Now that the curtain has fallen on the past year, it’s time to see what’s happening around here. It seems pretty quiet, but I’ll read more in detail later.

First, I need to tell you all an anecdote.

My eldest little girl, in her third year of law school, was really scared she wouldn’t pass the year. I told her: “Trust yourself, you’ve worked so hard, and worst case, if you fail, you’ll just redo the year.” “But I don’t think I’ll make it—they changed the rules, and if I mess up even one unit, I have to start all over.” I knew her grades weren’t exactly stellar, and with what I was about to say, I wasn’t taking much of a risk. “Here’s the deal, sweetheart: if you pass, I promise I’ll take you to India, just the two of us.” I have to admit, India is a country I’ve talked about so much to all my grandchildren that in their minds, it’s become a magical, mythical place (hmm).

July had barely begun when my phone rang, her name flashing on the screen. “Mamido, I did it!” My promise came rushing back—oh no, oh no, oh no! “Congratulations, sweetheart!” A little shyly, she said: “Is the India trip still on?”

And me, replying: “Of course it is!”

And that’s that—a promise is a promise, or you risk losing that precious trust that keeps hearts warm and at peace.

We’re leaving in February. Only 8 days—yikes, the carbon footprint! But we can’t miss her tutorials, or she’ll be kicked out. Personally, that works just fine for me.

Going to India has become a challenge for me. It’s far, it’s exhausting, I sweat, I hate mosquitoes, the spices bother my mouth when I used to love them. There’s noise all the time—at night, the dogs bark nonstop, and we almost get run over. I’ll get lost in the streets because my sense of direction has vanished. I don’t like rice anymore. All that chaos and those cultural differences that once enchanted me now just overwhelm me. But I promised.

The upside—and it’s a big one—Raman, the same driver I’ve had forever, will be at the airport with a sign with our names. We’ll stop at the same little shop for chai (or tea, plain and simple) with that aroma that intoxicates me, halfway through the trip.

It’ll be a tiny trip—staying with friends, I’ll show her a few places I love: Chidambaram, Mamallapuram, and the clinic where I worked. Then we’ll head back. My little girl will go home to her parents.

As for me, I’ll leave right away for our Scottish island with Homme for our chilly winter.

How can you love a country so much you want to live there, then suddenly reject it, no longer able to appreciate what once made it special? That’s the mystery of love, I guess.

Hi everyone! 😉 I’m Typhaine, 35 years old. Five years ago, I left France for a solo round-the-world trip—no planes, just a van, hitchhiking, cycling, and even a canoe in the Amazon! Today, I work as a naturalist guide in Argentine Patagonia. Wherever I go, my compass stays the same: observing and photographing wildlife, which I deeply admire and respect.

My project: I’d love to share this experience through a sustainable, authentic, and immersive nature tourism initiative. But to build something meaningful, I need to understand how other nature enthusiasts experience their own adventures.

If you:

Are over 20 years old

Have a true passion for Nature

Have already taken at least one trip lasting more than 3 nights (in your country or abroad) in your life

Then... would you have 5 to 7 minutes to help me by filling out this questionnaire? 🙂 »» https://forms.gle/y74ckkvN9TjrougLA

Promise: I’m not selling anything, this isn’t marketing. Your answers are 100% anonymous and will only help me shape this wild project. A huge thank you to everyone for your help and kindness! Looking forward to chatting in this thread 😛

(Dear admins, this is purely a collaborative effort for my project study, with no commercial purpose. Thank you so much for your support!)

Photo: Grizzly Bear (Ursus arctos horribilis), female on the left and her cub on the right. Photo taken by me in Alaska, Denali National Park.

I’ve visited the U.S. four times myself, including two long road trips. The last one was just this past August...

I won’t be going back. I already felt guilty last August, but recent policies have finally convinced me: the humiliation of Zelensky, authoritarian excesses, Gestapo-like methods for detaining people of foreign origin, the murder of innocent people (a mother shot dead), corruption, insane "tariffs," skyrocketing healthcare costs for Americans, the abduction of foreign figures to secure oil, the requirement to disclose social media accounts, and now... threats and blackmail to forcibly take Greenland—a region that belongs to Denmark and thus the European Union!

The reality is that simply posting this could get me denied entry to the U.S.!

In this context, I just can’t keep spending money there. I loved my trips, but there are so many other countries with stunning landscapes to explore.

So I get why you’d want to travel there. I did, and I loved it. But once a country no longer respects any of the values that made us love it, why go?

How can we even consider traveling to a country that threatens to take one of our territories by force?

Hi everyone, here’s our itinerary. Arriving on the evening of December 13th. Departing on January 7th. Thanks in advance for your tips and valuable feedback.

Manila – 1 night Coron – 4 nights Coron to El Nido cruise – 2 nights El Nido – 4 nights Port Barton – 5 nights Flight from Puerto Princesa to Vigan Vigan – 2 nights Sagada – 2 nights Banaue – 2 nights Bagabag – 1 night Manila – 1 night I’ve only booked the flight to Manila and the Manila/Coron flight so far. Is it possible to book boat trips, accommodations, and the Puerto Princesa flight last-minute?

Thanks in advance. Florence

Hi everyone.

I’ve been wondering: Is it still reasonable to rent a car in the U.S.?

Apparently, since early January 2025—and very quietly—the most important insurance coverage, namely the driver’s civil liability, has seen its coverage amount drop from $1 million to just $300,000. This coverage is supposed to protect us from damages we might be responsible for while driving. We can go decades without a single scrape (especially if it’s our fault), but anything can happen in a split second. A motorcycle appearing out of nowhere, a misjudgment at one of those huge intersections with staggered traffic lights, and suddenly we could be deemed at fault for the accident. We’d then have to pay out of pocket for the other party’s medical expenses. Given what hospitals charge... it can easily exceed $300,000 and turn into a nightmare in no time!!! Plus, anyone who’s driven on American roads has seen those billboards for lawyers offering their services to accident victims. So on top of the sky-high medical bill, the lawyer will demand compensation worthy of a Hollywood movie!!!! So, is it even worth getting behind the wheel in America anymore? Well... that’s just my take! And on top of that, I haven’t found any insurance company that offers such high civil liability coverage. Chapka and others do offer coverage in the millions, but motor vehicles are excluded.... So here’s the thing... Unless I’ve "missed something," I’ve come to this conclusion: Renting a car in the U.S. is like playing Russian roulette! But maybe I’m being too pessimistic? What do you think?

Hello 🙂

I should be serving a warming drink to the participants in the discussion about gardens and parks that provide us with beautiful photos, I could mention the delicious buttery scent wafting from bakeries in the thread about returning to France, but my heart, its powerful pulse that nourishes my entire being, is elsewhere.

Dasht-e Lut, Yazd, Esfahan, Bam, Kerman, Qeshm, Hormuz—a melody, a prayer at the heart of desire.

A dream, an unattainable fantasy? No. Not anymore. A very serious Italian travel agency is organizing this trip for 6 people this winter. I’m signed up, I’m going, I’m living. Maybe.

"But you’re completely crazy!!!!"

I know... I know that every civilization, every society has a vital need to create scapegoats to define and justify itself, pathetically. And Iran is one of them, top of the list. I laugh or sigh, and it doesn’t bother me.

