I do it my way

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Moorea – Day 1

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Wet, wild and wonderfully lost

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Surviving Moorea: One rainstorm at a time

🐠 Ah, Moorea – the tropical paradise where dreams come true… and where four ferries apparently try to race each other across the Pacific like it’s the Monaco Grand Prix. We boarded the fastest one, on the sound recommendation of a charming taxi driver lady who looked like she’d seen enough ferry dramas to write a Netflix series about it.

🐠The sea, however, had other plans. Let’s just say it wasn’t exactly “smooth sailing” unless your idea of smooth includes ominous clouds, a palpable sense of doom, and the distinct smell of incoming rain. Deliciously cinematic.

🐠Disembarking was an organised chaos of luggage-spotting and people-dodging. Then came the mission: find the Hertz rental car. Easy, right? Hertz was technically visible — about 2 kilometers away across a giant port. Naturally, my brother and I, gallant as ever, left the girls and the bags behind and set off like brave explorers.

🐠 Plot twist: it started to rain halfway there, and we found ourselves clinging to the nearest tree like two particularly damp koalas. Salvation came in the form of a lovely elderly Tahitian lady, who probably thought we were two particularly pathetic tourists. She kindly offered us a ride, saving us from becoming local memes.

🐠 Car acquired. Credit card (and dignity) intact. Time to reunite with our better halves.

🐠 Now, since check-in at our villa wasn’t until mid-afternoon, we embarked on a leisurely island drive… or at least what started as leisurely before the caffeine withdrawal hit. Desperate for a coffee, we even invaded the Hilton Resort like caffeine-seeking missiles. But alas, their bars didn’t open until 11 a.m., and we weren’t emotionally prepared to pay $50 for a buffet just to sit down with a cappuccino.

🐠 Back to the car. Back on the road. Clockwise this time. Destination: Tahoahere Beach House, a restaurant we’d read about and miraculously found after only mild confusion and some aggressive GPS squinting.

🐠 We killed time before lunch wandering amidst lush, exotic vegetation, admiring fruits so mysterious even Google Lens would have thrown in the towel.

🐠 The place itself was dreamy — toes practically in the water, drinks flowing, life was good… until Mother Nature unleashed her fury. First, a dramatic gust of wind that had us considering lifeboat drills, followed by rain so intense it could have been staged by Hollywood. Kudos to the waitresses who saved the day (and our outfits) by whipping down rain shields like pros.

🐠 Post-lunch, we completed the Grand Moorea Tour — not that we could really get lost, since there’s exactly one road around the island. The Hertz guy’s instructions had been very clear:

• “Don’t park under coconut trees unless you want to explain dents to your insurance.”

• “Don’t get lost. You physically can’t.”

Sage advice.

🐠 After a pit stop for the essentials — wine, beer, bread, and… oh yes, milk — we headed for our villa. Getting inside was its own mini-adventure, involving elusive phone signals, hill climbs, and a growing sense of existential doubt. But finally, success! We entered our jungle hideaway: lovely views, tropical greenery, and a villa that maybe forgot to include the second bathroom it had teased online. Ah well, when in paradise, one bathroom must suffice.

🐠 By now, we had been awake for approximately four decades (or so it felt since leaving Paris). A nap wasn’t just a suggestion; it was a human rights issue.

🐠 Waking up in pitch darkness (and slight confusion about what year it was), we made it to dinner at Tiahura Restaurant — one of the few places on Moorea that both existed and served food on a Saturday night. Thank goodness, because the seafood was excellent and exactly what my soul (and stomach) needed.

🐠 By 9 p.m., we were tucked back at the villa, snoring like jet-lagged whales.

🐠 It’s now 3 a.m. Thanks, jet lag! I’m writing these words in the dark, listening to the sound of the rain tip-tapping on the jungle leaves. Today’s agenda? Doing absolutely nothing, preferably with a drink in hand and the faint hope that the weather decides to play nice.

Stay tuned.

