It’s hard to believe that, after 10 years of studying French, I’m actually going to live in the “city of lights” for the next four months. I’ve been looking forward to this since I arrived at Trinity, and I can think of no better way to really be a French major than to actually spend a sizable chunk of time in France. I’d also like to apologize for the corny blog but I think, someday, I’ll appreciate having my thoughts written down in a digital format as I live “la vie quotidienne à Paris.”
For those of you unacquainted with the mess I encountered in attaining my visa, I refer you to my last 3 months worth of Facebook statuses (stati?) or to the lovely people at the French Consulate in Boston, with whom I have practically reached a first name basis. For those still out of the Facebook world, it goes something like this: With just over a week before my flight, and still no visa or passport, I pulled out the big guns and called some friends to give me a hand. It was about 3 days later that I received a message on my phone from the Boston Consulate saying “ ‘ello Monsieur, we ‘ave received, uh, five mayssagges from two ambassadorres and tree embassies. Your visa was not approved when I arrived at my desk ziss monning, but iz now okay and will be mailed today. Please tell everyone zat your visa is okay.” Sure enough, that was a Thursday and on Friday the mailer package came. Since that day just over a week ago, I’ve been packing (or avoiding packing) and getting prepared to become Parisian… or at least role play one for a while.
Breakfast at the Colonel’s drew my summer to a close, and then after packing the car and zooming off the bridge to Bangor, it was time to eat again! (Funny, I can already sense that this blog/journal/thing will focus around food.) Another meal gone and we did some last minute shopping for an extra camera memory card, some notebooks, gum, and granola bars (no wonder America’s airlines are losing money- their food is crap and the stewardesses surly at best). Interestingly, while in store number 2, I noticed a common theme that would only continue to haunt me. It appeared that today, Sunday, August 21st was saggy boob day in Bangor, Maine. One lady at the airport had gone so far as to purchase a black shirt made mostly of mesh and then let the girls slop and flop around. Luckily she was on my flight and had to put a number of things in the overhead compartment above me, even though she was seated a number of rows ahead. Karma? A good excuse to dig my eyes out with spoons? I’ll let you decide.
Anyway, back to the airport. Before getting on the airplane I decided to avail myself of the bathroom and couldn’t help but notice that, as I walked to wash my hands, some man’s knees were sticking out of a stall. Bizarre, I thought. As I washed my hands, I happened to look up in the mirror and look right into the old codger’s eyes while he squatted on the john. “AVERT EYES!, I thought.” No it wasn’t that the old duffer with the knobby knees forgot to close the door, it’s that the lovely folks at the Bangor “International” Airport have removed the doors from the stalls in the men’s room, except for the handicapped stall, which I guess was occupied. I’m pretty sure if there was a situation like that involving an animal, it would be called Animal Abuse, and the SPCA would be called. I guess the City of Bangor just doesn’t care.
We had a fairly uneventful plane ride to Detroit, with nothing to look at but fields and clouds. I love looking at the clouds and always wonder what it would be like to jump into them. Would they be cold? Or poofy? I don’t think I’ll try it anytime soon, however, because I don’t like the idea of falling into Farmer Brown’s corn crops, and I’m sure I’d end up getting tangled in one of the thousands of windmills we’ve passed over. Shashimi-styled Willie? I think not.
For those of you (myself included) who could spend a great deal of time thinking about positive things in Detroit, let it be said that the Detroit Airport is awesome! It’s an enormous thing, with 80 terminals in my building alone and a train. A TRAIN! You go up one escalator and hop on the train to get to the other side. I wasn’t bright enough to figure the train out and went backwards, so I’ll leave that to the pros, but still. My first vision upon exciting the plane was of the “Jose Cuervo Tequiliria” which almost sent shivers down my spine. I took a walk from one end to the other, bought a nice set of earbuds for the flight, and sat down at the bar of the Heineken Lounge for dinner and a drink. I have to say that the conversation at an airplane bar is hysterical. The waitress is discussing how she makes her son do pushups for fun and how mouthy she was to her own mom because “the bitch was too fat to get up and hit ‘em.” I also had the chance to learn a bit about the Vegas Union and their insurance benefits… or lack thereof.
The flight was good- a bit crowded and way too hot, but there was only one crying baby and all the passengers survived. I’d like to take a moment to discuss proper plane ettiquit, however. I don’t care how old you are, how important (you think) you are, or how handicapped you are, there is no excuse for taking your chair and jamming it back so far that I jump. Here I am, minding my own business after just helping the pathetic old man next to me start his movie, trying to get into Midnight in Paris and the dude in front of me decides he can recline so far back that I swear Ernest Hemmingway can see his reflection in my pupils from the screen. It was so severe that the flight attendant asked him to put it back up some. Of course, as soon as she was gone, he did it again. Well, I hate the thought of being in misery for such a long time, so I decided to take matters into my own hands. About 2 hours into the flight, after being in kneeless Hell for an hour and a half, the man decides to switch seats with the old woman next to him, who has bad knees and has to pee. He gets up, puts up the armrest, lets her out, and then takes her seat. My opportunity was so close I could practically smell the sweat on the handle. Using my gazelle-like motions (according to one Clifton Dock regular, I am practically a gazelle), I hit the recline button and put the seat in its upright position. I was all ready for an assault again, and had my hands out and ready, but the old woman took so long in sitting down that she didn’t even notice the seat was different. Of course, a couple of hours later, as the old man was trying to crawl over me to get out, I found out that this hadn’t done a whole lot of good once I fell asleep. Because I’m picky about what I allow in my lap, and old men are nowhere on my lap’s “Friends list,” I implore you to consider how much you want to sprawl out before you shove an old geezer into some unsuspecting schmuck’s face.
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