I'm leaving for Paris tonight. Whenever I tell people that they always say "How glamorous/exciting/fabulous", whatever. It is, I guess. But it's work. As soon as I get off the plane, I have to find the transfer van and load 7 journalists onto it and get them to their hotels and then make sure they are ready for lunch and deal with their complaints about jet lag, achy joints, not having slept on the plane, whatever. Like it's my fault they chose to be travel journalists instead of beauty editors or novelists. Travel journalists TRAVEL. You'd think they would be better at it. Some of them, I swear, I worry if they try to cross the street by themselves, never mind cross an ocean.
Mostly I like my job but sometimes people treat me like their travel agent, their concierge, their maid. They don't realize that they are getting to travel to France, mostly for free, and not a lot of other people get that opportunity. In return they are expected to come to lunch and dinner and meet with tourism professionals and hotel managers, and take tours of museums and wineries and nature preserves that they have no interest in seeing because it's their JOB. But inevitably I have to bite my tongue and stop myself from reminding one of them that they are NOT on vacation. It's like babysitting, I swear.
I gave up cursing for Lent. This was probably not the best time to do that.
After France, I am going to the UK -- London, Lincoln and Edinburgh. That part should be fun. Then the group is the rep from Visit Britain's problem. They are only my problem when they are in France.
Anyone want me to bring them back a plastic Eiffel Tower? Or a bottle of scotch? Let me know.
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