We have arrived at Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris after a mostly smooth flight and there on the baggage carousel, after a few anxious minutes, is my backpack in its nondescript black bag with a rainbow baggage strap. That is one concern put to rest.

Then I pick up SIM cards for my phone and my iPad. Here’s something new: when you buy a SIM card now, you have to register it with photo ID within 15 days or it is deactivated. Probably it’s something to do with counter-terrorism.

The next move is to go outside and find a taxi. Last year when I was here I found a bus, but finding it and taking it into the city took about three hours. The taxi from the airport is a little pricey, 70 Euros, but it is worth it for the Le Mans ride the driver gives me. On the major roads, motorcycles drive not in the lanes but on the lane markings, so they weave in and out of traffic, with inches to spare, at a very high rate of speed. And we drive along beside the Seine and past the Eiffel tower. It’s still huge as you get close to it.

There are a lot of construction cranes everywhere and barges full of sand and gravel on the Seine, so I don’t think that the economy is quite as bad here as we read in the North American papers.

The hotel is directly across the road from the Tour Montparnasse, a black highrise office tower of perhaps 60 stories that is completely out of character with the neighbourhood, and very close to the Montparnasse train station, not the Bercy station that I thought I was booking near. Right city, wrong train station. This is the second time in less than a month that I have booked the wrong location on line. The other one was much worse.

I was trying to book a small Austrian resort, the Salzberger Hof Resort in Batchawana Bay on the Eastern shore of Lake Superior for a couple of days in August. From their website I was taken to another, booking.com, where I entered data into the right fields and was finally rewarded with my confirmed reservation for the Salzberger Hof, only this one WAS in Austria. It took me several emails to Austria and to booking.com to get that sorted out and the Austrian place informed me that I should know that Austria is not in Canada.

I expect to spend a quiet day here. The weather is cool, partly cloudy but not raining, so that’s a plus. I will be off tomorrow morning by train for points south. I am anxious to get on the road. I sleep for a few hours, then go out to find something to eat.

At 7 pm I am sitting in a little bistro, the Odessa, facing out to watch the fascinating people as they walk by. It’s cool and raining lightly, but turns sunny as the evening progresses. Fashion sense is still good here. Most people are in pants, jeans, etc but every once in a while a fashionista walks by. There is one, an older woman, head held regally high in a stunning patterned yellow jacket and skirt. She could be on a fashion show runway anywhere. People are smoking, walking dogs, carrying baguettes – so it is not just an old myth. There are very very few overweight, none obese. North American agribusiness has not penetrated here … yet. I see only one identifiable Muslim in the passers-by, although the pleasant and helpful hotel clerk is Mohammad, which is a clue. This is not a good place to jaywalk. Cars and motorcycles are fast and the roads narrow.

I am absorbing the sounds, smells, feel of Paris as I sit here. An old couple goes by, arm in arm, laughing. It reminds me of Carroll and me. We are so lucky. Almost 54 years married and still best friends.

Off to bed. We will see what tomorrow brings. All being well, I will be at La Ferme Barry in Aumont-Aubrac in time for dinner, for which Vincente, the owner, is justly famous (I ate there last year but we could not get accommodation.)

This is a first for me. It’s shortly after 8 PM and we have left Montreal for Paris. I am sitting comfortably in the cabin of an aircraft at 35,000 feet, entering data into my iPad. I have it on aircraft mode, of course , so that the wireless capability is off. The theory is that my wireless transmission could fool the aircraft’s sophisticated navigation system and autopilot into doing something wrong.

Of course, Air Canada doesn’t need my help to screw up. Last year an Air Canada pilot woke up from his approved nap over the Atlantic on a night flight much like is one, saw Venus, thought it was a light of a nearby aircraft and took emergency avoidance action which put 16 people into hospital on arrival. It was reported as severe turbulence (which it was) but implied that it was weather (which it wasn’t).

I had that experience in a car many years ago. We, a group of RCAF pilot trainees, were driving at night from Claresholm to Calgary at night on a long straight highway. I was asleep sitting beside the driver. I woke up and realized (I saw) that there a vehicle head-on to us and closing fast. I grabbed the steering wheel to pull it to the right. Fortunately, the driver was awake and alert and held on to the wheel. He was not happy with me.

We now know what happens in these situations. There is a part of the brain, the amygdala, part of the limbic system, which gets the message about threats faster than the conscious part of the brain. (It is part of the ancient mammalian survival system – you don’t have to know exactly what it is if it appears to be a threat). I would guess that the Air Canada pilot’s reaction was the same as mine – an immediate response, even before thinking about it, to an apparent threat.

I am traveling on Aeroplan points and, since I have quite a few of them, I am in business class. That means that I am sitting in a little comfortable pod, just big enough for one but with every comfort known to man. One of the comforts is that the seat reclines fully into a bed, so I will get a few hours of good sleep before we arrive in Paris in the morning. We lose 6 hours on the flight, so it won’t be a full 8 hours of sleep, but enough to allow me to get quickly over the inevitable jet lag.