But that unchanging red, deep red and garnet, so beautiful in itself, in all the Western chancelleries repeats, whispers, shouts: don’t go, don’t go, don’t go, you’re putting yourself in danger and we can’t do anything for you. You’ll be turned into mere bargaining chips, into arguments for endless negotiations. Fear must be instilled, its power absolutely preserved, no concessions made to the enemy. The information (how many French hostages, real or fake, compared to the number of travelers?) is always lacking.

Traveling becomes a merciless confrontation between desire, the vital pulse, and anxiety, its ghosts.

Catherine

I've traveled quite a bit in Vietnam over the past few years—from the southern delta to bustling cities and even some small islands—but what really sticks with me is the north, the high mountains. Up there, there's something different—maybe slower, more raw. The morning markets with ethnic groups, women in traditional clothes, the colors... The stilt houses, kids following you and laughing for no reason, the terraced rice fields—it almost feels unreal at times, so vast and quiet, yet so human and simple. You often hear that Sapa has become too touristy, and that's partly true, especially in the center. But as soon as you move a little farther away, everything changes quickly. The landscapes open up, encounters feel more natural, and you rediscover something truly authentic. I think it's that contrast that struck me—the difference between what you imagine before going and what you actually discover when you take the time. And you—what memory do you hold onto from Vietnam? A particular place that touched you more than others?

Hi everyone, Accepting the rules everywhere has become the norm, and customer service keeps getting worse and worse. Who’s to blame? All those who comply without a fuss, even though you’re paying full price everywhere. What used to be normal (good service) has now become the exception. Example: Hotels and their overly strict rules (rules that, personally, I successfully bend almost every time) 😄. We pay for a room for 24 hours, not 12-15 hours. How many times have I arrived at my hotel around noon after exhausting flights, asked for my reserved room, and been told that rooms are only available from 3 or 4 PM? Unacceptable (especially since we often have to check out by 10-11 AM—just as unacceptable). “Miss, I’m really tired from my trip. Could you make a small effort? I’m sure several rooms are ready by now.” The response? “It’s the rule. Come back at 4 PM.” 😒 Of course, I get that the front-desk clerk is just blindly following orders (or overdoing it). I stay calm and ask her to fetch her supervisor (who shows up right away, probably afraid of a scene). I explain with my best "puppy-dog eyes," and—bingo—10 minutes later, I’ve got my room (I’ll spare you the comments from my fellow travelers calling me a rude, uneducated nightmare). I’m thrilled because they’ll be waiting around for 4 hours 😏. It’s the same everywhere—restaurants (especially in France), where you arrive at 9:05 PM and are told they’re no longer serving because the chef has finished and turned off the ovens. (Do you really need an oven and 2 hours to make an English breakfast or a cheese platter with good wine?) And then some restaurant owners complain about not meeting their targets—pfft. The list goes on, and I don’t have all the complaints about service providers fresh in my mind (feel free to add yours if you agree). Otherwise, keep bowing your heads—I won’t change the world, but I’ll never accept being told I’m too demanding. It’s the people who let things slide (the majority) who have no standards left, to the detriment of service quality for everyone 😏.

Reunion Island, a French island located in the Indian Ocean, is characterized by remarkable geographical and cultural diversity. This island offers an immersive experience that harmoniously blends wild nature and human heritage, between active volcanoes, mountainous cirques, impressive waterfalls, and charming villages. This report explores the must-see spots, from the lunar landscapes of Piton de la Fournaise to the mountainous trails of the Mafate cirque, not forgetting the natural pools and tropical gardens. Each section highlights a distinct aspect of this vibrant island, supported by geological and historical information, as well as accounts from those who have visited.

Piton de la Fournaise, which reaches a height of 2,632 meters, is one of the most active volcanoes on our planet. Its frequent eruptions constantly shape the landscape, offering a natural spectacle where burning lava meets the ocean. The trail leading to the Dolomieu crater, though difficult to access, is open to hikers and rewards them with a panorama of vast expanses of solidified lava and volcanic gas emissions. It’s usually best to visit at this time of day to avoid clouds and enjoy the low light that enhances the lunar reliefs.

Volcanic activity has also given rise to unique structures, such as the lava tunnels of Grand Brûlé, where tourists can walk along cooled lava flows. For geology enthusiasts, the site of Cassé de la Rivière de l'Est reveals incredible basaltic organ pipes, testifying to ancient eruptions.

Despite its inactivity, Piton des Neiges (3,071 m) remains the island’s highest peak. Its ascent, via the GR R2 trail, passes through virgin forests before reaching rocky landscapes where sunrise offers a 360° panoramic view of the three cirques. This extinct volcano symbolizes Reunion Island’s geological history, characterized by successive collapses that gave birth to the surrounding cirques.

A UNESCO World Heritage site, the Salazie cirque charms with its lush greenery and hamlets clinging to cliffs. Hell-Bourg, listed among France’s most beautiful villages, delights with its brightly colored Creole houses and picturesque cobblestone streets. The trek to Voile de la Mariée, a famous waterfall, winds through bamboo groves and natural pools perfect for a swim.

Mafate, a preserved haven of tranquility, is accessible only on foot or by helicopter. Places like La Nouvelle or Marla, small villages called "îlets," offer a glimpse into traditional life on Reunion Island. The GR R1 trail, which circles Piton des Neiges, immerses hikers in breathtaking landscapes, alternating between rocky ridges and narrow valleys.

Known for its lentils and wines, Cilaos combines culinary delights with stunning scenery. The healing properties of the thermal springs at Bras-Rouge are highlighted by the trails leading to them, which also offer panoramas like the Col du Taïbit, a privileged access point to Mafate.

This unique spot features pebble beaches, waterfalls by the sea, and a palm forest. Picnickers enjoy its peaceful atmosphere, while local fishermen maintain ancient traditions. Nearby, the Garden of Perfumes and Spices cultivates vanilla, cloves, and turmeric, offering an olfactory experience at the heart of Reunionese agriculture.

Bassin Boeuf, famous for its turquoise waters, is a popular swimming spot, framed by volcanic formations. Further south, the Langevin River creates a series of waterfalls and natural pools, including the famous Trou de Fer, a 300-meter-deep canyon where water cascades in a shimmering curtain.

The island’s capital blends colonial heritage with modernity. The Léon Dierx Museum showcases modern art, while the Grand Marché draws visitors with its spices and local crafts. The Barachois promenade, along the sea, evokes the city’s maritime past with its 18th-century cannons.

The Domaine de Villèle, once a colonial plantation, now houses a museum dedicated to the history of slavery and a geranium distillery. The Chapelle Pointue, with its neo-Gothic style, offers a striking contrast to the brightly colored Tamil temples surrounding it.

The GR R1 and R2 trails are popular with experienced hikers, but more accessible routes like the Piton Maido (2,200 m) are suitable for beginners. The latter offers an unparalleled view of the Mafate cirque at dawn.

The coast of Saint-Gilles offers activities like diving, surfing, and paddleboarding, while ULM flights provide an impressive aerial view of Piton de la Fournaise.

