a strategic purpose: retrieving the large suitcase we had prudently left behind. After recent experiences, it felt reassuring to actually see a suitcase and know exactly where it was.
Back at my daughter’s in the late afternoon, we embarked on the highly technical exercise of packing. This involved trying to fit newly acquired clothes and Christmas presents into a suitcase that had clearly shrunk since the morning. Just as we were making progress (or at least convincing ourselves we were), a message arrived from my friend Klaus inviting us over for a last drink at 7 p.m.
Despite the cold, and despite the inconvenient detail that it required a 20-minute walk, we agreed. Some invitations you simply can’t refuse—especially when they involve alcohol and nostalgia.
At this point, a small reminder: Klaus used to be my direct neighbour when we lived in Gehrden. Sitting in his living room, casually watching our former house through the window, is an experience best described as mildly surreal and slightly unsettling. It’s like time travel, but without the special effects.
Still, we had a proper natter. Some chose wine. I remained loyal to beer, with a few whiskies joining the conversation later on. Eventually, we made our way back to my daughter’s place for what was supposed to be an early night.
It was early. It was a night. But it was definitely not long.
🌲Final day but one
🇬🇧
Yesterday had that rare quality of being quietly excellent, the kind you only recognise once you’re safely back under a duvet.
We escaped Algermissen late morning, the thermometer stuck at a resolute –8°C, roads polished to an Olympic-level shine. Destination: Hannover, and more importantly, a lunch date with our granddaughter — a luxury item these days, rare and therefore priceless. The news she brought could have been wrapped and placed under a tree: final exam results looking very promising and a job starting on February 1st. Honestly, at that point the frost outside could do whatever it liked — the day was already thawed.
Back in Gehrden by early afternoon, I honoured a long-standing family tradition: the post-travel nap, necessitated by a night that had been more philosophical than restorative. By 5 pm, however, it was time to re-enter civilisation and head to the Hischenhus, where Klaus had invited half the region to help him celebrate another successful year of existence.
And they all came. Friends, laughter, familiar faces — some not seen in far too long — all lubricated by a very cooperative supply of beer. Conversation flowed easily, memories were exchanged, and for a few hours the outside world politely waited its turn.
The ten-minute walk home, uphill and through biting cold, felt almost virtuous — a final purification before the reward of a warm house and an even warmer bed. One of those days that doesn’t shout, doesn’t pose, but leaves you thinking: yes, this one was worth keeping.
Another party at the Hischenhus
🇫🇷
Avant-dernier jour
Hier, voyez-vous, avait ce petit goût rare des journées qui ne font pas de bruit mais qui comptent double.
Nous avons quitté Algermissen en fin de matinée, sous un froid qui vous remet les idées en place : moins huit degrés, et des routes lustrées comme un comptoir de bistrot un soir de fête. Cap sur Hanovre pour un déjeuner avec notre petite-fille — une chose devenue si rare qu’elle en prend aussitôt des allures de cérémonie. Et comme si cela ne suffisait pas, les nouvelles étaient bonnes, même très bonnes : examens finaux en bonne voie, résultats attendus avec optimisme, et un travail qui commence le 1er février. Que demander de plus ? À ce stade-là, le gel pouvait bien faire ce qu’il voulait, le cœur, lui, était au soleil.
Retour à Gehrden en début d’après-midi, chez ma fille. Et là, fidèle à une sagesse ancestrale, je me suis accordé une sieste réparatrice, rendue nécessaire par une nuit plus tourmentée que reposante — une de ces nuits où l’on refait le monde sans parvenir à dormir dedans.
À 17 heures, il fallut pourtant se refaire une beauté et reprendre la route, direction le Hischenhus, où Klaus avait convié la terre entière — ou du moins tous ceux qui comptent — pour fêter son anniversaire. Et chose rare, tout le monde est venu. Des amis chers, des visages qu’on n’avait pas vus depuis longtemps, des éclats de rire, des souvenirs qui circulaient aussi librement que la bière. On parlait bien, on parlait vrai, et chacun repartait un peu plus riche qu’en arrivant.