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Moorea – Jour 1

Trempés, perdus mais heureux

🐠 Ah, Moorea – ce petit coin de paradis où tous les rêves deviennent réalité… et où quatre ferries semblent s’affronter dans une course effrénée pour traverser le lagon, façon Grand Prix de Monaco.

🐠 Nous avons embarqué sur le plus rapide, sur les conseils avisés d’une charmante chauffeuse de taxi, qui avait manifestement vu assez de naufrages pour donner des conférences TED sur le sujet.

🐠 Le Pacifique, lui, avait décidé de se la jouer dramatique : ciel menaçant, houle digne d’un film catastrophe, et une forte odeur de pluie dans l’air.

Ambiance “Bienvenue à Jurassic Park”, version Moorea.

🐠 À l’arrivée, c’était chasse au trésor pour retrouver nos bagages, puis mission commando pour localiser l’agence Hertz. Facile : elle était théoriquement visible… à environ deux kilomètres, de l’autre côté du port.

🐠 Ni une ni deux, mon frère et moi avons laissé les filles et les valises derrière nous, promettant de revenir vite comme des héros en mission.

🐠 Tout allait bien jusqu’à ce que la pluie tropicale nous tombe dessus, et que notre seule option soit de nous abriter sous un arbre. (Note : la prochaine fois, prévoir un parapluie. Ou un kayak.)

🐠 C’est là qu’une adorable mamie tahitienne, pleine de compassion pour deux touristes aussi misérables, nous a pris en pitié et nous a offert une place dans sa voiture. Reine.

🐠 Cinq minutes et un passage de carte bancaire plus tard, nous récupérions notre carrosse chez Hertz, prêts à retourner chercher nos dames et bagages.

🐠 Toujours trop tôt pour récupérer notre villa, nous avons décidé de faire un tour de l’île. Mission : trouver un café.

🐠 On a reconnu quelques coins visités deux ans plus tôt — explosion de souvenirs et de nostalgie au passage. Trouver un endroit pour boire un café s’est révélé plus complexe que prévu : même au Hilton Resort, où l’on a failli s’incruster au buffet petit-déj’, impossible d’avoir un café sans payer un rein. Les bars n’ouvraient qu’à 11h.

🐠 Retour à la case départ. Nouvel objectif : le restaurant Tahoahere Beach House, que nous avions repéré dans un guide.

🐠 Après quelques détours (et un GPS passablement moqueur), nous avons trouvé l’endroit et réservé une table pour midi.

🐠 En attendant, balade tropicale au milieu d’arbres et de fruits tellement exotiques qu’on hésitait à les toucher sans antidote.

🐠 Midi sonne, retour au resto : les pieds presque dans l’eau, un cocktail à la main, tout allait bien… jusqu’à ce que le ciel décide d’ouvrir grand ses vannes.

🐠 Grosse rafale de vent, pluie torrentielle hollywoodienne, tout y est passé — sauf que les serveuses, ultra-pros, ont abaissé les rideaux de protection en un éclair.

Résultat : restés secs et heureux. Merci, la team Tahoahere.

🐠 Après le déjeuner, on a continué le tour complet de l’île (note : on ne peut PAS se perdre à Moorea, il y a littéralement une seule route).

Petit conseil du gars de chez Hertz :

• « Ne vous garez PAS sous les cocotiers si vous tenez à votre crâne (et à votre caution). »

🐠 Quelques arrêts stratégiques plus tard pour acheter l’essentiel (pain, lait, vin, bière — dans cet ordre de priorité), direction notre villa dans la jungle.

🐠 Trouver la villa n’a pas été une mince affaire : réseau capricieux, indications floues, montées et descentes façon rallye… Mais finalement, miracle !

🐠 Premières impressions très positives : perdus en pleine nature, vue magnifique. Bon, une deuxième salle de bain n’aurait pas été de trop, mais on fait avec.

🐠 plus de 40 heures de voyage non-stop depuis Paris, la sieste est devenue obligatoire sous peine d’effondrement instantané.

