Results for "Sept+laux+|+127"

🙂 Je quitte le 24 juillet pour le Tryp à Cayo Coco via Air Canada... J'aimerais connaître les conditions climatiques à ce temps-ci de l'année. J'y suis toujours allée en avril-mai ou sept-oct... J'ai beau vérifier la température, ils disent qu'il fait toujours très beau mais.... si c'est comme ici... je met le parapluie dans les bagages...

Merci

Lysblanc

Suis preuneuse de toutes remarques positives 🙂 ou négatives 🤪 sur l'hotel H10 à punta cana, ainsi que le voyagiste marsans avec qui nous allons partir en sept.

si qq vues pour illustrer lé commentaires, c encore mieux...

😉

après un voyage de Montpellier à Djibouti par Tunisie, Libye, Egypte, Soudan, Ethiopie du Nord, Djibouti en oct-déc 2003, nous avons laissé nos véhicules à Djibouti où nous retournons en Sept pour continuer vers l'Afrique du Sud par Ethiopie du Sud, Kenya, Tanzanie, Zambie, Malawi, Zimbawe, Botswana, Afrique du Sud d'où nous renverrons nos véhicules en France.

3 tuyaux nous intéressent :

* quels pays exigent le carnet de passage en douane * qui aurait l'adresse d'un transitaire en Afrique du Sud pour l'expédition en container * problèmes de sécurité dans ces pays ?

MERCI et cordialement

Karibou

Je suis allé à Paris à la Librairie l'astrolabe car je voulais trouver des infos pour mon tour du monde ( qui debutera en sept 2005) et j ai trouvé un super guide avec plein d'infos, dont les adresses et prix de tous les billets TDM plus visa, equipements....

A bon entendeur salut

Wanaka

je voudrai partie en septembre..alors si vous avez d tuyaux..

merci d'avance!

Salut, salut, je cherche des sites troglodytes interessants à voir dans les pays suivants : Hongrie, Roumanie, Bulgarie, Turquie, Lybie, Niger, Mali, Mauritanie et Maroc. C'est l'itinéraire du voyage que j'entreprend avec mon ami à partir de sept 2003, et j'aurais aimé faire un reportage photo sur les troglo et leur utilisation à travers le monde. Merci d'avance. NB, j'ai également laissé un message dans la rubrique tour du monde pour des infos sur la Lybie.

Salut à tous ceux qui viendront lire ce mess!!😊

Voilà, j'aimerais aller aux Etats Unis à la fin 2003 (Aout/Sept).

Pour ne pas trop me disperser j'aimerais que vous me conseillez pour organiser mon futur voyage.J'ai remarqué, par exemple que les hôtel étaient très cher pour New York.Quelques plans seraient le bienvenue.

Après quelques jours sur NY? J'aimerais prendre un vol interne.Le pays est tellement grand je ne sais pas trop où aller Mais peu être:La Nouvelle Orléans...Aider moi pour un premier..En tout cas, finir à LAngeles (j'ai un ami là bàs).Et puis retour en France.

Je pense prendre 3 semaines. N'hésiter pas à me guider.(livres, 😛les sous:c'est ce qui va guider beaucoup de choses, les 4ou5 belles choses à ne pas rater dans les grosses villes que vous avez faites...)

Merci et @+

🙂

Hi there,

I’m trying to find out if it’s still possible to travel from Mumbai to Goa by ferry or any other sea route. My search results aren’t very clear, and if it *is* possible, I can’t figure out where to book... If anyone has any info, I’d really appreciate it—thanks in advance!

Have a great day,

Virginie

Hi everyone,

This September, my partner and I are heading to North Sulawesi for 3 weeks. Our international flight is with Malaysia Airlines, departing from Paris. We have a layover in KL, then fly to Denpasar, followed by a domestic flight from Denpasar to Manado. We land in Bali Denpasar on 05/09 around 12:00 PM, and our flight to Manado is on 07/09 at 1:30 AM. The plan was to have at least one night (from the 5th to the 6th of September) between our international flight and our flight to Manado, just to recharge a bit since we're not 20 anymore 😛. My question is, given the very short stop in Bali (a day and a half), is it better to stay in Denpasar rather than go to Ubud for the night? I’ve been to Bali before, and from what I remember, even though the distances are short, transfers take a long time because of the extremely heavy traffic—but I was there in July, not September. I’m not sure if that makes a big difference? If the answer is "it’s better to stay in Denpasar," are there any nice places to visit? There’s very little feedback about the city since tourists usually don’t stick around. Thanks in advance for your replies.

