Years ago, my friend moved to Europe and eventually bought an apartment in France.  He doesn't live there; he rents it.  He offered it to me for three months during the chilly off-season.  In exchange, I would pay for heat, phone, and cooking gas.  The apartment is nestled in a village in the foothills of the Alps, a twenty minute drive from the sea. 

I relished the promise of solitude.  A golden opportunity for me to write without distraction.  I speak no French, but his land-line would allow me to stay in touch with friends in the states. So I saved up, bought my ticket and, on a slim budget, carefully packed for the long stay.  Without a car, I'd need to walk or bus to the market - but I was already doing that.

On the other hand, I wondered whether I shouldn't stay where I was and secure an apartment on my own continent.  I felt uneasy about leaving.  Oh, but it's the French Alps!  Who wouldn't accept such an opportunity?  What's wrong with me?  How could I not go?

His previous tenants who had recently vacated reportedly complained of mold in the bedroom and asked a rent reduction.  Another of his friends would remodel the room in a few months.  Oh well, that's his business, I thought.  Content to have a quiet space all to myself, I agreed to sleep on the sofa.  In the Alps.  Maybe I'd even get well there, like Heidi's cousin Clara.

He traveled to France to check the unit after his tenants left, then kindly met me at the airport on a Tuesday night.  From there we took a train to a small town then drove up the mountain in his friend's car.  He had earlier spent part of the afternoon washing mold off his bedroom wall as he planned to sleep there that night before returning to Italy. As I made my bed on the livingroom sofa, I noticed black mold bleeding through a corner of the ceiling.

"I see that", he said.  Would I go to town, buy some bleach, and wash it off?  Jet-lagged, and  without sleep for the past thirty hours, I thought, "I'll need to, won't I?"  He explained that a municipal bus strike was slated to start the next day, so he planned to return to Italy before dawn.  On his way out the door he discovered the cordless phone was dead. "I'll call a friend to replace it".

By Wednesday afternoon, I became aware of the odor as I gazed at the snowy valley below.  Then the sun slipped below the mountain and the coldness set in.  I switched on the space heater and began to sneeze - apparently from spores that blew about the room.  In a dreamlike state, I followed the ceiling mold and walked the wall perimeter.  Smelly black mold covered the wall hidden behind the airmoire, grew on the mop boards, and flanked both sides of the window next to the radiator. 

Increasingly, I couldn't stay awake.  Slowly, it occurred to me that I was trapped in a box of black mold on the top floor apartment in the French Alps by the Mediterranean Sea.  When the sun shone into the unit, I opened the windows to let the clouds and fresh air drift through.  But even at its warmest it would not make the mold go away.  Nor could the radiator heat. Nor would wall washing.  I had to go home.

I needed to pack, find a way down the mountain, wend my way to Nice, find a hotel room, and get back on a plane - a significant challenge while speaking no French, having no phone, and feeling sicker by the hour.  Thursday and Friday I struggled to stay awake.  I sought an escape via the Internet and tortured friends with emails. 

By Saturday I managed to book a room in Nice next to the airport, thanks to American Express.  It didn't matter whether local buses or trains were back in operation; I had no strength to drag my bags down the mountain, much less the coast.  I discovered an English-speaking neighbor. Unbelievably, he was on his way to the airport!  And I could ride with him if I could pack everything in 20 minutes!  But I was unable to move that quickly.  Using his mobile, he reserved a Sunday morning cab for me, one thing I hadn't yet found online.

Hours later, the replacement phone arrived.  British Airways hadn't allowed my family to change my ticket but now, I could do it myself.  Their European office was closed weekends, but I was able to contact them in the US.  They treated me respectly and provided great service.  My return flight left Monday.  I packed excitedly but carefully, knowing that items may vanish from my checked bag. Indeed, my hiking boots had been removed as werte my hot/cold gel packs which made it impossible to ice my ankle.  But that now qualified as "small stuff".  As in, "Don't sweat the..".

