Although our time in Normandy was too short, it was time to move on.  Normandy had been a peaceful and restful stop for us, away from big-city life, sandwiched neatly between stays in Paris and London.  Somehow we figured out how to re-pack the Peugeot, and we scooted out of Caen mid-morning, headed back to Paris.  Countryside gave way to suburbs; suburbs gave way to Paris proper.

Driving in Paris was an absolute free-for-all, much worse than Florence.  And making this second edition of my Paris driving even more stressful was the need to find a gas station before returning the car, as I had been assured by Monsieur Hertz that bringing back an empty tank would cost me hundreds of euros and one of my children.  (just to be prepared, I had already picked out which child)  On our Google Maps display, gas stations kept appearing just around the next corner, but then we would turn said corner and see no gas pumps – only parking garages.  It finally sunk in that, in Paris, the gas stations must be IN THE PARKING GARAGES.  This flash of brilliance hit me after only the fourth parking garage was passed;  I pulled into the FIFTH one, and, voilà!  Gas!

I returned the car to the Hertz garage under Gare du Nord without HITTING ANYTHING.  At the counter, I averted my eyes when Jean-Luc asked me if there had been any damage to the car, hoping they wouldn’t inspect it too closely.  (No such luck – they called me a week later to ask if I had noticed the “large abrasion” on the right rear fender.  Naturally, I blamed it on LouAnn.)  I handed over the keys, then turned quickly and made my exit.

The Stumbos, all their worldy possessions in tow, then snaked their way through the bustle of humanity that is Gare du Nord.  Even got to see someone get arrested!  We found a deserted corner in which to camp out as we awaited our 4:00 departure on the Eurostar train, which would take us UNDER the English Channel and into London.  Yep, the Chunnel.  We soaked up the last bits of being in a foreign-language-speaking country.  We wrestled our bags onto the train, fell into our seats, and zoned out for the two-hour ride to the Motherland.

Disembarking at London’s St. Pancras station, we could feel a buzz of excitement between us.  I think it was a combination of things – arriving at our last stop of the trip, knowing it would be our last MOVE, being in an English-speaking country….  We were in the home stretch to, well, HOME.  And after seven weeks abroad, I think we we were beginning to get READY.

The first good sign in London was that we were able to fit all of our stuff, and all of US, in ONE London cab.  Woohoo!  It was about a 15-minute ride through the London rain from St. Pancras to our apartment in Lancaster Gate, bordering the north edge of Hyde Park.  It was a PERFECT location, and a PERFECT apartment, the finest accommodations of our trip.

Au revoir, Caen Novotel with no air conditioning!

The puzzle, put back together in perfect form.

Look, kids – the Arc de Triomphe!

Look, kids – the Arc de Triomphe!

It’s barely NOTICEABLE.  Particularly when you’re distracted by LouAnn’s cha-cha pants.

Taking over the Gare du Nord.

Chunnel-bound!

Arrival in London

Standing on the LEFT now, of course

AMAZED it all fit.

And WE all fit!

Amazing kitchen in our amazing apartm—-excuse me, FLAT.

We ordered Lebanese delivery the first night, of course!

Location of our amazing home for the five days in London.