La montée finale, dix minutes à pied dans un froid piquant, jusqu’à la maison de ma fille, avait quelque chose de salutaire, presque mérité. Et quand enfin je me suis glissé dans un lit bien chaud, j’ai pensé que certaines journées n’ont pas besoin de fanfare : elles se contentent d’exister, et c’est déjà beaucoup.
🌲Boxing Day
Very cold here this morning, -10c, the ground is white with frost and surely I shall have to scrape the windscreen of the car when we go out later on. After breakfast and some experimental packing to see if the presents father xmas was kind enough to give me yesterday and the additional clothes bought to cater for the fact that the suitcases were stuck 5 days in the suitcase mountain at Amsterdam airport will fit in, we shall drive back to Gehrden where friends await us for the obligatory long walk. Whether I have the right clothing for the cold weather is very debatable but we shall cope for sure. A hot soup or preferably a couple of large whiskies by the fireplace at Joerg and Heidrun should sort that out later this afternoon and since we are going to sleep there it appears to me to be the right decision to take. But before all that, father xmas also delivered many Lego boxes to the kiddies and who can resist giving a hand building some wonderful machines, not me.
🎄Xmas morning – Thursday 25th
Christmas Day began the only way it can begin when young grandchildren are involved: early. Very early. Somewhere between “still dark” and “why am I awake?”, we set off for Algermissen, knowing that two small humans were already fully operational and mentally positioned under the Christmas tree.
Outside, Gehrden was frozen solid at –8°C. The roads looked deceptively calm, the kind of calm that whispers black ice. I drove accordingly: slow, careful, and with both hands firmly on the wheel — festive excitement is no excuse for festive skating.
Arrival confirmed what we suspected: the children had been waiting. Under the tree stood not a collection of presents, but a small mountain range. A Christmas Everest of wrapping paper, bows, and impossible-to-open boxes. Somewhere in that pile were a few gifts for me too, including some rather serious reading — notably the biography of Jim Morrison.
Proof that while toys may change, parents and grandparents are still expected to contemplate rock legends and existential poetry.
After the initial frenzy — the tearing, the shouting, the “Look at this!” repeated approximately 127 times — calm slowly returned. Breakfast was finally allowed to happen, and then the serious business began: detailed inspection of every toy, instruction manual ignored, batteries mysteriously missing, and imaginations running at full speed.
Christmas morning, in short, was exactly as it should be.
🎄Day six, Midday
Solar powered optimism and other miracles
The sun is out. Not poetically, not metaphorically, but usefully out. This is important, because a small Renault ZOE is currently tethered to my son’s house like a calf to its mother, greedily sucking up every photon produced by the solar panels. Why pay for electricity when the universe is handing it out for free? This, dear reader, is what I call renewable opportunism.
While the ZOE is quietly photosynthesising, we tackled another great modern adventure: the online reimbursement claim to Air France / KLM. A process best described as “optimistic paperwork with a suspense element.” We submitted receipts, explanations, justifications, and possibly a small prayer. Now we wait, hopeful but emotionally prepared for an answer that begins with “We regret to inform you…”.
In our defence, we have been remarkably frugal while our luggage enjoyed its own extended holiday elsewhere. Only essentials were purchased. Absolute necessities. Survival items. Things without which civilisation would surely collapse. And yet, when you add it all up, the total amount looks less like “missing luggage compensation” and more like “down payment on a small yacht.” Still, we stand by every purchase. Mostly.
With the great administrative battles temporarily over, it is now time for the truly demanding part of the day: entertaining the grandkids. This involves energy levels no solar panel could ever supply. After that, lunch—because even superheroes need fuel—followed by a strategic rest. Not a nap, you understand. A horizontal meditation.
Later, we shall prepare for the evening expedition back to Gehrden, where dinner awaits at our friends’ house. Wine is expected to flow. Possibly rivers, maybe even tributaries. In a rare and welcome moment of foresight, we have decided not to drive back afterwards but to spend the night there instead. This is called responsibility. Or wisdom. Or experience.