Hi there, For our trip in a month, we’ll have a long wait at OR Tambo. Our flight from Port Elizabeth lands at 2 p.m. and our return flight doesn’t leave until 11:45 p.m. I’m looking for either a nearby spot to kill time or a quiet corner in the airport to catch some sleep and relax. Any ideas, please? Thanks

Hello, We’re a senior couple planning to spend around 3 weeks in Uzbekistan, either starting at the end of March or mid-April. We’ll begin in Khiva (Urgench) and finish in Tashkent (via Termez). We prefer traveling independently as much as possible, at our own pace, and are considering hiring drivers for specific legs of our journey. Here’s our rough itinerary: 4 nights in Khiva 4 in Bukhara 5 or 6 in Samarkand (we’d like to do a day trip to the Seven Lakes in Tajikistan) 2 in Termez Then Tashkent and the Fergana Valley 2 in Tashkent Does this seem balanced? Any suggestions? We’re not planning to go as far as the Aral Sea or stay in a yurt camp. Is the weather favorable at the end of March (risk of rain)? Or would mid-April be better? What’s the typical cost for a driver’s services? Thank you in advance for any tips that could help us with our plans. Andrea

Hi there, we’re planning a trip for two couples in October 2025—ideally to Tanzania and Zanzibar for a safari circuit and 2 to 3 nights in Zanzibar. If anyone has already traveled with Tanzanisa Specialist, Comptoir des Voyages, or another agency, we’d love to hear about your experience or any tips you might have.

Thanks everyone!

Hi everyone,

For a combined trip to New Zealand and eastern Australia, which time of year would you pick for photography and videography?

Thanks for your help

For once, given the destination, the author can’t set aside their religious beliefs, which inevitably shape this kind of journey.

The Trip

Early in the morning at Orly Airport, in the departure lounge for Tel Aviv, a group of about forty young men arrives, all looking identical! The same neatly trimmed beards, the same identical haircuts, the same outfits with a touch of whimsy… The effect of seeing these forty “clones” is striking and raises questions! Why such perfect uniformity among this group of guys? Do they belong to the same family, sports club, cultural association, or religious group? A mystery! At the same time, the waiting area fills up with men who are more expected, given our destination: they wear large felt hats and dress in black suits with white shirts—Hassidim? The ones I’ve glimpsed fleetingly in Paris or New York, who have always been a mystery to me. More discreet-looking women accompany them.

I’m already in Israel without even setting foot there! Plus, I witness the preparations for an improvised show.

The “clones” start a flash mob at seven in the morning in a Paris airport departure lounge! Some pull out musical instruments, others begin singing and dancing. A music with strange, unfamiliar sounds enchants the waiting passengers.

The flight crew finally arrives, cutting through the flash mob, bringing us back to the reality of the moment: waiting to take off soon for this so troubling and mysterious Middle East. We go through passport control, presenting our faces to the scanners that operate the exit gate. The group of “identical” young men gets held up by the system: logically, a scanner let the first one through but blocked the second because of his perfect resemblance to the first. To the machine, the same person shouldn’t be able to cross the border twice? But eventually, the whole group makes it through the glass doors, leaving the Republic behind. My simplistic explanation is left looking ridiculous.

At every new destination, I ask myself countless questions, revealing a certain anxiety tied to the unknown: fear of attacks (one just happened at a bus station in Jerusalem), possible police pressure, unexpected events. Israel isn’t known for being a relaxing destination. In reality, if I did face a serious difficulty in this country, it wasn’t one I had anticipated—and it wasn’t particularly tied to Israel!

I take my seat by the window, which is already occupied by a little girl. Her father, a Hassidic man, politely asks if I’d be willing to give up my seat for his daughter. I tell him I’d be happy to make her happy. Seeing me masked, he asks if I’d like him and his daughter to wear masks too. In response, I take off my mask so as not to impose any constraints on them and wish them a good flight.

