Packing Lists, Powdered Wigs, and Flower Frenzy

Preparing for a trip is, ironically, its own kind of journey—one filled with spreadsheets, passive-aggressive sighing, and heated debates over which outlet adapter actually works in Europe. In our marriage, Chad and I have settled into very specific roles when it comes to travel planning. His job, apparently, is to go along with whatever wild thing I find. Mine, on the other hand, is to transform into a one-woman tourism board, hunting down every obscure museum, crumbling monument, or world’s-largest-something within a five-county radius.

My children used to claim that every family vacation we took was just a school field trip in disguise—and honestly, they weren’t wrong. I once marched them, somewhat against their will, along the entire 2.5 miles of Boston’s Freedom Trail. We started at Boston Common and didn’t stop until we were huffing our way to the top of Bunker Hill. They loathed every second of it. I couldn’t for the life of me understand why. When I was their age, stepping aboard the USS Constitution was thrilling—a brush with history that made my heart race. For them, it was apparently just an old boat and a long walk with too many plaques.

One of the reasons I started booking with Backroads years ago was because it took the itinerary out of my hands. Someone else could plan the day, hand me a bike, and say, “Pedal to that windmill,” and I’d do it. Plus, when the kids were younger, they were far more willing to try something adventurous for a chipper, khaki-wearing guide named Blake than they ever were for me. I could suggest kayaking and get groans. Blake suggested it, and suddenly it was the highlight of the trip.

Now that we’re “free birding,” I’ve gone back to Backroads—mostly so I can trick Chad into multi-adventure travel without having to build my own Google Map titled Things with Plaques. In a couple of weeks, we’re heading to the Netherlands and Belgium. But first—because I can’t help myself—we’re stopping in Paris.

The last time I was in Paris was with Annie and Abbie, and we tacked it on before a biking tour through Brittany and Normandy. It was a fabulous trip. And even though I wouldn’t have called myself a World War II buff back then, I devoured every story. I came home obsessed with the French Resistance, and my favorite book I read afterward was Code Name Hélène by Ariel Lawhon—a historical novel inspired by the true story of Nancy Wake, an Australian journalist turned World War II spy. She smuggled refugees, orchestrated sabotage missions, and was so slippery the Gestapo called her “The White Mouse” and put a bounty on her head. She lived to tell the tale—and did, in her own autobiography. But if you’re even mildly interested in WWII and France, you’ve got to read this book.

So when I asked Chad, “Since we’re only in Paris for a couple of days, do you want to lean into World War II or the French Revolution?”—he picked Revolution. Naturally, I queued up Les Misérables. Which turns out… is not about the French Revolution. It’s about the June Rebellion of 1832. But how would you know?

And so, down the French Revolution rabbit hole I’ve gone for the past few weeks. I knew there were guillotines involved, but I hadn’t realized it wasn’t just a one-off weekend of bad decisions. It was ten years of absolute insanity, capped off by Napoleon—whom I had mistakenly filed under “Before All That.” I’ve been devouring A Place of Greater Safety by Hilary Mantel like it’s a thriller. Which, frankly, it is—if your idea of suspense involves powdered wigs and Robespierre unraveling like a linen napkin in a wind tunnel.

I’ve also become the kind of person who watches YouTube explainers at 2 a.m., whispering, “Oh my God, they killed Danton,” like I’m watching a true crime doc. Which, in a way, I am. I don’t even know what’s left to see in Paris from the actual Revolution, but at least now I understand what happened. Sort of.

Feeling slightly overwhelmed by the guillotine-happy mob, I shifted my attention to something lighter: tulips. Specifically, the Tulip Mania of 1637. I’m reading Tulip Fever by Deborah Moggach, a historical novel set in 17th-century Amsterdam during the peak of tulip madness. According to my latest late-night YouTube binge, during the Dutch Golden Age, Calvinism ruled the culture—and with it, a fashion code that frowned upon flaunting wealth. People couldn’t show off with clothes, so they turned to gardens. The more dazzling your tulips, the more impressive your fortune. At one point, tulip bulbs were literally worth more than gold by weight.

And just like that, I went from beheadings to bulbs—which, now that I think about it, might be the most accurate way to describe my travel research style. We still have a few weeks to go, and I already know we won’t have enough time at any one location. But honestly, that’s the best way to travel—you need to leave something unfinished so you have a reason to come back.

So I’ll end this Travel Journal with a question for you:  What would you want to see—or go back and see—in Paris?