So ends Day 6, Midday: powered by the sun, funded by hope, fuelled by family, and wisely concluding with wine and a guest bed. If only Air France / KLM could run on solar energy too.
🎄Day six, 5 a.m.
When Germany sleeps and bloggers don’t
Day six of our Christmas expedition to Germany, and here I am at an hour usually reserved for bakers, milk bottles, and philosophical thoughts best left unexamined. Sleep, that loyal companion of calmer lives, has decided to remain elusive—possibly offended by our recent adventures or simply overwhelmed by them.
The good news (and this deserves a small brass band): the missing suitcases finally made their triumphant return yesterday. Slightly travel-weary, perhaps, but intact—and more importantly, carrying the Christmas presents. Christmas is saved. Order has been restored. Panic officially downgraded to anecdote.
With luggage reunited and festive catastrophe averted, my mind drifts back to earlier highlights.
Somehow, in the whirlwind of trains, reunions, and suitcase suspense, I neglected to mention a rather splendid interlude: indoor golfing at Scratchgolf in Hannover with Klaus and Rodolphe and Volker. A superb place—modern, relaxed, and proof that even in winter, Germans have found a way to keep golf balls flying straight while the weather does its worst outside. Good swings, questionable techniques, plenty of laughter, and the comforting knowledge that friendship improves any scorecard.
And so here I am, watching the darkness thin out over Germany, suitcase drama resolved, Christmas secured, golf memories filed under “unexpected joys,” and sleep… still missing in action. No matter. Some trips are measured not in hours slept, but in stories collected. By that metric, day six is already a resounding success.
🎄Day five
The return of the suitcases (mostly alive)
Five days and four hours later—yes, I counted—we were finally reunited with our suitcases. It was an emotional moment. There were no tears, but there could have been applause.
My suitcase arrived looking like it had lived a full and adventurous life. Possibly several lives. It bears the unmistakable signs of having been manhandled by professionals who clearly believe luggage builds character through adversity. Miraculously, the contents survived. Socks still paired, toothpaste still sealed, Christmas presents still innocent of any idea of what they’d been through.
The suitcases were delivered by courier from HAJ (Hannover Airport) straight to our son’s house in Algermissen, where we shall sleep tonight. A sensible decision, since after five days of luggage-related suspense, one needs a familiar roof and strong moral support.
Before that, however, we are heading back to Hannover to meet our oldest son, who has reserved a table for dinner in town. A civilised ending to a day that began with cardboard boxes, tracking numbers, and the faint smell of airport warehouses.
Meanwhile, the kiddies will soon be back from playschool, which means my window of opportunity is closing. I must urgently begin The Great KLM Reimbursement Claim. This will involve listing all the “essential” items we were forced to buy in the absence of our worldly possessions.
The total is… impressive. Let’s just say that being without luggage for five days turns one into a philosopher with very specific needs.
Good luck to us with that claim. If KLM reimburses quickly, it will be a Christmas miracle. If not, at least we have our suitcases back—and they’ve clearly enjoyed their holiday.
🎄Day four
KLM, luggage tracking and the art of saving Christmas
I was gently (read: rudely) awakened this morning by the sweet, modern sound of an incoming SMS. Not one message, but two. One for each of our missing suitcases. At that precise moment, hope entered the bedroom before I had even had my first coffee.
The messages proudly announced that our luggage had finally arrived at Hannover airport and would be delivered “as soon as possible” by a carrier to the address provided. Music to my ears. Angels singing. Reindeer warming up.
But then—because optimism never travels alone—I checked the KLM World Tracker web page.
According to KLM’s digital oracle, the bags are not heading to where we actually are. No. They are apparently on a determined pilgrimage back to our permanent address in France. Several hundred kilometres away. A bold choice.
Now, this would merely be mildly annoying under normal circumstances. Except for one small detail: all our Christmas presents are in those two suitcases. Every single one. Carefully chosen, lovingly wrapped (in my head), and currently enjoying an extended European tour.
