As Two Octogenarian Travelers Prove, the Joys of the Road Know No Age Limit

“Perhaps you would like to know how two women in their 80s who love Paris and touring by car cope.” This is the way a recent letter to the Travel section--signed simply “Dolly and Maisie of Santa Barbara”--began. And, indeed, I wanted to know how two octogenarians manage to gad about Europe on their own, braving traffic on French autoroutes and never coming undone when they encounter road signs that say Allumez Vos Feux and Cedez le Passage. So one foggy morning not too long ago, I drove up the coast to Santa Barbara, where the weather suddenly turned sunny and altogether perfect. So, too, did life once I met Dolly and Maisie.

Over lunch at Maisie’s club, I learned that both women are widows, with children and grandchildren, who had traveled widely before they started taking trips together, beginning with a little getaway to Mendocino. Then they ventured farther afield, to southern Utah, the American South and Europe--three times in the last four years, concentrating on France, a country they both love. On the road, Dolly and Maisie get along splendidly, which is a good thing because they both loathe organized tours. “When we go to the Louvre, we leave when we want,” Maisie says. “We don’t like being loaded on buses and getting up early. We like leisure time to do the crossword puzzle.”

But they definitely aren’t two peas in a pod. Dalmoril “Dolly” Reitz, a diminutive woman with gray hair in a pixie cut, was a columnist for the old Los Angeles Mirror newspaper and a schoolteacher who took students on European tours with her husband. She travels with a deep knowledge of history, art and culture, favoring the Michelin Green Guides. Maisie (or Margaret Fleetwood) got her nickname when a tour guide at Henry James’ home in East Sussex, England, greeted her by asking, “And what did Maisie know?” She is statuesque and stylish--”the sybaritic one,” as she puts it. On her first trip to Europe with her husband, a publisher, in the ‘50s, the couple crossed the Atlantic on the Liberte, taking their Chevy station wagon along, traveling between starred restaurants listed in the Michelin Red Guide to France.

As it turns out, they’re perfect complements. With her waif-like look and “little hands” (as Maisie says), Dolly makes people want to help them, prefacing requests with “Est-ce qu’il est possible, Monsieur?” Maisie, on the other hand, has the air of a grande dame. She never beseeches, but asks for what she wants as if there’s simply no question that she’ll get it.

Together, they travel in a leisurely, gracious fashion, routinely breaking the long trip by plane from California to Paris by spending several days on the East Coast. They’re quite nimble, if a little slow, so they arrange for wheelchairs to take them through customs at Orly Airport to the baggage carousel--something they recommend to all traveling seniors, though Dolly says, “Sometimes I feel I should limp a little.”

“We spend a minimum of five days in Paris,” Maisie says. “We like to move around from one hotel to another so we get to know different arrondissements, a great joy people don’t always give themselves. Then we go back to Orly by cab or shuttle and pick up our car, so we’re already outside the city when we start.” Generally, they get a Mercedes from Hertz, with an automatic transmission and power steering, because Maisie says it’s important to rent a car like the one you drive at home. On one trip they named their rental car Isolde because it was “young, beautiful and German,” Dolly says.

Usually they make advance reservations by fax, but occasionally they wing it, as on one long day of driving from Nuremberg, Germany, to Salzburg, Austria.

“When we got there,” Maisie says, “we went to the only hotel I know, the Osterreichischer Hof, and said, ‘We’re sorry, we don’t have a reservation, but could you take us?’ And the man said he could.” “So,” Dolly continues, “they put us in a suite with two bathrooms, right on the river with a magical view. When we splurge, it’s because Margaret wants to splurge, and it’s so marvelous. I would never in my life stay at the Osterreichischer Hof, but Margaret knew it, loved it and wanted to go back. So what could I do but go along?” she says, and laughs.

On the highway, Maisie is the better navigator, making sure she knows which offramps come before the exit she intends to take, a navigational technique she describes as giving herself clues. “Dolly doesn’t know directions,” Maisie says. “She’s adorable, though. She has a gentle way of asking questions. At filling stations, she gets people to put gas in our car when there aren’t attendants to do it.”

But they both drive, with Dolly averaging 70 mph and Maisie tending to cruise along at 80. “People do drive fast on the autoroutes,” Dolly says. “But they’re so disciplined,” Maisie adds. “After passing, they tuck in immediately.”

They always have candy and good things to eat in the car, get foreign currency before they leave home and pack overnight necessities in small bags so they can leave the larger pieces in the trunk when they check into hotels. They carry their passports, medications and the card for the hotel where they’re staying in their handbags at all times. In the room, the key to the door goes on the television so that it doesn’t get misplaced.

“Are people nice to you,” I ask, “even in France?”

“People are kind to us everywhere,” Dolly says.

“We are an anomaly,” Maisie adds. “People say, ‘What are these two doing all by themselves? Who let them out?’ They’re surprised that we have our wits.”

“Sort of,” Dolly adds.

In this country, we try hard to stay young forever. But I’d be happy to turn 80 tomorrow if I could do it with half the joie de vivre of Dolly and Maisie.