Reunion Island presents itself as a microcosm where every landscape tells a story—geological, cultural, or human. Between the fury of volcanoes and the calm of cirques, between the bustle of markets and the tranquility of natural pools, this destination offers a diverse experience. Travelers are encouraged to mix their activities: morning hikes, cultural visits during the day, and moments of relaxation at dusk. Preserving these wonders relies on responsible tourism, respectful of fragile ecosystems and local communities.

This catchy and somewhat mysterious title comes from several questions I’ve been asking myself.

VF has been back open for a reasonable number of weeks and months now. The number of visitors overall matches past averages, but the number of members online in the last 24 hours seems relatively lower than what we used to see.

Yet, to my surprise, I’m seeing fewer travel journals, way fewer messages, and way fewer questions. I don’t see many new registered users online, and I notice a number of members who are logged in but either aren’t participating or have stopped participating.

Something’s not adding up for me because, in my opinion, VF is still appealing, and I don’t see which other sites could really compete.

Was there a real break between pre- and post-Covid? Does it just take more time for some people to discover the site or learn that it’s active again? Do people now prefer quick consumption on sites like FB or others I’m not familiar with? Where have the site’s old-timers gone, and what are they doing with their time now? What’s really going on here?

Hi everyone, I feel like I’ve been lucky enough over the past few years to travel—a lot of that’s thanks to retirement... (see my profile!) So, aside from my beautiful country, France, here’s my totally subjective top 3: 1 – Antarctica 2 – Greenland 3 – Yellowstone Park

Of course, this is just my opinion—human, architectural, cultural, and gastronomic treasures are everywhere on our unique planet, Earth. Have a great day, everyone!

Hi everyone,

I’m new to the forum, and I’m writing today to ask the community for feedback on a site concept I’ve been working on for a few weeks.

The idea is to create a worldwide map (starting with France) where anyone can rate a city—or even a neighborhood in a large city—based on a set of criteria (cleanliness, safety, green spaces, cost of living, etc.) and add a comment highlighting the positives and negatives of the area. It’d be like rating a city or neighborhood the way we currently rate restaurants or hotels.

The goal is to inform other users about the nicer (or less nice) neighborhoods in a country and help them choose where to book their next hotel or Airbnb—so they don’t end up in a sketchy area. Beyond that, it’s also about letting people pick their next travel destination based on what matters most to them (cost of living, safety, shopping, transportation, etc.). Ratings will, of course, be moderated to prevent abuse, and users will need to provide proof (like a utility bill or evidence they’ve visited the city) before they can leave a comment.

I’ve had a test version developed for Paris with the core features, and I’ve named the site CityRate.

I’d love to hear your thoughts and feedback! The site is aimed at both locals looking to move to a new neighborhood or city and travelers who want to carefully choose where to spend their next vacation.

Thanks in advance! 😊

If you're walking around the southern part of Lake Bourget, you can't escape the noise from a parachuting club's planes. A group of climate skeptics actually takes off in small, very noisy aircraft every 15 minutes over a Natura 2000 classified area. They don’t seem to face any restrictions—neither for noise nor for greenhouse gas emissions. They occupy the airspace without paying fuel taxes or providing carbon compensation to local municipalities or environmental preservation associations, apparently. It sounds surreal, but it’s very real in such an important location.

I found out that in Namibia, at a camp in the Hoanib River bed... a luxurious camp with no fences but all the comfort, including "facilities" inside... If my information is correct. An experienced "tourist" was killed by a lion at night. This person had left their tent in the middle of the night to answer a call of nature (even though all the amenities were inside the tent; "tent" is actually an understatement for this kind of "accommodation"). The other "campers" and staff intervened, but it was too late. In this region, there are desert lions. In such a hostile environment, these lions tend to look for the "easy option," so they attack livestock and get closer to humans (opportunity)... There’s an entire program to protect lions, local populations, and their livestock, including fitting lions with tracking collars. Why am I writing all this? In Southern Africa (AFS), in many places, you can find yourself in areas with no fences or protections, whether in private or public camps. There are safety rules that are clearly laid out. Only get out of your vehicle in designated areas, and always keep in mind that... wild animals could still be nearby. Even at a picnic stop in Kruger National Park (KNP)... Don’t leave your tent or the immediate area at night... and even during the day, stay alert. That’s also why children under 8, 10, or even 16 are often not allowed. Even if it seems safe... you never know! Absolute and strict adherence to these rules is essential! ESSENTIAL! Personally, I’ve seen lions very close to the "lounge" of a lodge in Addo... with people having breakfast outside, completely unfazed. I remember that lodge in Maputaland where a tourist who didn’t follow the rules was killed by a lion... (in this case, the lion was identified and killed because it might have returned and also shown its buddies how easy hunting there was). Another case where a mom decided her child was old enough to sleep alone in their chalet... and the child wandered out at night... Or those lodges where you’re escorted even for 20 meters by an armed ranger... and not just armed with a slingshot. Lodges where... YOU DON’T GO OUT AT NIGHT... if you have a problem, you have a whistle, a foghorn, and you wait... That lodge where lions approached the camp and all the staff were on high alert... Those places where you could hear the lions’ long and short calls... and the hyenas’ laughter... I could go on... And this applies to other animals too... Anyway, This little note is probably too schoolmarmish or preachy, but it’s just to remind you that safety rules are there to protect you. Never take them lightly. Never be overconfident. Ndlelanhle! !

A little link...

St Lucia is the capital of "urban" hippos... with behavior that’s not always very urban.

https://www.citizen.co.za/zululand-observer/news-headlines/local-news/2025/05/01/watch-provoked-hippo-charges-group-of-people-in-st-lucia/

Hi there,

This isn’t exactly a traveler’s question... I’d like to know who handles the technical side of this forum?

I run a similar forum on a different topic (unrecognized children), and we’re dealing with a few technical issues that are slowly killing our forum... so I’d have one or two questions to ask 😊.

Also, I was wondering who created this forum... who the administrators or moderators are, etc.

I think this forum is great. Much better than Facebook, which I’ve been using since it shut down (so I’m happy to see it’s working again...)

The chosen title was easy to find: it's from today's French daily newspaper "Le Figaro" (front page, right side, in the "Le Flash actualité" section at 10:31 AM). Link: https://www.lefigaro.fr/voyages/et-si-votre-prochain-agent-de-voyage-etait-une-intelligence-artificielle-20250414

As some participants had mentioned, a simple query could sometimes yield very satisfying results, even if the initial comments from readers of this article don’t necessarily agree.

Instead of presenting our request in writing, I assume we’ll soon be able to speak to AI orally or even have a conversation with it. Refining our searches to perfection would then be a breeze.

But then, what about travel agencies and travel forums? Will Vfistes, in a twilight atmosphere, keep talking in a closed circle, fewer and fewer of them, until the last one is left monologuing? Will a side effect be that we start addressing our fellow humans in the same cold, dry way we talk to the Machine? Well, some of us have already gotten into that habit... With over 30% of current jobs set to disappear because of AI, will it become possible to quickly and perfectly plan trips we can no longer afford financially? What a paradox!

I admit I haven’t looked into this yet, and one of these days I’ll probably end up talking to the Machine, but for now, I prefer to keep laboriously and methodically planning my upcoming trips, telling myself that at least I’m still good for something...