🐠 Je me suis réveillé dans une obscurité totale, parfait timing pour le dîner réservé à Tiahura, un resto qu’on connaissait déjà.

🐠 Excellent fruits de mer, service souriant : la soirée s’est terminée en beauté.

🐠 À 21h, extinction des feux. Depuis, merci au jet lag, je suis réveillé depuis 3h du matin, en train d’écrire ces quelques lignes au son de la pluie sur la canopée.

🐠 Programme du jour : ne RIEN faire. Peut-être même sous un rayon de soleil, qui sait ?

À suivre…

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DRAFT

Welcome to LAX: Where dreams come true

(and you’re yelled at immediately)

We touched down at LAX exactly as planned — straight into the arms of America’s most welcoming tradition: being shouted at. Nothing says “Welcome to the USA” like a grumpy voice barking, “One line against the wall and wait!” Honestly, it’s incredible how Americans survive this daily without developing a permanent eye twitch. Respect.

Immigration? Survived. Security check #74 of the day? Also survived, though I think they now own a better collection of photos of me than my family.

Finally, after running the gauntlet, I made it to the new Air France lounge. New lounge, same old need for a beer. Despite the ungodly hour (somewhere between midnight and why-are-we-awake o’clock), that refreshing beer felt like a medal of honor. I even managed a solid hour of civilized relaxation before it was time to climb back aboard the metallic sausage tube for my next hop: LAX to PTT.

Same seat. New crew. And — gasp — a crew that actually seemed to know what they were doing! No one tripped over the service carts, and not once did I get handed someone else’s gluten-free vegan lactose-intolerant tofu wrap by mistake. This may very well be a first in the history of aviation. Still, a sternly-worded letter to Air France about the previous leg is absolutely brewing in the background. (Nothing says frequent flyer like a little polite outrage.)Meanwhile, I heroically adjusted my watch to Tahiti time: 9:15 p.m.
My body, however, was stubbornly clinging to French time: 9:15 a.m. the next day.
Basically, my internal clock was screaming “BRUNCH!” while everyone else was preparing to snooze. C’est la vie.

Dinner came (delicious!), followed by a delightfully ridiculous French comedy that was possibly only funny because of the altitude and wine combo. Then I slipped into blissful sleep — because weirdly, sleeping on planes is my hidden superpower. Honestly, give me a seat that reclines more than 15 degrees and I’m out faster than you can say “buckle up.”

I only stirred awake when the smell of fresh coffee wafted through the cabin — a scent so powerful it could raise the dead. I wriggled into my shorts and short-sleeved shirt (big island energy already kicking in), stuffed my jacket into my carry-on with all the elegance of a rugby scrum, and prepared myself for landing.

Touchdown was five minutes late, but who’s counting when paradise is waiting?
(Answer: Absolutely no one.)

Stay tuned: the adventure is just getting started — and my sense of time may catch up with me eventually. Or not. No promises.

Link back to my master Blog J²S 

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Getting there – Part 2

Pit stop with extra Andouilelette

Ah, “transit.” That magical state of being where you’re neither here nor there, but you are legally allowed to spend 24 hours eating and drinking your way through one of the most beautiful cities on Earth. Honestly, if this is what transit looks like, we might start booking all our connections with layovers long enough to qualify as sabbaticals.

We began our day of “not-tourism” with a rebellious 9am breakfast—clearly throwing caution (and time zones) to the wind. The plan was simple: take the RER from the airport into the heart of Paris, land at Les Halles/Châtelet around 10am, and spend the morning pretending we were chic locals instead of well-dressed jet lag grenades.

Our first arrondissement of attack? The 1st, naturally. It’s classic, it’s walkable, and it’s got the kind of Parisian charm that makes you want to immediately invest in a silk scarf and start saying things like “Mais oui, c’est la vie.” A quick flânerie through Samaritaine—half department store, half art installation—and it was suddenly apéro o’clock.