It was the first time I’d approached and spoken to a Hassidic man. He didn’t speak the way I might have expected after watching *Rabbi Jacob* with Louis de Funès; he spoke perfectly without an accent, just like you and me! Beware of stereotypes! Throughout the flight, I sneak glances at my strange neighbor: he prayed silently without stopping for a minute. His daughter, as good as gold, never interrupted him. He used several religious accessories during his three-hour continuous prayer: a kippa, a prayer shawl, and a rosary?… I left that plane deeply impressed, me, who has a very distant relationship with my Creator and only prays now and then.

“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!

Hi everyone, Back from my summer vacation, and it's already time to start planning the next one! I mean, I work to go on vacation and explore with my family—don’t you? Next destination: Mexico (Yucatán and Quintana Roo), When: February/March 2026, Duration: 17 nights there (+1 arrival night, either a layover or late in the evening), Who: Two adults and two young kids (3 and 8 years old), Transport: Rental car Interests: Culture, a little relaxation, hiking (though I’m not sure if the destination is ideal for that), and nature exploration.

The plan is to do the classic route but stay longer in each place—it’s easier to manage with kids. Here’s what I had in mind:

Valladolid = 3 nights to visit Ek Balam, Chichén Itzá, and a cenote. Mérida = 3 nights for a stop in Izamal on the way, exploring Mérida, then Uxmal + a trip to Celestún. Campeche = 2 nights to see the Xtacumbilxunaan cave and the Edzná Maya site. Calakmul = 1 night Bacalar = 3 nights for the Lagoon of Seven Colors, Fort San Felipe, some downtime, and a possible day trip to Cozumel if needed. Tulum = 5 nights to visit Cobá, Tulum, cenotes, the beach, Sian Ka’an + Muyil. Then back to the airport (1h30 drive or 2h if flying into Cancún).

Does this seem well-balanced? Could I improve it by grouping accommodations more? I’m guessing Palenque/Yaxchilán is too far (even if I cut other things from the itinerary)? It still sounds like an amazing trip... Thanks,

Let’s catch up with a new travel journal from July 2024—only 6 months late, no biggie!

We’ll be talking about this gorgeous island, its tail end, wildlife (old habits die hard), and the sheer joy of it all 🙂

So happy to be back with you all that I’m rushing to share my trip report! We chose to stay exactly 14 days to avoid paying for a visa. As a result, we didn’t have time to explore the south—we’ll be back because Oman is a great destination in January. Temperatures were a perfect 25–27°C during the day. No rain for us, but it can happen.

We bought the *Évasion Oman* guidebook. We started with the Jebels (the mountains), abandoned villages, then the desert, wadis along the coast, and finished in the capital. For us, it was easier to go from cold (2,000 meters, after all) to hot before returning to our freezing Normandy in January.

The people were incredibly welcoming and lovely. We camped in natural camping areas where you can make a fire (free, no facilities or water). Easy to find—just search "camping" on Google Maps (an essential app). We traveled as a group of five and rented a 4x4 seven-seater from Europcar before leaving (price included our insurance): 800 euros for 14 days. Essential for getting everywhere, as there are lots of dirt tracks. We brought our camping gear from France since the baggage allowance is 30 kg. Oh, and also two liters of rum and a box of white wine—also essential.

Food was tricky if you don’t like spicy dishes or just chicken. You have to eat at international restaurants, which cost about the same as back home. We’d packed vacuum-sealed meat for the first three days and a few cans. For beaches, stick to the ones marked on Google for swimming—otherwise, they can be dirty and full of oil.

We arrived at 6:30 AM, bought a SIM card (make sure to remove yours before arriving and tape it to the back of your phone), exchanged money (not great rates at the airport—better in malls or souks; no exchanges in banks), and picked up the car. Then we headed to a Carrefour supermarket, but it was closed. We drove to Jebel Al Akhdar, the Sayq Plateau, where we found markets along the way. There are also bazaar shops where you can get gas bottles—they’re everywhere in mid-sized towns. There are even hypermarkets.