Dear members of this forum,

*With the pandemic, travel guides were replaced by cookbooks. With lockdown, there’s no need for the *Guía del Trotamundos*—the cookbook is gospel, and your daily life turns into a *Spaghetti Western*. It’s no longer about good and bad actors but good and bad fats. And for a few extra pinches of salt. To the tune of Ennio Morricone, it’s hard to diagnose pastalogy—sorry, the pathology—you’re suffering from. Italy, now confined, and pasta—no more aimless gondola rides on Venice’s canals or *Dolce Vita* weekends in Rome. The beauty of the soul blends with minestrone preparation.

*With the pandemic, Professor Didier Raoult became the new Christ-like figure; like the Indira Gandhi of medicine, like Moses showing the way to the people across the Dead Sea, for tormented souls, the value of a medical prescription doesn’t wait for the years to pass. And plexiglass reigned over the world.

*With the pandemic and gender theory, in particular, pushing us to become androgynous, hermaphroditic beings—*patatras*—the Colossi of Rhodes we are waver because of a tiny nuisance.

*Phew, the pandemic has receded... but watch out for a new swine flu pandemic, because on this forum, it’ll be followed by long-winded rants. Political/historical revisionism with such a pandemic—Fidel Castro wouldn’t have been able to invade the *Bahía de los Cochinos*. And that’s where his comrade Ernesto *Che* Guevara becomes a perfect scam. A fierce opponent of capitalist ideology, yet many clothing sellers got rich selling T-shirts with his face on them.

*Neutrality and the Helvetic underground. Last summer, I found myself passing the *Chalet Gaillard* deep in the *Forêt du Risoux* in the Jura, then crossing the border into the Canton of Vaud on foot. My disappointment was great: no sign indicating we were in neutral territory. And what kind of neutrality are we talking about? Since neutrality is an abstract concept. It’s like those visitors eager to see Calais who, spotting the sign for the *Pas-de-Calais* department, turn around on the road.

*There’s always a traveler quick to recommend a local guide. I know an excellent guide named Michel who lives in Cairo—Michel of Cairo. He has a truck and takes you to see the pharaoh’s ruins by truck. Still, be careful—good guides aren’t that common, because there are only eight Cairenes.

*The mix between large mammals and humans. Or how infantilism rules the world. The ultimate quest for happiness is petting rhinos in Nepal—we’ll confirm if this kind of animal is visible on the streets of Sauraha, a town near Chitwan National Park. The downside of this animal? It takes up too much space as a pet—better to raise a Yorkshire terrier in your modest apartment.

*I’m tired of recurring topics like, *‘Do I have time for my connection at New York airport?’* Aren’t you? There’s the discussion about *Gare de Lyon Part-Dieu*—*Gare de Lyon Part-Dieu*, God bless you. In the name of the Father, the taxman, and the Holy Spirit, don’t miss your connection. *Gare de Lyon-Part-Dieu*—apparently, a great French actor, Gérard de Part-Dieu, was born there. If you think you’ll miss your connection, just get rich and fly private. The working masses of the *lumpenproletariat*—they dare everything, that’s how you recognize them.

*Experts in non-events: learning that some members don’t like Spanish-speaking countries because, supposedly, the people are too loud. That’s it, I’m not going to China anymore—too many stairs on the Great Wall. So, too bad, I’m not going. It’s like two people crossing paths—one asks, *‘Going fishing?’* and the other says no. These experts are probably natives of Arles, because with people like that, it’s *l’Arlésienne*...

*The art of taking selfies at every turn. You’d think it’s an ancient practice, almost an anthropological ritual—everything suggests it dates back to prehistoric times. Back in the days of the Lascaux caves, instead of photographing the meal they were about to eat (it’s crazy how many food photos we see on this forum, especially in travel journals), prehistoric men and women could only make cave paintings. From there, it’s only a small step to conclude that cave art was nothing more than the menu served in caves that doubled as *Buffalo Grills* long before the chain existed. By the way, if you want to visit the caves, ask for a guide named Josiane. When it comes to parietal art skills, Josiane beats Lascaux... (Only the French on this forum will get that one.)

*Mythology of an object: the suitcase (a nod to Mr. Éric Libiot, whose columns I enjoy) An object that gets lost during a flight, especially during a transfer at an airport. And it’s stuffed to the brim with clothes and other useless items, like Mickey Mouse slippers. You’re in despair: when going through customs, the officers find those slightly risqué photos hidden in your laundry, taken at Cap d’Agde on a naturist beach. The suitcase is an object that makes noise when rolling because of its wheels—you’re quickly spotted.

*Hurry up and visit New York while you still can. Because of *Woke* ideology, more and more statues are being torn down, and the Statue of Liberty will likely meet the same fate. *Queer* culture isn’t everyone’s cup of tea.

*The Dead Poets Society I admired the beautiful photos of Venice, and *click*—I check the new discussions when I come across one where Mr. J.M.B. offers money loans. This person probably works at the Ministry of Finance and risks loosening the purse strings of your wallets.

*Toward the independence of New Caledonia: will we call it *Nouvelle Nouvelle-Calédonie*? From what I know, Chinese authorities want to settle there and invest; apparently, they want to send (fake) tourists—facsimiles of real travelers. So, it’ll be hard to separate the wheat from the chaff (the *ivraie* tourists).

*There’s a topic about hitchhiking in Scotland: apparently, Scots are very welcoming people. I imagine arriving at Aberdeen Airport to a typical welcoming committee—men in kilts and a bagpiper playing. Just like arriving in Papeete, where you’re greeted with flower leis—*Aloha! (Jacta Est)*. To attract tourists, Scottish cities will end up installing whisky vending machines.

*Eskimo pies banned for sale because of *cancel culture*—you can’t go to Iqaluit anymore. Panicked, ice cream manufacturers had to revise their *packaging*—sorry for the anglicism. Because of *cancel culture*, we can no longer say *Eskimo* without it being pejorative. The identity of the Arctic people of the same name takes a hit—it’s crazy how *bien-pensance* wreaks havoc in our minds... We can’t even bite into a chocolate *Eskimo* pie anymore.

*Diplomatic tensions between France and Australia: and there goes the submarine sale project, canceled. Given that the cost of these machines is a fifth of Australia’s public finances budget, it’s tough to pay in didgeridoos and kangaroo skins.

Thanks for reading, and see you soon for more chronicles.

There’s a similar discussion about India, by the way...

I really, really want to go back to China, but since the country is evolving at lightning speed, I’m wondering. I went there nearly 20 years ago. It was already undergoing a lot of changes, slowly but surely, but I still have wonderful memories of the country, which I found so endearing at the time. I visited Beijing, Sichuan, Guangxi, Hainan, and also Tibet by train, then Xinjiang. Now, we’re mainly considering Gansu and Hunan.

It was still possible to get 60-day visas back then, which isn’t the case anymore since they’re now limited to 30 days. But at the same time, the country seems more accessible. Many hotels are open to foreign tourists, sophisticated transport options have developed everywhere, and it’s possible to visit for up to 15 days without a visa... Tourists can easily travel by train or plane, but to reach places "off the beaten path," it seems you need to rent a vehicle with a driver. There used to be plenty of day-trip group tours, but that doesn’t seem to be the case anymore.