Next stop: Poppy’s Bar. But wait—priorities. On the way, we made a strategic detour to “Chez Denise,” the quintessential Parisian bistro where the walls have stories, the food has soul, and apparently Jacques Chirac once had the munchies. We secured a table, and soon I was elbow-deep in a plate of andouillette. For the uninitiated, andouillette is… let’s call it a “commitment sausage.” Not for the faint of heart, but glorious when done right. Washed it down with a cheerful pichet of Brouilly, chased it with an île flottante roughly the size of the Pont Neuf, and topped it all off with an espresso strong enough to restart a heart.

After that glorious gut-busting experience, we needed a walk. Not just for digestion, but out of sheer guilt. Back through the city, onto the RER, and back to the hotel to collect our bags—which, by some miracle, still fit in our hands despite the food baby I was now carrying.

And then, CDG Val: Take Two. This time, mercifully, it wasn’t rush hour at the human zoo. We glided back to Terminal 2E, feeling like seasoned pros. With our business class tickets in hand, we breezed through the Priority Lane like we’d just won a reality show.

Immigration? Security? Minimal fuss. Lounge access? Oh yes. Air France, take the wheel. We’ve got hours to kill, drinks to sip, and maybe even a pre-boarding shower to pretend we’re still fresh humans before the 22-hour sky-marathon ahead.

And that, dear reader, is where I’m writing this from: lounge seat, feet up, very large whisky in hand, and just enough smugness to call it a holiday already—even though the Pacific is still thousands of miles away.

Next stop: actual Polynesia. Probably. Unless I get too comfortable here.

Link back to my master Blog J²S 

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Getting there – Part 1

The 47-hour tango begins

At long last, the day has come. The day we’ve been counting down to ever since we casually decided “hey, let’s go to Polynesia” last year — and then promptly made it our personality.

Yesterday, Air France graciously reminded us of our upcoming odyssey by nudging us to check in. And like the seasoned travel pros we are (read: control freaks about seat selection), we dove in immediately to lock in those carefully chosen business class seats. Travel tip: never trust fate with your legroom.

Now, our boarding pass claims this trip will take a mere 47 hours. That’s not a typo. It’s just that our entire day in Paris counts as “transit.” Apparently, lounging in a hotel bar still qualifies as mid-journey. Who knew?

The drive to Toulouse airport was smooth—almost suspiciously so. No traffic, no wrong turns, not even a forgotten passport. We arrived obnoxiously early (the only proper way to travel), breezed through security, and swanned into the lounge. Not an actual Air France lounge, mind you, but our business class tickets worked their magic, and voilà—free snacks, comfy chairs, and the illusion of importance.

Once aboard our humble Airbus A320, I found myself in the enviable position of row one, seat solo. No neighbour, no elbow battles, just me, my thoughts, and Chantale—the cheffe de cabine—who was everything you want in a flight attendant: kind, competent, and not afraid to gently herd us all into efficiency. The flight to Charles de Gaulle was a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it one-hour hop.

First off the plane, I executed my patented airport power-walk to the baggage carousel (Olympic level, truly),

collected my case, and headed for the CDG Val—Paris’s answer to “how can we make people feel like human Tetris pieces for a few minutes?” After squeezing into the third train that came along, we were sardined into transit bliss for a few bumpy minutes.

Next stop: the Mercure hotel. Check-in was a breeze—we’re All club members, darling—and in no time we were reunited at the bar, sipping our first drinks of the holiday and letting the “we’re really doing this” feeling wash over us.

Early night, of course. We’re pacing ourselves. Because if this was just Day 1…

Polynesia has no idea what’s coming.

Link back to my master Blog J²S 

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Of Quantum confusion, bum shots and flying sand

Let’s rewind the highlight reel of Week 17, 2025—a week that began with high-minded physics and ended with flying sand, plant hydration experiments, and an Easter lunch fit for medieval nobility.

🗓️ Monday: World Quantum Day – Or How I Learned to Love the Confusion

In honour of World Quantum Day, I courageously dove into the rabbit hole of intrications. That’s quantum-speak for “things being weirdly tangled in ways that make your brain hurt.” I emerged several hours later, none the wiser and slightly cross-eyed. In short: Schrödinger’s cat is still dead. Or alive. Or possibly on strike.

