Illustration by Inslee HaynesI'm back in New York! Sigh. Why does it feel like I never left? Oh, I know why because I'm always fucking here. In all seriousness, I could think of worse places to be traveling back and forth from, so I'm going to recognize and enjoy the fact that I call The City of Light and the The City my home.
I arrived at CDG bright and early this morning and after check-in, breakfast at the airport brasserie, security and customs, I headed to the gate and that's when I saw her. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I just knew this was going to happen. It was her - Non-Marie; the gate agent from the Summer 2011 fiasco who made me change my clothes in the middle of the terminal because she accused me of not wearing pants. Why couldn't Non-Marie have been on strike like a normal French person? I know because she is a gate agent and they aren't on strike, but still...
Not wanting her to recognize me, I ran into the bathroom to recall how I looked that morning in July in an attempt to avoid her from recognizing me. How did I look? I asked myself - oh yeah! I remembered; tired, worn out, pale and ugly - perfect because this morning I just happened to look vibrant, luminous and sun-kissed. Ok, I'm totally lying but my Laura Mercier bronzer, Smith's Rosebud Salve and Diorshow mascara would smooth out these details where after my mini airport make-over, I walked out looking functioning and faux-fabulous. Work it, girl.
Even though I was the victim from this summer's mayhem, I arrived at Non-Marie's counter with a warm smile and while she still had on her bitch face, she actually issued me a boarding pass in coach on this very full flight back to New York. I was grateful because I really didn't want to take the RER back to Paris to try again tomorrow, so thank you Non-Marie.
Nestled in my seat and sending Séb an "an revoir, babe" text, I realized that I was surrounded by students who appeared to be going home from their study abroad semester in Paris. These youngsters were showing off what they'd learned these past three months in France, goodies like; "I'm going to fuck your face up, dirty whore" and "Shut the fuck up, asshole" could be heard by America's fine youth. Their parents and FAFSA would be so proud. It was too early for this shit and I needed a Bloody Mary - stat.
The elderly woman who sat next to me wasn't impressed either and by the look of her face was horrified with each French profanity that went flying through the cabin. Their ignorance to the fact that 90% of the flight fully understands French was impressive. It's not like we were on a flight from Spokane to Boise where perhaps you could get away with calling each other pieces of shit in French, but Paris to New York?! That's hardly speaking in 'code'. Allez.
One young man in this spirited group insisted on popping up from the seat in front of me to lean over to his friend who was sat behind me to tell him how wasted he was. You can imagine my concern when I realized that he was located next to the emergency exit. Respire. In all honesty, I was just happy that he didn't vomit on me while communicating with his friend, so I resisted the urge to push the call button.
The rest of my flight was calm where after two strong cocktails and the in-flight film, I fell asleep, every so often waking up on the shoulder of the elderly woman. I'm now at my mom's house about to sit down to a dinner of orecchiette e brocoli di rabe (a traditional Barese dish) and a bottle of Far Niente red with my family before I pass out from jetlag as I'm six hours ahead. It's good to be home for the holidays and I thank you all for your bon voyage wishes.
