There’s a Place in France

There’s a Place in France

“Where My Home Becomes a Van”

Before we ever crossed into France, our pack was already rolling through the familiar trails of Colorado. We left behind our cushy den in Boulder—two decks, three beds (all mine, of course), and backdoor mountain trails filled with birdsong—for a life on wheels, endless cobblestone alleyways, and the sound of church bells ringing.

Luckily, this wasn’t my first rodeo. When I was two, we spent 14 months driving from our home all the way to the tip of Argentina. That trip was filled with fireworks and roosters crowing from sundown to sunrise. It was humbling—even at my age—but also deeply rewarding. It wasn’t always easy, but it made me a better dog. And honestly? It was so much fun.

Lately, I’ve had this Garth Brooks song stuck in my ears:

“I’ve got friends in small spaces,
Where the chompagne drools
And the frischeese chases
My blues away…”

Pretty sure I heard it on my private jet to France. That flight might as well have had Garth himself on stage, singing just for me!

I dogress…

One of the best parts of this trip has been being with my pack almost 24/7 in our cozy, den-like van. Sure, I gave up my three beds, but I gained one big one—with endless cuddle puddles. And I’ve got three smaller beds now anyway. Total win.

Mom, though? She had a tougher time adjusting. Two meltdowns in the first three weeks. (Which is saying something—I’d only seen two meltdowns in my entire life, both during our last big road trip.)

She kept herself busy—always organizing something, and wiping my paws every time I came inside. I remembered this routine from before. Eventually, Dad gave her his closet, which helped… until the morning she spilled her entire cup of coffee all over the van. Something about the coffee cone being too big and clunky for such a small space.