There was a sign accompanying the breakfast spread at our refuge: made locally. Milk, yogurt, cheese, even the butter. I marveled at our good luck. But I began to wonder—marooned in the French countryside and miles from the nearest service road—where did all this food come from?

I woke up with my first post-wedding PTSD dream. All the photos had mysteriously gone missing and we had to fly back to Seattle and do it all again. I checked my phone—4:30am—and couldn’t go back to sleep. After a breakfast of Tresor cereal (what else?) we took the bus to Les Houches, the start of the Tour du Mont Blanc. Courtney had hiked a portion of it back in high school and vowed to do it again with her husband-to-be, a feat of premonition only she could make good on.

We arrived in Geneva on Tuesday morning, twelve hours after very nearly missing our flight from Seattle. Over the last 24 hours, we had gotten married, packed all our belongings into boxes which we then moved into Public Storage, handed over the keys to our house, and packed and prepared for the four-week “Euromoon” that Courtney had been planning for over a year. Of course, some things were bound to slip through the cracks, which ensured a modicum of sleep.