Once upon a time, planning travel meant booking overnight trains from Venice to Paris. My husband and I tramped through cathedrals. We hiked to desolate beaches. And if we got tired, we’d just hole up in a fancy hotel and run up a room-service tab. It was a grown-up world. It was good. And it never strayed from its first commandment: Thou Shalt Not Be Bored.
Then came kids.
When you’re traveling with people who are prone to weeping if the restaurant doesn’t have the right kind of chicken nuggets, it tends to knock a little of the charm off of those Parisian bistros.