I was tired and sporified, yet I feared sleep. I couldn't trust the clock to work -ed it had been 5 hours off - or that its alarm wasn't broken.  My cell phone didn't work.  I hadn't want it to - that was part of my "no distractions" plan.  I considered setting my cell phone alarm, but plotting the time zone difference was by now highly advanced math. Cognitive diminishment is just one symptom of mold ingestion.  I couldn't risk sleeping through my cab's arrival.  I stayed awake, paced with my shoulders pinned to my ears, and shivered.  Not Solzhenitsyn building a power house in a gulag, but analogous, in my own tragic way. 

I turned on the English TV News to appreciate that I was not freezing to death in the Ukraine or staving off death inside Syria.  I also learned that Heathrow canceled half its Sunday flights due to a brewing snow storm.  Monday, my travel day, could get hairy.

I may have opened an old surgical scar as I schlepped my bags down four flights of stairs Sunday morning.  The cab owner, who spoke English, had sent his wife who did not.  But I was tickled just to be in a cab armed with the address of my Nice hotel.  105 euros remained in my wallet.  I asked, "How much?" for the forty-five minute ride. She understood that phrase. "120".  I suggested I might need the "cash machine" at my hotel.  She also understood that, but instead she drove to a bank in downtown Nice.  Again I explained there was a cash machine at my hotel.  She apologized.  I'm not complaining. I was making good progress.

I got to my room before noon but couldn't sleep. I ordered a sandwich.  I had given my groceries to a family in the apartment building but had saved an apple for myself.  I ate it at 2AM as I watched the Super Bowl, live on German TV.  Madonna performed the best half-time show. Ever.

At 0400, English TV news announced that French airport workers would strike that morning.  "When does it end?", I wondered.

Hotel reception helped me understand.  "Yes, there is a strike.  You must go to the airport to ask if you can fly.  It is only a short distance away". I couldn' walk there on my own power.  Good thing I discovered the hotel's Airport Shuttle.  Americans are often disliked, so I at my best.  But sometimes that's not good enough.  I left on the shuttle at 0630 for a 1100 flight.  I was required to check out of my room.  Would my rate increase if I didn't fly and needed a room for a second night? Then I realized it really didn't matter.

Again, British Airways saved the day, and the strike didn't affect my travel. They booked me on the earlier flight to Heathrow, which would help in the event of a delay.  Missing my connection might mean spending a night in London.  Under normal circumstances, that would be a delight.  But once onboard, there was no room for my carry-on filled with expensive herbal tinctures.  Guess what?  Instead of gate-checking it, it rode in the cockpit with the pilots.  Now that's accommodation.

I remembered my camera while in Heathrow, whilst lying prone on a sofa looking at the ceiling and staring my life in the face.  I was either right where I needed to be, or hopelessly lost.  Which was it?  I composed an award winning poem but was too tired to write it down. So it's gone.

I bought a tasty "Detox 7 Vegetable Soup" a kind of Pho and, an hour later just prior to boarding my flight to the US repeatedly emptied my bowel.  Who would be sit next to me as we crossed the Atlantic Ocean and the breadth of North America?  Adult diapers should be sold in airport restrooms.  Mark my words, someday they will.  The good news: I was clean and dry all the way home. The bad news: My movie monitor didn't work.  Oh well, the flight was only eight and a half hours.

Now I can look back in laughter.  And I am grateful for the health risk and lost savings. I learned to trust myself a little more, to re-evaluate who I trust, and observe how I invest my treasure.

I chatted with a shuttle passenger, a young male undergraduate college student traveling to California for a funeral.  "I am from what many Americans consider an evil country". 
"China?" I asked. 
"Yes" he smiled. 
He attends a local university. His overseas parents pay his tuition, and expect him to be highly successful.  That's not unusual, I thought, though few American parents can afford tuition at a prestigious university.  He has a strict plan: Attain his baccalaureate degree, then his masters degree, then find work at an American company; after five years, he will return to China, get married, have a family, "and that's it". 

He's studying mathematics but confided that he'd much rather study painting.  "Well, you can explore it, can't you?", I wondered.  Absolutely not. He was quick to reply that he's not allowed to pursue the arts.  His mother and father advised him that few painters become successful.  Therefore, "it's a waste of time and a poor investment".
"That's what my parents told me", I replied. 

