I was told the best thing about international airlines is their freedom with alcohol. Folks made it sound like there would be champaign fountains and four course meals. My Air France flight began at 2pm on Sunday and ended 9 hours later at 9am, Monday, France time. I was terribly nervous, as I’ve mentioned before, since the longest flight I’d endured to date was a 6 hour return trip from NYC–6 hrs is a long time, but 9? Would 9 be the breaking point? I packed my old college backpack heavy with stuff to entertain me on the off chance I would be twiddling my thumbs and, oh, not sleeping.
I arrived two hours early and it took me only 20 minutes to check my bag and go through security. Wow. I messed around in the Duty Free Store, sampled lip gloss, and admired the new international wing of the airport I’d never been in before. A woman and her adult daughter were doing yoga at the gate; ‘what a good idea,’ I thought to myself. I started doing a few stretches myself until I realized the entire French flight crew were sitting in a corner snickering. Or at least, I think they were…it was hard to tell with their hoity toity French. I noticed how well-coiffed the entire staff was, the women wearing tasteful make-up and their hair in chignons. The announcements about our flight were made in French and then English.
I sat in my little aisle seat for a long time with the hope that maybe no one would sit next to me. Then a short little man showed up with a dog carrier. I peeked inside and saw a shivering little chihuahua. Oh God. Now, I’ll be totally honest: I hate chihuahuas. I don’t think they’re cute, I think they’re disturbing with their buggy little eyes, mean little yaps, and celebrity appeal. I’ve been influenced largely by the nasty pair that bark at me every time I step into my backyard and into my car. What are the odds that I would spend my first international flight next to one? The owner squeezed into the window seat only to realize an odd little black box attached to the bottom of the seat was causing a shortage of leg room. His dog cage wouldn’t fit so he asked if we could trade. Now, most people prefer the window seat, but I really like the aisle for one main reason: easy bathroom access. With a 9 hour flight impending my bladder immediately seized at the thought of tapping this man on the shoulder every time I need to use the can. It didn’t help that when the stewards weren’t looking he pulled his dog out of its cage and sat her on his lap.
The chihuahua’s name was Flavia (Flah-via) and she was a seasoned traveler. She and her owner (I never got his name) were headed to Barcelona. The man had an unplaceable accent, stunk of stale cigarettes, and had unusual scars on his tanned face. “I would never travel with her if she was difficult,” he assured me. “She is wildly obsessed with me, we go everywhere together.” He showed me a little black dog dress with a black and white gingham collar that he had stuffed in the pocket of the airline seat. “How very Audrey Hepburn,” I heard myself saying. I asked a few polite questions and received one piece of valuable information: “In a few hours the sun will disappear and they will put us to sleep. A few hours before our flight lands they will wake us up and serve breakfast. The flight will go fast.”
I was so nervous that I couldn’t take advantage of the free drinks–mimosas, red or white wine, mixed drinks, they had it all. This made up for Air France’s shoddiness: my tray jiggled, our seats were worn, and my cup holder was broken. But there were neat little TV screens embedded in each seat with several movies running on loops, (I watched “Enchanted” and “Juno”). I took Pamela’s advice and knocked back some Advil pm after our meal in the hopes of passing out and waking up when we landed. I had no such luck. Sure, it was more comfortable leaning my head against the side of the plane, but I felt like I was at some sort of bizarre slumber party. All around me people were shifting under their airline blankets, snoring lightly, and wearing the complimentary Air France eye masks. My seat mate’s cigarette breath seemed to waft into my nostrils and rouse me every few minutes. I could hear Flavia shuffling in her owner’s lap, nestled under her special blanket with the dog bones printed on it. At one point she put her snout on my arm and made me jump. All my extra effort to not to touch or smell my neighbor made any real sleep very difficult. After two hours I gave up and rewatched “Enchanted” while the night sky slowly lightened.
I groggily ate my breakfast of yogurt and a baguette (a substantial improvement over the dark meat drowned in butter they served for dinner). I accepted coffee and juice. I even petted Flavia a little bit. We flew through the dark rain clouds of France and when we pushed through I gasped at my first sight of a foreign land. Tiny little cars criss-crossed the highway–and by tiny I mean they were almost all Smart Cars. My mind lapsed back to an NPR special: “Conservatives will do anything to avoid living like Europeans: $7.00 gas, tolls to enter cities, and driving tiny cars.” I sucked in the view, everything French, on the other side of the world, wow! In my excitement I found myself enthusiastically scratching Flavia behind the ears.
I made my way to baggage claim, which was odd and didn’t look like it was suppose to. The bags came out of a hole in the wall and the conveyor belt moved along the wall’s perimeter until disappearing into another hole. Luckily, my bag came right away. I found a pay phone, called Airport Express shuttle’s toll free number, stumbled when the man answered in French. “Hello?” I asked uncertainly. He switched to English immediately, “Go to Exit 8 for the shuttle.” After consulting a map for a long time I found Exit 8. I saw no signs for Airport Express just a lot of people smoking (France’s indoor smoking ban went into effect only in January). Was I in the right place? It was freezing and I was wearing this dorky rain coat I picked up at the Rack for too much money (I’m returning it today). I went back inside. I asked someone at the Security desk, “Parlevous Anglais?” She looked annoyed and said “a little” in French. I said, “Airport Express?” She gave me a blank stare. I pointed at my itinerary. She took my paper and looked it over. I had written Exit 8 on it hastily; she pointed at Exit 8 on the paper and then at the exit. “I know, but it’s not out there,” I struggled to explain. She gestured wildly. “It’s on the other side?” I ventured. She nodded, but I think she just wanted to get rid of me. I tried hard not to lose it. I called from another pay phone. “Go back outside, we’ll get you in five minutes.”
This time, a shuttle pulled up and the driver picked me out immediately from the crowd. My nervous voice on the phone must have matched me physically. I was relieved and slid into the backseat. A well dressed woman in her 40’s said, “Another American? Where are you from?!” I said ‘Seattle’ and she said ‘LA.’ She tried talking to me but I was so tired I just wanted to zone out. A group of loud South Africans joined us in the backseat. “BONJOUR,” they shouted at us before launching into a huge conversation in a language I couldn’t understand; their hands waving around, two women and one man. I’m sure they weren’t all that obnoxious but it felt really jarring in my jet-lagged state.
We hit the highway: cargo trucks and a million Smart Cars lined up for miles as we approached Paris’ rush hour. I recognized the outskirts of the city, the less attractive parts with its huge subsidized housing complexes and exotic French graffiti. The South Africans droned on and on, my stomach doing little flip flops, and the woman from LA kept trying to engage me in conversation (”Do you keep up with politics?” “Hillary or Obama?” “Do you agree the Americans have screwed themselves because of their terrible war?” I wanted to say, “Look lady, you may live in France but you claim you’re an American citizen: it’s your goddam war too.”). We reached the city and a huge round-about introduced me to my first glimpse of French sculpture, elegant pedestrians, and several near accidents in our shuttle.
I had arrived.
