The Filming of Hallmark’s Moriah’s Lighthouse! An Author’s Journey (Part 2)

March 31 Thursday Night (cont.)

I live on a hilly farm in southern Ohio. The nearest town has maybe five hundred people in it on a sunny day. The town is so small, we have only one blinking traffic light and the need for that one is debatable. We are officially, geographically, Appalachian. There is a predominance of pickup trucks on the road. Fashion is not the highest priority around here—and I fit right in.

Therefore, packing clothes for a trip to France really is a challenge. I have no delusions of impressing anyone, but I would at least like to blend in. So, I’ve been poring over blogs on What to Wear in France!

It’s a tad confusing. Here is a paraphrased sampling of what I’ve read:

Blogger #1

DO NOT WEAR ATHLETIC SHOES OF ANY KIND! The French people will think you were raised in a barn and will immediately assume you are from the U.S.

Blogger #2

Athletic shoes are REALLY IN in right now in France, so whatever you do bring along a pair.

Blogger #1

DO NOT WEAR JEANS OF ANY KIND! The French people will immediately assume you are from the U.S. and you DO NOT WANT THEM TO THINK YOU ARE FROM THE U.S. UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE.

Blogger #2

Whatever you do—WEAR JEANS THIS SPRING!—preferably baggy and torn.

Blogger #1

Make sure you practice eating in the European style of using the knife in your right hand and your fork in your left, or THE FRENCH WILL THINK YOU ARE FROM THE U.S. which you don’t want them to think. Ever.

Blogger #1, 2, 3, etc.

Whatever you do WEAR A BELTED BLACK, GRAY, OR TAN TRENCH COAT BECAUSE EVERY WOMAN IN FRANCE OWNS AND WEARS A BELTED BLACK, GRAY, OR TAN TRENCH COAT

sigh

I had purchased a gray trench coat from Amazon and discovered that God never intended for my body to wear a belted gray trench coat. I’m sure it would look lovely on someone sleek and slim. Unfortunately, it’s hard to be sleek and slim when one sits on one’s behind all day in front of a computer typing out stories. Especially if one likes cookies.

So, I give up on blending in. I pull out my favorite spring coat (red!) and decide the nation of France will just have to deal with it.

Anyway, after two Melatonin, with bags finally packed, I go to bed with my stomach in a knot. It’s a two-hour drive to the airport, so I torture myself to sleep imagining ways this trip can go badly. A flat tire, missing my plane in Columbus, never arriving in Chicago for the leg to France. Losing my passport. Losing my Covid vaccination papers. Losing my mind. The list goes on.

My biggest comfort is that my son, Derek, is taking time off work to accompany me. He’s traveled the world, including war zones. He’s great in a crisis and he knows things. He is my travel security blanket.