It’s hard to find info on whether certain routes are feasible for independent travel.

From what I’ve gathered here and there, "high tech" has taken over the entire country, the countryside has given way to imposing buildings, cities are increasingly industrialized and polluted—basically, the country has become dehumanized... In short, are there still beautiful places left—dare I say preserved—to see?

Add to this the bad reputation, not always justified, that China suffers from. It seems like the country is being boycotted by travel agencies, as if it’s not "politically correct" to visit. Maybe I’m exaggerating, but I’ve noticed this with French agencies like Nomade, Allibert, etc., which used to offer a wide range of itineraries everywhere, especially in Yunnan. Now, they’ve limited themselves to the classics: Beijing, Xi’an, Shanghai, water towns, or Tibet. Yunnan, Gansu, Qinghai, and many other Chinese provinces are no longer on the menu. Maybe it’s due to COVID...

The destination isn’t exactly a hit on forums either...

So, is it still worth going in 2025? I’d love to hear from those who’ve been there recently. Looking forward to exchanging thoughts on this fascinating destination (from my point of view, of course).

Anne-Claire

A turbulent period came to an end around 2022.

Many of us have returned to big trips after making only very small ones—or none at all. For a little anecdote, my dentist told me that due to the lack of travel, a lot of clients treated themselves to implants they would’ve otherwise skipped. The joy of traveling again probably gave some vacationers smiles they hadn’t dared to show before!

Here, you can share what’s on your mind: Have these new, real trips disappointed you, rejuvenated you, or just relieved a long frustration?

For my part, not being so young anymore, there was definitely relief but no explosion of joy. I just had the feeling of picking up the thread of life after a foggy pause, with the bitter taste that 2 or 3 years of my life had been partly stolen from me.

Hello everyone,

I’m sharing the menu posted at the entrance of a bar at the foot of the Porto Tower in Southern Corsica. . .

. .

Greetings and have a great Sunday.

Puma2A . .



...

After taking a little trip around the world, I came back a few months ago with an idea in mind.

I mostly do diving, and I love observing animals in their natural habitat without disturbing them.

During the trip, I realized it was quite complicated to know where and when to see certain species.

For example:

where to dive with sharks or manta rays where you might get a chance to swim with whales

I even discovered thresher sharks during my trip… I didn’t even know this species existed before, even though they’re incredible to see.

We spent a ton of time searching for info all over the place, especially on social media, without ever getting a clear picture.

So I started putting all this together on my own, in the form of a map, to make it easier to visualize where to go depending on the seasons.

I recently put a first version online (it’s called Fauneya). There are probably mistakes, inconsistencies, or things to improve, and that’s partly why I’m posting here.

I’d really love to know how you all go about planning this kind of trip.

Hello everyone,

It’s something we often notice in this forum—and many others—this behavioral shift.

A long-time member, or even a new one, asks a question. They get one or more answers, some brief, some detailed, and then... nothing???

Not even a simple thank you!!!

From what I’ve gathered, if the answers don’t align with what they wanted to hear, it seems natural for the asker to just disappear!! 😕 Unless—(and I fear this is the case)—basic politeness is no longer part of our society????

Please forgive my little rant.

Wishing everyone all the best. Cheers,

Puma2A



...

As part of my Master’s thesis, I’m currently conducting a public survey on a topic that concerns all of us when planning a trip: artificial intelligence and the role of human contact in travel planning.

These days, we’re using more and more digital tools to find ideas, compare options, and book trips... but is the role of human advisors still essential? At what moments? And for what types of trips?

The survey is anonymous and takes about 7 minutes.

It’s aimed at anyone who travels (or has traveled) for leisure, whether you plan everything yourself or go through an agency.

Survey link: https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSdkmBzW2QOE3_ZirhmdG8e2LQyaWLJxWUeyTR0LzpC8ytlufQ/viewform

Your response will be a huge help for my work and will contribute to a broader reflection on the future of the travel experience.

Thanks in advance to everyone who takes the time to participate!!

Hi there, I’ve been traveling for 18 years now, at least 6 months a year, and as the years go by, I actually enjoy coming back to France more and more—a feeling I struggled with at first. I mean, we always think the grass is greener elsewhere. But in the end, I find meaning in that saying about how there’s no place like home. I still love traveling just as much, but now my trips are shorter, and I enjoy spending more time in our beautiful country, even though I don’t hesitate to criticize it. How about you? How do you handle coming back from your travels?

Hey everyone! 😊 Aircraft manufacturers will probably adapt in the coming years, but until future planes are designed to handle severe turbulence directly linked to climate change, personally, I’ll only unbuckle my seatbelt to go to the bathroom and take a few steps to keep my blood circulating. I already made it a habit to stay buckled up during my flights. My only issue is my preference for aisle seats—getting hit in the face with luggage isn’t great 😅. What about you?

“Hey, your Marker... - My Marker? - The one you used to make hitchhiking signs.”

The marker in question is sitting proudly on the kitchen table. Marielle found it at the bottom of a moving box.

I’ve been meaning to tell the long story of my love affair with hitchhiking for years. Here we go.

To be honest, I’m not quite sure when it started. My earliest memory goes back to a fair with a bike race in my maternal grandparents’ village. I was with my cousin, my little sister, and three girl cousins. There were six of us, ages ranging from six or seven to thirteen or fourteen. Our parents stayed at the fair, and we’d had enough. So we decided to walk home. Only it was four kilometers away. So we hitchhiked. A guy driving an old car picked us all up and dropped us off at the farm. He probably found it amusing to see us thumbing a ride by the side of the road, but maybe it also worried him a bit. With everything you read in the papers...

Around fifteen or sixteen, I started hitchhiking regularly, alone or with a friend, to go to the nearby town. But it was especially when I started boarding school in Orléans that it became more regular. The first year, I’d leave Monday morning and come back Saturday noon by bus. It was an old, uncomfortable bus where we froze in winter. To make matters worse, I often got motion sickness if, as was too often the case, I ended up sitting in the back. In the spring, a high school friend suggested I hitchhike back. It meant a slight detour, but the advantage was taking only national roads.

So that’s how, from the end of tenth grade to twelfth grade, I’d thumb a ride every Saturday on the Pont de Bourgogne. Drivers were used to seeing young people hitchhiking, and it worked pretty well. Our biggest fear? Soldiers! At that time, military service was still mandatory, and on weekends, it wasn’t rare to see them competing with us. They’d keep their uniforms on to go home. That gave people confidence—with everything you read in the papers—and they’d rarely wait more than five minutes. We, with our long hair, were definitely less popular. From time to time, three big red-faced guys in a van coming back from a construction site would flip us off, yelling things like “go get a haircut, you bums!” Those were the good old days.

We still had a good laugh, though. Patrice, the friend I’d hitchhike back from school with on Saturdays, is a musician—I’d later discover he’s an excellent composer. A die-hard Beatles fan, he knows their repertoire by heart and spends his time singing at the top of his lungs while we thumb a ride. One Saturday late morning, we’d been waiting for a while at the exit of Châteauneuf-sur-Loire when a little lady came up to him and asked if he could please sing a little quieter: a baby was sleeping in the house. He put on the most sorry face: “Oh, sorry ma’am, we didn’t realize.” No sooner had the lady gone back inside than he started again. Luckily, a car stopped just then, sparing me the embarrassment of seeing the lady come back out.

