Had a baby, quit my job, packed a bag, headed to Europe. I guess somewhere, tucked behind the logistical efforts and nappy changes, there is a book about new beginnings and transformation and challenges and roaming: It’s made for a blog, really. Or at the very least an Instagram stream.
Easier said than done, it turns out, as I navigate security checks, scramble for plug adapters and breastfeed way, way more than Finia strictly needs – anything not to wake my hosts and to quell the jetlag. Five-and-a-bit weeks in to my Grand Tour and I’m finally putting finger to keyboard, grey mountain skies and a sleeping baby allowing, belatedly, some time to get going on that story.
So, with the pram, 20kg and help from strangers all along the way, we have made it to the shadow of Mont Blanc, via Dubai, England’s West Country, the Basque region, Munich and now Morzine, in the French Alps. Here’s to you, the bearded Lebanese grandfather who picked a crying Finia out of her car seat (no bassinets left) 33,000km above the Indian ocean while I jiggled in the loo queue, and to you, the Sri Lankan toilet cleaner at Dubai airport who played with Finia while I did the same as the final call for our flight clanged in the background. It’s amazing, really, how a baby connects.