The pod has a real downside, in that each passenger is effectively isolated from every other passenger. Since the plot is to sleep, that is not a problem for this flight, but since l often like to chat with interesting people, it could be a problem under different conditions.

The food in this class is excellent. There was an appetizer, then a salad, then four choices for a main course: grilled AAA beef tenderloin, roasted chicken, grilled sea bass or Porcini mushroom and ricotta ravioli. each was accompanied by wonderful options. The sea bass, which I had, was offered with fingerling potatoes, grilled vegetables and cherry tomatoes. I passed on dessert; an apple, blueberry, strawberry and rhubarb streusel tart, not because I didn’t want it but because I was tired and wanted to sleep. I can’t imagine and don’t want to know what they had in steerage.

It’s just about 2 days – 48 hours – until I leave here for Europe to begin my next attempt at walking across France and into Spain on the Chemin de St. Jacques. It’s better known in Spanish as the Camino de Santiago. I am, as you might imagine, a little trepiditious. This always happens the last few days before I leave for a long walk or do anything else that has an element of risk associated with it. I get the unmistakeable message from the part of my brain that wants to protect me; “What are you THINKING? You could just stay at home, enjoy the lovely and friendly warmth of your family, play golf and eat fries whenever you want.”

But I persevere, not least because I have told everyone that I am going. It’s just too embarrassing to tell everyone that I have changed my mind, especially since I have enlisted people to contribute to a Hospice as I walk. Speaking of that, the response to my Hike for Hospice is very encouraging. We have raised about 13% of my $10,000 goal already and I have had messages from Toronto, Victoria, Atlanta, Houston, and Wellington, NZ that people are donating to their local hospices. I am just delighted by all this. Feel free to help.

Speaking of delighted, last Friday I had a “Doesn’t get any better than this” moment. Carroll and I were invited to my daughter Meredith’s house for Fabulous Food Friday. Typically it’s us plus a small group of close friends, perhaps a half dozen of us. Since we had a TGIF for our community at 5, we asked about arriving at 7. No problem. At the TGIF, many people say goodbye and good trip to me.

So at 7 off we go – it’s a five minute walk – to Meredith’s. When we get in the door, there are a lot more people than normal … and it turns out that it’s a farewell and bon voyage party for me. I am completely surprised and that has happened seldom in my life. It gets even better when most of the people at the TGIF show up at the door within a few minutes of me arriving, wearing big smiles. I find out that everyone has known about this for weeks … and no-one, not even the usual suspects, has blurted it out to me. The party is wonderful and I feel thoroughly loved.

Meredith has had a tough time making this happen. Her fridge failed about ten days ago and the company was able to get her a replacement only on Friday afternoon. My daughter is resourceful and determined. I think that she gets this from her mother.

Now it’s Monday afternoon. I have the travel itineraries done, both mine and Carroll’s, the packing checklist printed and everything that I need (not want) on a single surface to be packed into the backpack and into my carry-on. For those of you who recall five years ago, the backpack and my poles will travel as unaccompanied baggage inside a non-descript black duffel bag, to reduce the risk of loss. As the grandchildren, almost 5 and almost 3, say, “Only two sleeps, grandad.”

I am going to Europe to continue my walk on an ancient pilgrimage route that connects to the Camino de Santiago. I leave Ottawa next Wednesday, 18 April for a 750 kilometer journey across France and over the Pyrenees to Pamplona in Spain.

This time I have a mission. I am walking to support Hike for Hospice, a fund-raiser for Hospices everywhere. I am hoping to raise $10,000. It’s ambitious, I know, but together we can do it. It is a great cause!

Visit www.hospicemaycourt.com/index.php?page=guy-thatcher-s-hike-for-hospice to see the map, read my blog and make a donation to the Hospice. Please help support me in raising funds for hospice palliative care. Help make a difference. Donating is easy and it will only take you a few minutes.

If you prefer to donate to a Hospice near you, search the Internet for Hospice and find one near you. Please make a donation and let me know what you have done. Send me an email at journeyofdays@yahoo.ca and include Hike for Hospice in the subject line. Thanks for your support. And please tell your friends. Every donation counts!

Buen camino,

 Guy

I have been thinking about the person who last week sent me the random text message that looked like a real cry for help. “That’s it. Im done. Next time you see me i-ll be dead. The bridge isnt far so don’t even try to convince me not to jump. Goodbye.”

When I found out that it was a 12-year-old girl texting between classes, I wrote it off as a “hoax” and just put it aside as a juvenile prank. But now I am not so sure. While she was not in a position to carry out her threat at that moment, young people at school, often the subject of bullying or harassment or ridicule, do think about life, its meaning … or lack of meaning, and sometimes come to the conclusion that it is really unbearable to go on. Or perhaps it is the beginning of a pattern of mental illness that is showing up.

 Either way, it is possible that the message that I got was a real cry for help and I really hope that her parents, teachers and classmates take the time to think about the scourges of despair and mental illness in every community.