So here we are, suspended between two realities:
The reassuring SMS, promising imminent delivery.
The tracking website, calmly rerouting Christmas to France.
I am choosing to believe that common sense will prevail, that logistics will triumph over algorithms, and that KLM will indeed save Christmas. Preferably before Santa notices the competition.
Stay tuned. The fate of Christmas is now officially in the hands of a barcode, a carrier, and whatever mood the tracking system wakes up in tomorrow.
🎄Lost luggage, found appetite
My suitcase is still somewhere out there, living its best life without me. I imagine it sipping cocktails in an airport lounge, utterly unconcerned by the fact that I, its rightful owner, am down to a very small rotation of clothes and an even smaller sense of patience. No matter. One must adapt. And so, armed with optimism and a debit card, I am off to Hannover for what airlines politely call “essential shopping” and what I call rebuilding a wardrobe from scratch, one pair of socks at a time.
Once the vital items are secured (underwear first, dignity later), I’ll be meeting an old friend — the kind where conversation resumes as if you last spoke yesterday, not several decades ago. And then, inevitably, as sure as missing luggage follows air travel, lunch at the glorious Markthalle Hannover awaits. Because if your suitcase has abandoned you, the least you deserve is good food, bustling stalls, and the comforting knowledge that no matter where your luggage is, you are exactly where you should be: at a table, with a plate, telling stories and laughing about lost things that don’t really matter.
🎄The snowman, time travel and the great Amsterdam suitcase museum
The night was perfectly peaceful. Almost suspiciously so. That should have been my first warning.
Peace lasted until the youngest of the grandchildren decided that my bed was, in fact, a trampoline. This energetic intervention brought my rest to an abrupt and very definitive end. There is no snooze button when a small human is bouncing enthusiastically on your chest.
After breakfast, we gathered around my laptop to watch the timeless classic The Snowman. When my own children were small, I must have watched it at least a thousand times. Possibly more. And yet, more than thirty years later, it remains an absolute hit with the grandchildren. Proof that some things age beautifully—unlike the person watching it.
That’s the good news.
The less good news is that there is still absolutely no information about our lost suitcases. They are most likely resting peacefully somewhere in Amsterdam Airport, possibly in what is now the world’s largest temporary luggage exhibition. Rumour has it that around 20,000 suitcases are involved. Ours have presumably made friends by now.
No one, it seems, is able to give any precise information. Not when. Not where. Not even a comforting “soon.” The suitcases have officially entered the realm of legend.
Which leaves me with only one possible course of action.
I may have to go shopping again tomorrow. There are still a couple of “essentials” missing items that, until very recently, I had managed to survive without for decades. But needs must, and apparently Amsterdam has decided to sponsor my wardrobe update.
At this point, I’m beginning to wonder whether the suitcases will ever return… or whether they’ll simply reappear one day, confused, overdressed, and entirely unnecessary.
🎄Dogs, duty-free humans and the joy of emergency shopping
I am not entirely sure what woke me up first: the urgent need to go to the bathroom, or my daughter’s three large dogs staging a full-scale rescue operation outside our bedroom door. They are always delighted to see us when we visit, and I have to admit the enthusiasm is very much mutual—although perhaps slightly less vocal on our side.
By 9:30 a.m., we were up, presentable, and revising the day’s plans. With our suitcases still pursuing their own independent cultural exchange programme, we decided it was time for serious emergency shopping. Clothes for the next couple of days were no longer a luxury; they were a strategic necessity.
Fortunately, my daughter’s Renault ZOE came with unexpected privileges. Electric car parking in Hannover is free for two and a half hours, which immediately made us feel morally superior to all internal combustion engines. We even found a spot right in front of the Markthalle, which felt nothing short of miraculous. Coffee and croissants followed—both excellent—and the place brought back memories of a time when I used to meet friends there early in the morning on my way to work, back when mornings felt younger and coffee felt optional.