Saturday was also the day when the cigarette pack was dangerously low. So before leaving, we’d go buy some “Parisiennes,” the “P4s” as we called them back then. They were slightly thinner cigarettes with a mix of tobacco scraps. Sometimes they tasted like light tobacco, sometimes like dark. Not great, but by the end of the week, our pocket money was gone. They were sold in small packs of four, hence the name P4. We’d only pay 20 centimes. On Saturdays, it was rare for the two of us to manage to scrape together 1.50 F to buy a whole pack of Gauloises...

The last twenty kilometers, I’d usually do alone, Patrice having reached his destination. From time to time, luck would smile on me: an acquaintance would just happen to pass by and stop. One January Saturday, at the exit of Gien, I ran into another guy from Argenton whom I knew a little. That day, the weather was nice, but the temperature was well below zero. It was around noon, and it was the off-peak hour. We were shivering, stamping our feet by the side of the road, when a Citroën “Tube” arrived: it was his father’s boss’s, a mason. They were both sitting in the front, but since they were obese, they had us climb onto the open back. Even though we huddled against the cab to shelter from the wind, the twenty kilometers felt very long, especially since we were only going sixty kilometers an hour. Our hands and cheeks were blue when we finally arrived.

The year I took my baccalaureate, a friend with a 2CV would take me Monday mornings with one or two others we’d pick up in nearby villages. We’d share the gas costs, but it was still cheaper than the bus. And in winter, the bus was my nightmare. You had to get up at five to catch it at six. Not enough sleep, and outside it was freezing or raining—or both. The 2CV was luxury. Plus, Philippe would pick me up at home. On the other hand, since I didn’t have class Saturday mornings—well, I did, but we only had PE the first two hours and nothing after—I’d skip class and slip out right after breakfast to thumb a ride at the Pont de Bourgogne.

Those three high school years were formative in this optional subject that was hitchhiking. Little by little, I learned the rules of the game. First, you shouldn’t walk along the road while thumbing. Cars go too fast and can’t stop easily. Accepting a ride that’s too short is also a no-go. The guy who offers to take you a little way but drops you off at some vague crossroads in the middle of nowhere? No thanks. You need to get dropped off in a town. If it’s a fairly big city, you often have to cross it from one end to the other, but it’s better. At the exit, you have to choose your spot well. Actually, you have to put yourself in the driver’s shoes: they need to see you early enough, not be going too fast, and be able to stop easily without risking an accident. So when leaving a city, it’s better not to go too far. It’s wiser to find a spot where cars go slowly and can stop easily. And preferably near a café. The café is for when you still have a few coins for a coffee and need to warm up. From time to time, you’d run into someone nice who’d make a detour to drop you off at a better spot to start again. Finally, if possible, avoid hitchhiking on Sundays. Cars are packed with whole families who, most of the time, aren’t going far. And then there’s the little worry of those people who rarely leave home: with everything you read in the papers...

During those high school years, it was only short trips, rarely exceeding a hundred kilometers. Later, I aimed bigger, and things were a bit different. In 1973-74, I crossed part of France for the first time on two or three occasions, coming back from the German border or returning to Bordeaux, where we lived briefly. Since there weren’t many highways back then, we took national roads. It was during these trips that I realized it was better to leave in the evening. As I said earlier, Sunday is to be avoided, but on weekdays, there’s another problem: if you leave in the morning, you only make short hops. First, it often takes longer to get going because drivers are people going to work nearby. Which brings us back to those who drop you off in a bad spot, far from everything. There, you have to know how to refuse. You thank the driver for stopping—oh, if only everyone could be like you—while explaining why you’d rather stay put. People don’t take offense, by the way. Those who pick up hitchhikers often hitchhiked themselves when they were in the military or before they had a car. In the late afternoon, you’d often run into salespeople or truckers, in other words, people who drive a lot. At that time, salespeople no longer had appointments and were more relaxed. They wanted to talk about something other than the merits of their products. On the radio, it was time for *Les Grosses Têtes*. You’d also quite often run into small business owners, professionals, or even hippies. The conversations were pleasant and often enriching. A little later in the evening, truckers would take over. They’d already driven a few hundred kilometers, and the depot or customs was still far away. So they’d gladly take a hitchhiker to stay awake at the wheel and chat. The radio with Max Ménier’s show *Les routiers sont sympas*, you’d eventually get tired of it. So a hitchhiker was a change. Others, who’d hit the road at midnight to be at their destination by morning, were nice and offered to let you lie down on the bunk while they drove. When you’d been hitchhiking since six in the evening, freezing in the wind between two vehicles, you weren’t unhappy to take a little nap.

Speaking of Max Ménier, he’d often make announcements for hitchhikers. One evening, I called him. It was getting late, and I still had quite a way to go. No luck: the show had ended for good the day before!

In short, it’s better not to rush, sleep in, and leave after lunch, or better yet, in the late afternoon. Obviously, I’m talking about when you have several hundred kilometers to cover. That’s when you have to play it pro.

First thing, especially at night, but it also applies in the middle of summer when the light is blinding: dress to be seen from far away. I’ll admit I have an advantage over most other hitchhikers: I’m small and don’t scare people. To balance that out, racist drivers often take me for an Arab and are less likely to pick me up, but overall, the balance tips in my favor. Back to the need to be seen: at night, I wear light-colored clothes. In headlights, you can see me from far away.

Second thing: travel light. Forget the big backpack with a frame. Drivers don’t always have room in the trunk or on the back seat, especially if it’s rained and the ground is wet. Plus, it forces them to get out of the car. If they’re nice enough to pick up a hitchhiker, you shouldn’t ask for too much either.

Third thing: bring a cardboard sign and a big marker—like the ones in the photo at the start of this post—to write the name of your destination. In the early 80s, I ran a tourist house in the Cher, but I lived in the Netherlands. In the off-season, it was only open on weekends. On Fridays, I’d leave Holland and return on Mondays. 1200 km round trip. On the way there, in Paris, I’d stand at Porte de la Chapelle. At that spot, the road is very wide, and drivers could stop easily. Obviously, on the sign, I didn’t write Eindhoven, which not everyone knows, and even less Amsterdam because of its seedy reputation. In that case, you’d expect to see a police car stop and two officers in kepis ask for your papers. So as a first destination, I’d write Compiègne. We were well out of Paris, and since it wasn’t too far, a trucker or salesperson was less reluctant to stop. Once past Compiègne, I’d take out my Lille sign. Once in Belgium, it wasn’t really necessary to use a sign anymore, since everyone was going in the same direction. Usually, the guy who picked me up at Porte de la Chapelle would say he wasn’t going far but could take me a little way. Before that, I’d still ask if there was a gas station on the highway where he could drop me off before exiting. While talking, the guy would realize he wasn’t dealing with a dangerous criminal. He’d pretend to check his watch, think for a moment, then say that actually, he was going to Belgium and could take me to the border or a little beyond. To leave Paris on the way back, I’d take the train to Melun, where it was easier to hitchhike than at Porte d’Italie.

