It was 9:30am by the time I was flying over the Aegean sea on my way to Chamonix, France, to reunite with my parents for a weekend. The weekend, or so I was told, was to consist of hot tub soaking, some light exploring, and a lot of catching up over drinks and cards. I assumed that my parents, who had just spent their last two weeks braving the snowy slopes and dizzying cliffs of the Tour du Mont Blanc, would be too exhausted for much else. Boy was I wrong. The weekend was filled with long hikes, extensive exploring, and long nights of watching soccer at the local pub. I swear my parents have been drinking from the well of everlasting youth; I could barely keep up.

My morning had begun at 4:45am and had so far consisted of one missed train to the airport, a half-spilled coffee waiting in line at my gate, and a stain on my new favorite white pants. Why I continue to trust myself with white pants? I couldn’t tell you. A last-minute seat change landed me in the window seat, and I was blessed with breathtaking front row views of the snow-capped Alps. A bit of unluck, a bit of luck; usually how things go for me. When I arrived at the Swiss airport I had some vague directions meant to guide me to my bus stop where a bus running for the company called BlaBlaCar would drop me in Chamonix. Vaguely around the point that the directions had indicated the bus should be, I saw a tourist bus with “BlaBlaCar” printed on the side, so, I confidently sat and waited up until 5 minutes before it was scheduled for departure. When I noticed no one else was showing up at that point I began to get nervous, so I approached the nearest person in a vest and showed him my ticket. The mans eyes bulged when he saw my ticket and he swiftly pointed me in the direction of the correct bus, which was a 10 minute walk away. “Run madame!” the man cried after me; but I was already sprinting full speed ahead, my overstuffed loosely strapped backpack bumping up and down against my spine. I just barely made the bus as the doors were closing. This would not be the last bus of the weekend I, along with my parents (all three of us a.d.d. to some extent), would just barely make. But I think that’s called travelers luck.

When I met up with my parents, it turned out they’d had a similarly chaotic version of the beginning of their adventures, two weeks prior.

But let’s back up to the true beginning of the story because, after all, this is a tribute to their 31st wedding anniversary (which I’m late for by one day). My parents met in the 80’s in Mauritania, a country in Northwest Africa, while they were enrolled in the Peace Corps. It just so happens that another couple, Mark and Bridgette, who met under the same circumstances, were in my parents same group. Fast forward 35 years or so, my parent’s Peace Corps reunion was held in their hometown last summer where they were reunited with now married, Mark and Bridgette. As it turns out, Mark and Bridgette own a chalet in Les Contamines Montjoie, a ski-resort in Mont-Blanc, France. When they offered for my parents to stay in their chalet, it wasn’t exactly an offer my parent’s were willing to turn down. And so the seed was planted, and over the next year my parents meticulously planned out their 11 day trek through the Tour du Mont Blanc. Although their planning and preparing was indeed meticulous, they both agree that nothing could have prepared them for the trials and icy trails of those 11 days.

Continue on to part two to read all about my parent’s first-hand account of hiking the Tour du Mont Blanc in full! Complete with their own rocky start, a near fall off a snow bank, close-ups with Ibex’s, dad selfies, and my steadfast vegan mom’s close encounter with cheese in Switzerland. Happy anniversary, you two!!