From there, it was only a short walk to the main shopping streets. We split up, each convinced the other would make questionable choices. We reunited at the cashiers, arms full, faces triumphant, and wallets noticeably lighter. After a couple of hours, we returned to the car with bags full of brand-new “essentials”—items we had been perfectly capable of living without until Amsterdam decided otherwise.
Next stop: Algermissen, where our youngest son awaited us with the grandchildren. And what a welcome that was. At that age, a few months make an astonishing difference. The eldest, now five, finally decided that English was worth attempting with me. A breakthrough moment—possibly encouraged by the promise of future rewards.
The grandchildren, being the main reason for the trip, immediately lifted my spirits. I should add that we have other grandchildren too, significantly older and therefore harder to impress. They will be seen later this week.
The rest of the day unfolded exactly as it should: stories were read, games were played, Father Christmas was briefly visited, the obligatory Bratwurst was consumed, Christmas carols were endured enthusiastically, and the day concluded with a pizza dinner at the local Italian restaurant. Cultural integration at its finest.
Back at our son’s place for the night, the children were finally in bed, silence returned, and—almost ceremoniously—a bottle of whisky appeared on the table.
Proof, if any were needed, that even a day that starts without luggage can end extremely well.
🎄Proof that time passes, but pubs don’t
Over the previous days, a few friends had contacted us and we agreed to meet in the centre of our little town, where carol singers were due to perform. The rendezvous was set for 6 p.m.
As we were a little early, we naturally did the sensible thing and went to the bar next to the meeting point: Linie 10.
Nothing had changed. Not the décor. Not the clientele. The only noticeable difference was that both were now eight years older. And, to my great surprise, it was still a smoking bar. I genuinely thought this had become illegal sometime in the last century, but apparently Linie 10 lives in a parallel universe where regulations politely knock and then go away.
The place brought back a flood of memories. At 6 p.m., after a small Pils—purely for nostalgic reasons—we stepped outside. Our friends were already there, along with quite a few other familiar faces. In fact, I realised that I knew or recognised almost everyone. Either the town is very small, or I have been coming here for far too long. Possibly both.
After a few carols, we migrated across the small square to the mulled wine stand, where—unsurprisingly—we bumped into yet more acquaintances. Clearly, the entire town had agreed on the same evening plan without consulting us.
By around 7:30 p.m., most of us relocated to our local pub, the Hischenhus, where even more people we knew were already enjoying a pint. We spent the rest of the evening there, catching up, laughing, and feeling completely at home—as if we had never left eight years ago.
The ten-minute walk home did us a world of good, and we were in bed at a very reasonable hour.
Some places change. Some people change. But a good pub, familiar faces, and that feeling of belonging? Apparently, they age remarkably well.
So far, this trip had delivered a familiar travel cocktail: strategic planning to outsmart tractors, festive evenings in Toulouse, heroic early mornings, polite queues, mysteriously independent suitcases, and emergency shopping that nobody ever plans for—but always remembers.
And yet, despite delayed flights, absent luggage, and the modern efficiency of computer screens that refuse to cooperate, something rather comforting had happened along the way.
We had arrived.
Not just geographically, but emotionally. In a town where the bars hadn’t changed, the pubs still felt like home, the faces were familiar, and eight years seemed to have passed without anyone really noticing. Between mulled wine, old friends, and a ten-minute walk home, the stress of travel quietly faded into the background.
Suitcases may take their own time. Journeys may rarely go as planned. But some destinations don’t need luggage at all.
🎄The Great Suitcase Disappearance
The transfer in Amsterdam was smooth enough, which already felt suspicious. We even had time to buy the duty-free chocolates we had heroically abandoned in Toulouse a few hours earlier. Clearly, civilisation had not entirely collapsed yet.
There was, however, a 30-minute delay before departure to our final destination, Hannover. Nothing dramatic—just enough to remind us that this short KLM flight is never taken under ideal conditions. I don’t think I have ever boarded it fully rested. In the past, it was usually after landing from a long-haul flight from Asia, jet-lagged and sleep-deprived. This time, it was thanks to an indecently early start from a European city that, inexplicably, has no direct flights to Hannover. Different cause, same exhaustion.