Over all those years, I think I was pretty lucky. Or maybe philosophical enough not to imagine a car would stop after a few minutes. An hour’s wait was average. Sure, I sometimes waited three, four, or five hours. Most often at odd hours and in terrible weather. When it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work. But there’s always a moment when things pick up. Sure, when you’re soaked in freezing rain in the early morning after a sleepless night, you’re less philosophical than when I’m writing these lines comfortably at my computer, but it still holds true.

Earlier, I mentioned clothing and the importance of being well-rested before leaving. When you’ve eaten well and just gotten out of the shower, shaved, you’re in a better mood. And somehow, drivers sense it. Or at least, that’s the impression I’ve always had. It’s better to look in shape than disgusted at standing there, half-heartedly thumbing a ride. In short, when I’d start to get fed up with waiting, I’d go into the first café I saw for a coffee. Coming back out, I’d be refreshed, and most of the time, a car would stop within minutes. I’ve often said that when I stood by the side of the road thumbing a ride, I felt a bit like a gambler in front of a slot machine. It was a matter of giving luck a chance. And well, it worked out pretty well.

Then, there are countries where hitchhiking works really well and others where it’s harder. In the 70s-80s, it worked best in Germany and England. In the late afternoon, it wasn’t rare to be invited for tea. Well, that was in England. Tea meant being offered room and board. In Germany, they’d offer you coffee. Once there, they’d first show you the guest room and point out the bathroom before sitting you down in front of a big plate of cold cuts. In the evening, they’d go out in town, and the next morning, they’d usually drop you off at a good spot for hitchhiking. On the other hand, in Mediterranean and Scandinavian countries, you’d better be patient. In Spain or Italy, it’s better to take the train, which was dirt cheap back then. However, if you’re a couple traveling light, it’s already easier in most countries.

In 1982, I went on a trip around Turkey with my girlfriend. We only had two small bags, which was plenty. It was November-December, and we wore our warm, bulky clothes. Leaving Eindhoven at nine in the morning, we arrived in Graz, near the Yugoslav border, at eleven at night. 1300 km in a day! In just four or five vehicles. One to the German border, about fifty kilometers from Eindhoven, the second to Hagen in the Ruhr, the third to Salzburg, and the last to Graz at the Yugoslav border. Record broken. During the night crossing of Yugoslavia, we ran into a trucker close to retirement who lent us the truck’s bunk. So we arrived fresh and rested near Skopje the next morning. We continued to Thessaloniki in northern Greece before taking the train to Istanbul. In Turkey, we traveled a good part of the country by hitchhiking too. With truckers in old, overloaded, slow trucks that climbed hills at fifteen kilometers an hour, but also in cars where five or six people were already crammed in. And every time, we were invited for tea. Once, we were even picked up by a big shot in his Mercedes with a chauffeur. Until then, the average speed was around fifty kilometers an hour. There, we were going two hundred. On a national road, not a nice European highway.

I’ve also hitchhiked in Nepal, from Lumbini, Buddha’s birthplace, to a village on the way to Pokhara. It must have been midday. No bus until the next day. I gave it a try. A small truck overloaded with rice sacks, with two or three young people already perched on top, stopped. I rode on the roof of the cab. At fifty kilometers an hour when it was going well, with a breathtaking view. Coming back from India, I also crossed part of Iran by hitchhiking, from Tehran to the Turkish border. I did this trip with an Austrian I met at the hotel who, like me, had to watch his pennies. We gave it a shot. There was almost no traffic, but to our great surprise, the first car that passed in the area would always stop. They’d just ask for a modest contribution for gas, and it cost next to nothing.

Sometimes, you get scared too. After leaving Turkey in early December 82, we spent about two weeks in the southern Peloponnese harvesting olives. A few days before Christmas, we hitchhiked back to Holland. A girl picked us up in her little Fiat 500. We were driving on a mountain road, and that morning there was a bit of black ice. After crossing a pass, we saw the old Ford Taunus ahead of us at fifty meters start to skid. The driver let out a “heeee!” while grabbing my knees. I reflexively grabbed the wheel. Finally, the Taunus got back on track. And we didn’t swerve. But those few seconds felt very long.

In January 77, while I’d been living in Germany for a few months, I decided to spend a few days in Italy. By hitchhiking, of course. I left in the early afternoon, and by ten at night, I wasn’t far from Frankfurt. I saw a big Mercedes stop. The four or five young people crammed inside were listening to Schlager at full volume. Beer cans littered the floor. They didn’t have a precise destination, and as long as they were going south, that was fine with me. They’d finished their military service that very day and had clearly already celebrated their discharge. The driver was going 160, zigzagging dangerously from one side of the highway to the other. I should have realized he wasn’t entirely sober either. Luckily, there was almost no traffic. Finally, I managed to get dropped off at a gas station just before Frankfurt, relieved. I hope their trip didn’t end tragically.

Another time, coming back from Holland with my wife, we were picked up early in the morning near Senlis by two guys from Lille. They were going to work near Tours and could drop us off at Porte d’Italie. Apparently, they were coworkers but barely knew each other. The driver offered us a beer—at six in the morning, sure!—before opening another can for himself. He was clearly having trouble staying in the right lane. We politely declined, the passenger too. Everyone was tense. Luckily, it was rush hour on the ring road, and we were going slowly. When we got out of the car, the passenger said goodbye with the look of a guy being offered the condemned man’s rum and cigarette.

Finally, there are the annoying remarks from drivers who are either gay when you’re alone or turned on by the sight of your girlfriend when you’re a couple. In those cases, I’d get in the back so the guy wouldn’t feel too confident. And if the conversation got a little too suggestive, we’d deflect until we got dropped off.

And luckily, there are the times, not so rare after all, when you run into really nice people who invite you to eat and sleep at their place and drive you to a good spot the next morning. In Germany and England, that was common. And then there are the big strokes of luck, like during our trip to Turkey when we crossed most of Germany in one car, or that other time when some Germans drove me from the exit of Geneva all the way to the Costa Brava.

Going back to “with everything you read in the papers” and its variant “with everything you see on TV”—and now on the internet—it’s always left me perplexed. Personally, I’ve never heard of hitchhikers assaulting drivers, even if it may have happened. On the other hand, what was most common were hitchhikers being assaulted, especially girls. Anyway, even armed, it seems a bit stupid to assault the driver—wouldn’t that risk causing an accident?

Finally, since that time, I’ve occasionally wanted to hitchhike somewhere far away in France. Most often, too busy with work, it never happened, but the nostalgia hasn’t completely disappeared.

* * *

Other Hitchhikers

And then one day, I... settled down to become a driver myself. Ten years had passed, and you saw fewer and fewer hitchhikers. Or maybe I saw fewer because I had a regular job and wasn’t traveling the same way. And then I understood a few things.

Several times, I was tempted to pick up a hitchhiker, but they didn’t meet the required conditions. They were walking along the road instead of staying at the exit of the previous town. Hard to stop without risking an accident. Or the guy looked really scruffy. Or he was sulking, if not both. Then you think of that famous “with everything you read in the papers.” Not that I was scared, but unfortunately, the few hitchhikers I did pick up later were rarely interesting.