We hiked the well-marked old Sayq trail (red and white markings). Our return was improvised. We camped on the plateau and got cold—bring 0°C sleeping bags! The next day, we visited the abandoned villages of Wadi Bani Habib: juniper forests, canyon viewpoints. Then Birkat Al Maws on the way down—a beautiful palm grove. Next, Nizwa Hotel. The beds were really hard there—ask to see the rooms and test the beds before booking. There’s always availability, with prices starting at 35 euros for two.

On the third day, we went to Jebel Shams. Hiked along the canyon starting from Ghul, then descended. Camped on the road to Balha Fortress, which we visited the next morning (stunning!). Then we explored Nizwa before heading to the Wahiba Desert. Camped along the way, then drove to our accommodation: two days in the desert. We found the Thousand Nights Camp 40% cheaper a month before. Note: you have to leave by 1 PM in a convoy to reach the hotel.

On the sixth day, we hiked in the desert on our own because the activity prices were outrageous.

On the seventh day, we headed to a wadi, Bani Khalid, then to Sur, a seaside hotel. We booked just one room for five of us—hotel apartments are huge, and since we had our camping mattresses, it wasn’t a problem to set up in the living room. There’s even a kitchen. In cities, camping spots are poorly located—near intersections, etc.

Beach time and sightseeing on the eighth day, then we drove to the white sand beach in Fins, where we stayed for two nights (we left the tents set up but empty). This was our favorite campsite—go all the way to the end of the road, there’s a small cove and a stunning spot.

On the ninth day, we visited Wadi Shab and the Salma Plateau to find the tombs. The hike up from Fins was way too long—probably better to take the route suggested in the guidebook for a round trip. Meh, no one really enjoyed it.

On the tenth day, we went to Wadi Al Arbiyyin and drove to Seeb Al Mouj to book a diving trip. Stayed at Al Ferdous Hotel Apartments until the end—well-located for visiting Muscat and a great value. Just make sure to check the room first, as some beds are very hard and others aren’t.

Eleventh day: diving and beach time.

Twelfth day: visited the Grand Mosque (unlucky—first day it became paid, and not just a little: 8 OMR). Then explored the old city.

Thirteenth day: the Grand Opera and beach at The Village, where we found a great pizzeria: pizzawifi.com.

Fourteenth day: And that’s it—back home, thrilled to have discovered this magical country. We’ll be back!

Hi everyone, my partner is Malian and I’d love to be able to say sweet things to him in Bambara, as well as learn some polite phrases. Thanks for your help! 😊

Here are a few examples: I love you My love My heart My life You’re the man of my life I care about you I want to live with you Kiss me I miss you Thank you Please Hello See you soon

Hi there, we’re heading to Mauritius in December-January. The question is: what should we visit first?

Thanks for your tips!