The approach to Hannover Airport (HAJ) holds no mysteries for me. I’ve done it many times as a passenger, once from the jump seat of a private jet, a couple of times assisting my friend Armin on a private plane, and once—most memorably—at the controls of an Airbus A320. Granted, that was in a simulator in Hamburg, but it still counts. A fantastic birthday present and proof that I can land an A320… provided nobody is actually on board.
We landed about 30 minutes late. At least we did.
Our luggage did not.
Some forty passengers—including ourselves—were informed, in no uncertain terms, that “there are no more suitcases to be unloaded.” End of discussion. We rushed to the luggage service office, which, unlike in the old days, had been replaced by two computer screens. These screens stubbornly refused to accept the numbers we typed, possibly out of solidarity with the missing suitcases.
A helpful notice explained that everything could be done online… within a couple of days. Comforting.
Armed with this optimism, we climbed into our son-in-law’s car and headed to his house. Online, we discovered the reassuring news that due to a software issue, some 20,000 bags had been stuck in Amsterdam the day before alone. Sorting it out could take days. Excellent.
Only one solution remained: emergency shopping. First, the absolute essentials. Then, a carefully considered list of essentials needed for “a few days”—a concept that tends to expand rapidly.
But first: lunch.
At one of our favourite Italian restaurants from when we used to live in Gehrden. The staff recognised us immediately and were genuinely happy to see us, which almost made us forget that all our belongings were currently enjoying an extended stay in Amsterdam.
Then came the shopping next door. Essentials were purchased. Dignity was partially preserved.
Back at our daughter’s place, it was finally time for a much-needed nap—proof that while suitcases may travel independently, exhaustion is always punctual.
🎄How to Outsmart Farmers, Tractors, and Alarm Clocks
So, the farmers were at it again.
By “at it,” I mean heroically blocking roads, motorways, roundabouts, slip roads, and possibly a few secret paths known only to goats. And of course, on that day, we had to drive to Toulouse airport.
Fortunately, a rare moment of strategic brilliance occurred: we had decided to leave one day earlier than our indecently early flight and treat ourselves to the luxury of an airport hotel. This meant getting up at 4 a.m. instead of 2 a.m.—a difference that, at that hour, feels roughly equivalent to winning the lottery.
But the real advantage? Time. Time to avoid tractors, barricades, and visibly annoyed farmers by taking the scenic route—also known as every B road in the département. We glided past sleepy villages, untouched by agricultural fury, and arrived at the airport without seeing a single pitchfork. Victory.
After checking into the hotel and abandoning the car in the pre-arranged long-term car park (always a leap of faith), we called an Uber and headed into town. Destination: Place du Capitole, where the Christmas market was in full swing.
Lights, colours, crowds, mulled wine—was there a better place for an aperitif? I think not. Any argument to the contrary will be ignored.
Dinner followed a few hundred metres away at the Indian restaurant Maharaja, which turned out to be excellent. So excellent, in fact, that it has already secured a place on our “we’ll definitely come back here” list—a list that is long, optimistic, and rarely consulted again.
Across the road, the bar La Réserve was packed. Miraculously, one single table was free. One. Clearly fate wanted us to have a nightcap. We accepted the hint, enjoyed a drink, and then did the unthinkable: went to bed early.
Too early.
As usual, my internal alarm clock—unreliable, unnecessary, and impossible to disable—decided to wake me up before the real alarm. So when 4 a.m. finally arrived, I was already fully awake and deeply resentful.
The next couple of hours were spent doing what modern air travel does best: standing in slow-moving queues. Queue to check in. Queue to drop bags. Queue for security. Queue to breathe. We even had to abandon the idea of buying duty-free chocolates because the queue to pay was moving at geological speed. Some pleasures are not worth the sacrifice.
Just time for a coffee before boarding our flight to Amsterdam, which—miraculously—departed on time at 6:15 a.m.
And here I am now, at 30,000 feet, halfway to our destination, typing these lines. The Air France stewardess is charming, professional, and without question the best thing that has happened so far today.