A few years ago, we picked up a young guy at the exit of a small town in Sologne. Not an easy spot for hitchhiking. Bad luck, he was a pretentious little jerk. He was barely 20 or 25 and talked like a bitter old man. He was a waiter in a restaurant. According to him, it was lucky he was there, otherwise the boss would have closed up shop long ago. You’d think he had thirty or forty years of professional experience behind him. As we approached Blois, he started ranting about Arabs, blaming them for all evils. And he laid it on thick. That morning, we were going to a teenager’s funeral who had just committed suicide, so he really got on our nerves, Mr. Know-It-All. Out of anger, I dropped him off next to a shopping center a few kilometers from downtown. Not nice, but it felt good.

Some time ago, we were driving around the Limousin on a Sunday to try out the used Twingo we’d just bought. We picked up a guy in his forties. A German who spoke French well. He started talking about the environment. He was a green Khmer. He got worked up all by himself with his pseudo-eco rant and, after a few kilometers, was almost yelling at us. As we were about to leave the main road for a small one, I dropped him off at a crossroads in the middle of nowhere. Normally, I would have made a little detour to take him to a better spot, but this time, I didn’t feel like doing the... eco-warrior a favor.

On the other hand, I’ve still done my good deed a few times. One June morning, coming back from Orléans, I saw a man in his sixties hitchhiking. The poor guy had had a rough time. He was from Montpellier and was coming back from Caen, where he’d been promised a job. Once there, they bluntly told him the position was already taken, and he had to go back. Except he didn’t have enough money left for the train. He’d spent the night hitchhiking without success. I could only take him as far as Lamotte-Beuvron, where I dropped him off near the fire station. Apparently, there was some vague shelter there or something, but it only opened a few hours later. In the meantime, he settled on the grass in a corner to sleep a little. While he was doing that, I quickly went to the train station to check the price of a ticket to Montpellier. It was within my means. Since he was sound asleep, I slipped the train ticket and 100 francs into his pocket. I couldn’t imagine him continuing to hitchhike all the way to Montpellier. And I bet he didn’t even have a piece of cardboard and a marker!

When we go to Brazil, we usually rent a small car. One day, we were coming back from Paracuru to Fortaleza when we saw a whole family hitchhiking. Two adults and two or three small children. Here near the equator, the sun sets very quickly, and it would soon be night. There was little traffic, and trucks wouldn’t stop because there was no room in the cab. As for the rich people driving big 4x4s, they wouldn’t stoop to picking up the lower classes. The only hope for this kind of family was usually a farmer or artisan who’d let them ride in the back of his pickup. Obviously, they were a bit surprised to see us. Everyone crammed in as best they could in the back of our little car. When we dropped them off, we got a whole string of “Deus lhes abençõe”—God bless you.

Still in Brazil, we were on the road from Barreirinhas to São Luís do Maranhão. About 150 km of deserted road with an isolated mud house here and there. A young woman flagged us down. She was very pregnant and had to get to the clinic twenty or thirty kilometers away to give birth. Someone was supposed to drive her, but the first signs of labor started earlier than expected, and the driver was unavailable. Even driving fast, we weren’t feeling great: it would be just our luck if she gave birth in the car!

Today, we’re in the age of smartphones and carpooling apps. Safety. With everything you see on TV... Three or four years ago, we signed up on a platform. Our first, and only, “client” was a little jerk who didn’t say a word the whole trip. No hello, no goodbye, and certainly no thank you. The next day, we found his Ray-Bans in the car. We didn’t run after him to give them back. Ha!

My two bullfighting traditions when I'm back home in Camargue (France) and in Colombia (Caribbean) every time I return. 🤠 Details: Bullfights (corridas) aren’t part of my two bullfighting traditions, but I respect those who attend them!!! In these two ancestral bullfighting traditions—which aren’t bullfights—the Bulls and Toros aren’t killed or tortured, as some might think. These are bull games where the animals return to their pastures afterward and only come back to the Arenas 2–3 times a year at most. They spend 15 minutes in the ring for the Camarguais and 5 minutes for the Toros in the Colombian Corralejas. They’re cared for and pampered. They’ll die of old age in miles of open fields. The young people who face them are professionals, risking their lives to support their families and live their Passion for the Toro!!! 😄 https://youtu.be/yYKQer42HoQ Colombian Corraleja in the link below (hope it works) 🤪 https://fb.watch/BMfmuCgQpG/

Hey hey, A great way to meet locals! I got hooked on it over the years, and after a few women-only trips with an all-female agency (bad experiences with 5 to 10 chicks every time—many of them think they’re well-educated but actually stick their noses in everything 🤪), I’m heading out solo again soon. (Don’t ask me where—I rarely plan my trips and usually leave on a whim within days. Thinking of Canada in September, should be cool!)

Little tip for those who are nervous but still want to travel solo: It’s all about attitude because everything shows on your face. Sometimes approached by aggressive or just rowdy groups, it’s easy to spot the ringleader (it’s the one running his mouth 😏). And that’s who you need to target—use a tone that’ll leave him speechless (after that, you’ve won, and sometimes they even become friends). Not always, though! 😄

I briefly set out to tally things up, having asked myself the same question, and here are some figures and my thoughts on the travel journals that have seen the greatest success over more than 22 years—the first one was posted on 04/17/2003.

Before sharing the TOP 25, I notice that the United States of America seems to have sparked the most interest among readers: 11 out of the 25 most read. The American dream is still very much alive. With passionate travelers, too, since there are often many participants (quite chatty ones), which significantly boosts the number of views. Since VF was hosted in Canada, maybe there’s also a fair number of Canadian readers adding to that?

Asia comes in second with 8 journals, confirming the appeal of these destinations. We also see 4 Europe-related journals in this best-of.

The numbers are undeniable, but they should be put into perspective. For example: - A journal published a long time ago has a better chance of being widely read than a more recent one. - A journal published all at once will get fewer visitors than one published over 30 days, recounting a month-long trip. - Some journals have renewed readability because their author or readers add information or comments.

You could also say that a journal with 5,000 views about Ireland or Iceland, for instance, doesn’t fall short compared to those about a more popular destination like the U.S., which might have tens of thousands of views.

Personally, I regret the absence from the ranking of journals I admired—both very well-written and featuring stunning photos. On the other hand, the presence of some journals in the most-read list is quite puzzling to me.

Three distinct periods stand out: - The 2000s. It took some time for the site to become known and for word-of-mouth to spread. Back then, some people, especially older travelers (who are more likely to both travel and publish journals on VF), didn’t even have internet yet. Plus, many journals from that era had few or no photos, which doesn’t attract some readers. - The early 2010s. There was probably a peak, an optimal moment, with the site being more well-known and visible, and a generation of travelers ready to share and help. With few exceptions, all the most-read journals date from 2006 to 2016. - From the late 2010s onward, there may have been a turning point. Fewer people enjoying (or knowing how to) read, more people moving to various social media platforms for their immediacy and ease?

I’m not unhappy to be in 26th place with my 2013 journal about a part of southern Thailand. I owe it largely to the photos of the adorable langur monkeys and the messages from all those who went to see them thanks to me. Those were good times that will be hard to relive.