But sadness could not escape his face.  His parents didn't know him well. His grandparents raised him "in the country side" while his mother and father pursued banking and academic careers in two separate cities.  By age of ten, he lived alone.  "You lived alone?" "Yes", he said without emotion.  He didn't elaborate.

He must deny his heart's desire, land an American corporate career, return to China, then care for his parents when they grow old.  "That seems like a tall order", I naively asked, "Do you have any siblings?  Whoops. I had forgotten about the one-child policy. 

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Before you get behind the wheel:

1. As the owner of a popular model of car or truck your risk of theft increases.  Consider a vehicle equipped with a tracking mechanism.

2. Purchase adequate vehicle insurance coverage. Many of your fellow motorists are under-insured, or uninsured,- so be prepared to pay plenty.

3. Given the choice, do not list your home/physical address on your drivers’ license. In Phoenix, much of the mail is not delivered door-to-door.  Roving bands of thieves have broken into clusters of freestanding neighborhood mailboxes. Personal data is stolen with impunity. If you consider renting a post office box, bring reading material for you will spend a good deal of time waiting in line. Once rented, let's hope your letters are delivered to your box, rather than to one in close proximity.

In The Car:

1. Keeping your doors locked may thwart unwanted intrusions (though this is not intended as advice as how best to deal with a car-jacking).  In the event of a collision, locked doors may also prevent your body or that of your passenger(s) from being thrown from your vehicle.

2. Buckle up.  You’ll soon discover why.

3. Give yourself plenty of time to get to arrive at your destination.  Traffic can back-up for miles while drivers slow down to gawk at stopped cars or observe fatal accidents.

4. Don’t expect other motorists to use their signal turns, make lawful lane changes, stop at stop signs, obey speed limits, or yield to the right-of-way. Many surface roads are six lanes wide with a 45 mph speed limit.

5. Keep emotions in check.  You may not anger easily, but another driver might.  Refrain from heated disputes, and remember that many are armed with concealed weapons, easily purchased at gun shows, stores, or pawn shops.

6. Stay out of the "fast" lane unless you’re prepared to do 90 or more.

7. For a variety of reasons, there are many speed traps.  Years ago, cameras were installed on roadways and electronic speeding tickets were issued. The cameras may or may not have been removed by now.

8. Keep a constant eye on the road ahead of you.  Vehicular loads are frequently not secured and often leave debris on the freeways (concrete blocks, landscape waste, you get the idea).  It's scary to approach this stuff while on the racetrack with other motorists - many of whom won't notice your efforts to avoid driving over that ladder at 60 mph.

9. Ask yourself: Is it really necessary to venture out after sundown?  If so, use extreme caution. The streets are well lit, and so are the drivers.

10. Pulled over? Inform yourself of your legal rights. A court-ordered blood test could be in your future.  Maybe the matter can be resolved with a lawyer and a hefty fine?  After several offenses, you may find yourself in Tent City, an extension of the county jail. Condemned by Amnesty International, its inmates are said to bunk outdoors.  That's right, outdoors, in the desert. If the Chain Gang is still in operation, that may be another opportunity.

11. It is not uncommon to encounter vehicles bearing no license plate, car hood, or bumper. I imagine local law enforcement is already quite busy addressing the arguably more important crime - like hit-and-run fatalities, spousal (wife) murders, drug running, and human trafficking.

12. If you plan any freeway driving near the southern end of the city on the Fourth of July, beware of the slow lane. One year, some freeway drivers slowed down and/or parked to watch the fireworks from Interstate10.

13.  Please do not leave your children or animals unattended in your vehicle.  Many of them die this way. 

1. My city is not overrun with rampant kidnappings.
2. When a helicopter flies over head, it's not shooting people.
3. My limbs work and I still have all of my teeth.
4. Food is stocked on the shelves of local groceries.
5. Tap water may contain pharmaceuticals, and be privately owned, but for now it's potable.
6. My mother and father loved me.
7. I have an insightful and inquisitive mind, and I have a computer.
8. I laugh almost daily.
9. Birds sing.
10. I have lively memories.