And I hope that you think about this as well. I know I will.

Today while sitting in a doctor’s waiting room, I have perhaps the most bizarre and unsettling telephone call I have ever had in my life. My cell phone vibrates (I have it on vibrate since I can’t always hear it) and I look at it to see that I had a new message. I open the message, received at 9:22 AM, and here is what I read (It is preceded by a phone number which I will not share for what will quickly become obvious reasons):

“That’s it. Im done. Next time you see me I’ll be dead. The bridge isn’t far so don’t even try to convince me not to jump. Goodbye.“

All these messages are exactly as received on my phone.

 I am stunned. The phone number is not one that I recognize and I quickly search through my contacts to see if it shows up there. No luck. After a couple of minutes, frantically thinking “What to do, what to do”, I respond, rather lamely; “Who are you?”

It occurs to me, as it already has to you, that it is highly likely that the whole thing is a hoax, but what if it’s not?

The next message: “Im sorry .. Wrong number. But I won’t be able to soon ..” That’s it. No explanation, no indication that the first message was false.

I walk over to the receptionist, who is busy speaking with a couple of other patients. I interrupt to say; “I think I have an emergency here. We need to call 911” … which is what happens as soon as the receptionist reads the message on my phone. She gives the 911 operator the phone number from the message, which we can see on my phone.

I text back; “Hold on, help is on the way”. Again. a little lame, but I am not used to being part of what may be a suicide help line.

Then I receive four messages in quick succession:

“No its okaii im fin”.

“Thank you !!!”.

“Im not going too”.

And finally “Thank you so much”.

After which, complete silence.  No more messages. Nothing. 

A couple of hours later, I try the number as a voice call. No-one picks up.  I spend the rest of the day wondering if the call was genuine or not, whether I did the right thing or not. I toy with the idea of calling 911 to find out what happened but decide not to. They don’t need nuisance calls based on my curiosity.

Just before dinner time, we get a call at home from the police. The messages were from a 12-year-old girl, in between periods in a classroom, who dialled three random numbers with the same message. Not a serious message (I don’t think). The police person told me that all three of us called 911, which activated a major exercise. Police to the girl’s home and school and to the parents’ place of work. The young lady in question will be dealt with by her parents. I am thinking cell phone suspension and a period of grounding, as well as a discussion about spreading alarm in the community.

I am personally heartened by the fact that all the people she contacted then called 911 to try to help. Says good things about our community.

 This is a section of my training walk that I particularly enjoy. Although almost all of my walk is on roads, this 3-km section is wooded and very lightly travelled.

Today is 18 March, a Sunday and it is a significant day for me. Yes, it is the day after St. Patrick’s Day, but that is not why it is significant. It is because in exactly one month, on 18 April, I leave for France to continue my long walk from where I ended last year, in Saint Chely d’Aubrac. It is a tiny village on the Chemin de St. Jacques, part of the French pilgrimage route which joins the Camino de Santiago in Spain. I still have 670 km to go to end up in Pamplona, which is where I started all this five years ago. At about this point, I start to get a little anxious about my plan. I started very late with my training, since it was winter here.

Although relatively mild, there was a lot of ice so walking was quite treacherous and I took advantage of that to not do much through the winter months. Now however, I have only a month to go so I can’t slack off any more. About two weeks ago, I started walking an 18-km route from my home and I have done that every two or three days since then. I walk with my pack, boots and poles to get as close to the actual walking setup as possible.

As the snow has melted, the walk has become easier … and I have learned quite a bit about my fellow humans. The winter snows cover up everything on the ground, including stuff that ought not to be there in the first place. The first thing I noticed was that we are treating ourselves more healthily that ever before. The classic litter of beer bottles and condoms has reduced, to be replaced by milk containers and empty plastic water bottles, so we are now a much better quality of litterers. On one stretch of the walk (along the Second Line extension, for those of you who know Kanata), there is a new subdivision and along Second Line, there is a sidewalk and a high wooden fence, presumably a sound barrier for those living next to the road. Earlier when I walked along here, I noticed that there was a lot of dog shit, and a lot of that from large dogs. Presumably, when people walk their dogs along here, they don’t all pick up after their dog. A lot do, some don’t.

But some folks are unclear on the concept. On the past couple of times that I have walked along here, I have noticed many small plastic bags, neatly tied and lying alongside the dog shit. So someone has walked their dog along here, noticed the dog squatting to do its thing, then tidily cleaned up after their dog, like any good citizen would do. Then, when no-one is watching (I am speculating here), they quietly and surreptitiously drop their little bundle of joy on the edge of the path. I find the behaviour awful and I hope that they feel guilty every time they do it. Of course, maybe it’s just one person although, if it is, he – or she – changed bags from white to black, since both are represented here.

So I have a month to go and the countdown has begun. I cannot help remembering about my high spirits last year before I took off on my abortive journey in France. Perhaps this year I will be older (that’s a given) and wiser (that’s not).