JP

Imagine a peaceful fishing village, completely transformed by artists who worked their magic on the walls of 100 residential houses. That’s the remarkable story of the Tam Thanh mural village in Quang Nam province. Once similar to many other coastal villages in the area, it now firmly stands out on the tourist map for a day trip from Hoi An. In the summer of 2016, Tam Thanh was selected by a Korean-Vietnamese joint project called Art For A Better Community. The village was chosen to be their blank canvas, inspired by the success of mural villages in Korea. The project aimed to make Tam Thanh the first painted village of its kind in Vietnam. The joint project included five Korean artists and seven Vietnamese artists, along with local volunteers. They aimed to show Vietnamese people that art could be part of everyday life, no matter where you stand in society. The effort began with about three weeks of wall washing, followed by painting the walls of over 100 residents' houses. The project was a success, and the village came alive with the paintings. The entire village is now a breathtaking gallery just waiting to be explored. The murals capture the life and soul of the village—from young children playing to fishermen in the ocean. A mix of fantastic pieces offers stunning backdrops for photos. The painted art around the town didn’t just have a visual impact; it also had a social one. The village itself was chosen not only for the layout of the houses but also to contribute to economic development opportunities in Tam Thanh. Tourists now visit the once-overlooked village, creating more income for locals and making it a successful "art for a cause" project. For example, an entrepreneurial resident who owned a small local café invested 1,000,000 VND ($390 USD) in a sugarcane press a week before the paintings were completed. Sugarcane juice vendors then multiplied with the growth of tourism (5,000 VND - $0.20 USD). Walking down the village’s single street, it’s common to find locals selling refreshments and handmade crafts. In one house in particular, a tailor and his family are painted on an outer wall with incredible detail. The family started selling tote bags decorated by their young daughter. The asking price for the bags is 100,000 VND ($4 USD). If you’re looking for a way to support the village’s economy, this is it. Since there’s no middleman here, you can be sure your money goes directly to the community. Since the project’s completion, two other villages in the province have now been painted. The new mural villages were created with different local Vietnamese artists to raise awareness about each community’s issues. Tam Hai Island was redecorated to highlight the serious waste problem the population faces due to the lack of treatment plants. Another village on An Binh Island was painted to raise awareness among locals and tourists about the importance of environmental protection. How to get there Route No. 1: Cross the large Cua Dai bridge. Once you’ve crossed it, continue onto Duong 129/Duong Ven Bien. Stay on this road for 33 kilometers. Upside: this route has light traffic, no traffic lights, and no trucks or buses. It’s a great direct route to the village but offers little to see. You’ll eventually reach a crossroads. Turn right toward Tam Ky town, while the left will take you toward the mural village; stay on Road 608 as it turns twice before reaching a bridge. Cross the bridge, and you’ll arrive at Thanh Nien Road. Finally, turn right to reach the village. This route takes about an hour. Route #2: Cross the large Cua Dai bridge. Once you’ve crossed it, continue onto Duong 129/Duong Ven Bien. Stay on this road for 12 kilometers, then turn left onto Road 613, where you’ll continue for 1.5 kilometers until you reach Thanh Nien Road. Finally, turn right and drive 23 kilometers to the painted village. For most of the trip, taking Thanh Nien Road will take you through a much more local part of the region. The journey takes about an hour and a half.

Hi there. I'd like to change the chainring on my Riverside 5 with trigger shifters. I’m attaching a photo for advice. I’m lacking power and want a larger chainring for road use because I’m spinning out on the highest gear even though I still have power to give on flat terrain. At Decathlon, they were supposed to get back to me after checking it out in the workshop but never did. It was outside their standards, and the salesperson clearly forgot about me... What are your recommendations and suitable products for purchase, please? Thanks. Best regards,

Great news that the forum is back—we’ve been waiting for this for ages! Now we can chat again with the die-hards like Claudio, Luc Bertand, and everyone else... Voyager à vélo

Frontières ouvertes ou fermées, visas délivrés ou pas, formalités spécifiques et autres particularités dues à la crise sanitaire. Un tour d'horizon actualisé quotidiennement par Action-Visas pour les Français et Européens souhaitant partir en voyage à l'étranger. Lire la suite...

Bonjour Nous devons partir le 11 septembre 2020 en Andalousie par Raynair , mais nous ne voulons pas partir. Il y a t'il des personnes qui ont écrit à Raynair mais en France Il y a t'il des personnes qui ont été dans notre cas ? Il y a t'il des personnes qui sont partis cet été en Andalousie ? Merci en attendant votre réponse

Bonjour, Voyage dans les Cyclades prévu en septembre. Pour le retour volotea a modifié les horaires de ses vols, du coup nous allons louper notre correspondance avec le vol retour via Ryanair. Quels sont mes possibilités ?

Mykonos Athènes par volotea Athènes Toulouse par Ryanair

Merci de votre aide

Bonjour je devais faire une croisière avec le Meraviglia de MSC le 8 mars 2020 j ai du annuler le 5 mars car ayant vu les situations sur ce navire bagarres pas de dialogues avec le commandant média net et télé ayant des problèmes cardiaques je ne voulais pas partir car je fais beaucoup de stress l annulation a été faite ms répondu de croisierenet que Msc ne voulait pas nous donner un avoir alors que l ordonance du decret 2020-315 dit que l annulation du voyageur ou du professionel est compatible a cet avoir du montant payer et valable 18 mois a compter du 1 mars 2020 au 15 sept 2020 y a til des passagers de le même ca que nous ou des passagers qui ont fait malgré tout la croisiere car nous savons que aucun pays ne les a reçu a part ocean cay que l l'ile appartient à MSC svp puis je avoir des réponses Merci