Also on Monday: my monthly visit from Nurse Jabzilla, who administered the traditional injection du derrière with a needle so large it has its own postal code. Seven days later, I still sit like a cowboy who just lost a bet.

🗓️ Tuesday & Wednesday: Admin, Alerts, and Atmospheric Adventures

In preparation for our upcoming holiday, I ticked off a few administrative boxes. Informed the police online about our travel dates. Let’s hope their “sporadic surveillance” doesn’t involve accidentally arresting the neighbour’s cat again.

By midweek, the weather turned nasty. Mother Nature switched on her wind machine and dumped water like she was cleaning the planet. Which brings us to…

🗓️ Thursday: Mondial du Vent – AKA Sandblasting for Free

My brother and I defied logic and went to Leucate/La Franqui to witness the Mondial du Vent—an extreme sports festival where people attach themselves to large kites and willingly launch into orbit. It was… exhilarating. Also, painful. Who knew airborne sand grains could perform microdermabrasion at 80 km/h?

However, salvation came in the form of a charmingly named restaurant just off the beach: Fish & Blues. Great food, lovely people, and—best of all—zero sand in the soup.

🗓️ Thursday Evening: Zoom Pub Quiz – The Thinking Person’s Excuse to Drink Midweek

As per our post-Covid tradition, we Zoomed in for the weekly Pub Quiz with our mates Chris and Julia. Four brains, one team name, and an internet connection held together with duct tape. We didn’t win, but we did spend a lot of time arguing about which planet is closest to Earth (spoiler: still not Uranus).

🗓️ Friday: Garden Engineering and the Sprinkler That Dreams of Being Permanent

DIY Friday arrived with the noble goal of setting up a “temporary watering system” for the patio plants. “Temporary” being DIY code for “it will live there forever unless something catches fire.” Plants now live in fear of spontaneous drizzle or unexpected drought.

🗓️ Saturday: Market and aperitif before the storm

Did not need much fruits or vegetables but as tradition dictates, we made it to the weekly market. We are in between seasons meaning the summer fruits are not yet available. Saying this, I found and bought my first locally grown melon of the year.

We passed colorful and sunny Place Carnot on the way home but decided we deserved an aperitifand made it to Café Saillant for a couple of pints accompanied by a portion of chips with aïoli and chicken pieces façon cajun.

Soon after we got home the announced hail storm started.

🗓️ Sunday: Easter in the Cité – Knights, Tourists, and a Roast

We walked up to the Cité on Sunday for a proper Easter lunch at Comte Roger, our go-to medieval culinary stronghold. It was packed with cheerful Spanish tourists and at least one couple who clearly thought they were filming a perfume ad.

Returned home in time to catch some of the WEC 6 Hours of Imola on TV. The race was thrilling, though my viewing pattern resembled a heartbeat monitor—wide awake, then… zzz… pit stop… zzz…

🗓️ Conclusion:

Quantum mysteries remain unsolved. My bum still protests. The house may or may not be under police watch. But the week delivered sun, sand, fine food, mild hydration success, and a race to nap through.

All in all: 9.5/10. Would live again—with slightly less sand.

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La semaine qui était – Episode 17

Entre confusion quantique, piqûres fessières et sable volant

Revenons sur les moments forts de la Semaine 17 de 2025 — une semaine qui a commencé dans les brumes de la physique quantique pour se terminer avec du sable dans les chaussettes, des plantes assoiffées et un déjeuner pascal digne d’un banquet médiéval.

🗓️ Lundi : Journée Mondiale du Quantique – ou comment j’ai appris à aimer ne rien comprendre

En l’honneur de la Journée Mondiale du Quantique, j’ai plongé avec bravoure dans l’univers des intrications. C’est le jargon pour désigner des trucs qui restent liés à distance, comme deux chaussettes dans une machine à laver. Plus je lisais, plus mon cerveau fondait. Résultat : le chat de Schrödinger est toujours vivant. Ou mort. Ou peut-être en RTT.