Je suis tombé par hasard sur une photo d’une Giulietta exactement comme la mienne. Même couleur, même air de défi mécanique, même promesse de liberté. Années 69 ou 70. Autant dire que mon cerveau a immédiatement enclenché le mode Madeleine de Proust, parfumée à l’essence super, à l’huile de ricin et à une insouciance aujourd’hui strictement interdite par le Code de la route, le bon sens et probablement l’OMS.
Cette Giulietta, je m’en souviens comme si c’était hier. Elle avait quelques jours à peine quand on montait à deux dessus dans Paris. Interdit ? Évidemment. Casque ? Presque conceptuel. Prudence ? En option. Les flics nous regardaient filer avec un air vaguement perplexe, sans doute persuadés que c’était une moto. Ou alors ils n’avaient vraiment pas leurs lunettes. À leur décharge, la Giulietta avait ce petit quelque chose d’ambigu : trop sérieuse pour être un vélomoteur, trop effrontée pour être raisonnable.
Il faut dire qu’il n’y en avait qu’une dans la région. La mienne. Levier de vitesses au pied, comme une vraie moto. Rien que ça. Autant dire que je me sentais pilote d’usine, version banlieue. Évidemment, je n’ai pas résisté longtemps avant de changer le carburateur pour augmenter le débit. Officiellement, pour « améliorer la souplesse du moteur ». Officieusement, pour aller un peu plus vite, ce qui, à l’époque, semblait être une mission d’intérêt général.
La Giulietta était mon compagnon de route, mon permis avant le permis, mon premier traité de mécanique empirique et mon passeport pour une liberté aujourd’hui disparue, rangée quelque part entre les disques vinyles et les cabines téléphoniques. Elle vibrait, elle fumait un peu, elle sentait fort, mais elle vivait. Et moi avec.
Aujourd’hui, quand je retombe sur sa photo, je me surprends à penser qu’il m’en faudrait une à nouveau. Pas pour fuir la police cette fois, rassurez-vous. Juste pour aller faire mes courses en ville, lentement, avec élégance, et un sourire idiot sous le casque. Comme quoi, certaines révolutions commencent très modestement : avec un panier, une baguette… et une Giulietta.
🇬🇧
Ode to Super Petrol and Carefree Youth
Quite by accident, I came across a photograph of a Giulietta identical to mine. Same colour, same faintly rebellious mechanical air, same quiet promise of freedom. Circa 1969 or 1970. Naturally, this triggered a small but perfectly formed Proustian moment, delicately perfumed with super petrol, castor oil, and a degree of carefree innocence that modern regulations would now regard with deep suspicion.
I remember that Giulietta rather well. It was barely a few days old when we used to ride two-up through Paris. Entirely illegal, of course. Helmets were more an idea than a requirement, and caution was something other people worried about. The police would watch us go past with a mildly baffled expression, presumably assuming it was a proper motorcycle. Or perhaps they simply hadn’t brought their spectacles that day.
There was only one in the region. Mine. It had a foot-operated gear lever—just like a real motorcycle—which instantly elevated me, in my own mind at least, to the rank of works rider, suburban division. Inevitably, I soon replaced the carburettor to increase fuel flow. Officially, this was to “improve flexibility”. In reality, it was to go slightly faster, which at the time seemed an entirely reasonable life goal.
The Giulietta was my companion on the road, my driving licence before the actual licence, and my first practical education in mechanical improvisation. It represented a kind of freedom that now appears to have been carefully packed away somewhere between vinyl records and public telephone boxes. It vibrated, it smoked a little, it smelt rather strongly—but it was alive. And, by extension, so was I.
Nowadays, when I see that photograph again, I find myself thinking I’d quite like another Giulietta. Not to evade the police, rest assured, but simply to do the shopping in town—slowly, politely, with a faintly foolish smile under the helmet. A reminder that some revolutions begin in the most modest of ways: with a basket, a baguette, and a Giulietta.
I do it my way 