Autre moment fort du lundi : ma piqûre mensuelle dans le postérieur. Administée par l’infirmier(e) avec une aiguille si grande qu’elle pourrait servir d’antenne 5G. Sept jours plus tard, je m’assois toujours avec la grâce d’un cow-boy en fin de rodéo.

🗓️ Mardi & Mercredi : Paperasse, Patrouille et Perturbations Météorologiques

En prévision de notre prochaine escapade, j’ai terminé quelques tâches administratives. J’ai même informé la police via leur site des dates de notre absence. Espérons qu’ils assureront leur “surveillance sporadique” sans arrêter le chat du voisin cette fois-ci.

Mi-semaine, la météo a décidé de basculer en mode “colère divine” : pluie, vent et rafales façon typhon. Ce qui nous mène à…

🗓️ Jeudi : Mondial du Vent – ou comment se faire sabler gratuitement

Avec mon frère, on a tenté l’impossible : aller à La Franqui/Leucate pour le Mondial du Vent — un festival où des gens s’attachent à des cerfs-volants géants pour jouer les cosmonautes amateurs. C’était… décoiffant. Littéralement. Et douloureux. Le sable en plein visage, c’est comme une exfoliation agressive offerte par Mère Nature.

Mais tout n’était pas perdu ! On a découvert un charmant resto à deux pas de la plage : Fish & Blues. Bonne bouffe, belle ambiance, et zéro sable dans l’assiette. Un vrai miracle.

🗓️ Jeudi soir : Pub Quiz sur Zoom – l’excuse parfaite pour picoler un jeudi

Comme depuis le Covid, on s’est connectés avec nos amis Chris et Julia pour le Pub Quiz hebdomadaire sur Zoom. Quatre cerveaux, une équipe, et une connexion Wi-Fi aussi stable qu’un funambule en roller. On n’a pas gagné, mais on a débattu passionnément sur la planète la plus proche de la Terre (indice : toujours pas Uranus).

🗓️ Vendredi : Arrosage Temporaire – ou la botanique selon MacGyver

Vendredi bricolage : j’ai lancé le projet “arrosage temporaire” pour les plantes en pot de la terrasse. Traduction : un système qui va rester là ad vitam aeternam, sauf effondrement structurel. Les plantes ne savent plus si elles doivent se réjouir ou prier pour un orage.

🗓️ Samedi : Marché et apéritif avant la tempête

Nous n’avions pas besoin de beaucoup de fruits ou de légumes, mais comme le veut la tradition, nous sommes allés au marché hebdomadaire. Nous sommes entre deux saisons, ce qui signifie que les fruits d’été ne sont pas encore disponibles. Cela dit, j’ai trouvé et acheté mon premier melon local de l’année.

Sur le chemin du retour, nous sommes passés par la place Carnot, colorée et ensoleillée, mais nous avons décidé de prendre un apéritif et nous sommes allés au Café Saillant pour deux pintes accompagnées d’une portion de frites à l’aïoli et de morceaux de poulet façon cajun.

🗓️ Dimanche : Pâques à la Cité – touristes, chevaliers et rôtis de roi

Balade jusqu’à la Cité dimanche, qui débordait de touristes espagnols enthousiastes. Déjeuner pascal chez Comte Roger, notre bastion gastronomique préféré. Service royal, plats divins, et ambiance digne d’un banquet des Chevaliers de la Table Ronde.

Retour à la maison juste à temps pour regarder un bout des 6 Heures d’Imola (WEC) à la télé. Très excitant, enfin… entre deux siestes impromptues sur le canapé.

🗓️ Conclusion :

La physique quantique m’échappe toujours. Mon fessier crie encore vengeance. La maison est peut-être sous surveillance (ou pas). Mais entre le vent, le sable, le bon vin, les plantes assoiffées, et un bon rôti, cette semaine mérite un solide 9,5/10.

À revivre — mais sans les grains de sable dans les yeux, merci.

Link back to my master Blog J²S