Dateline: Paris

Dateline Paris, 9:17 a.m., Thursday, May 31, 2007—Je suis ici. J’arrive. I think that means, I’ve arrived. I’m actually only as far as the baggage claim at the Charles de Gaulle Airport, called Roissy, but Paris it is, so I’m officially declaring my mission accomplished. Going through customs was a breeze, although there was a very funny que to go through, zigging and zagging our way to the kiosks where the customs agents were awaiting us, unimpressed and giving new meaning to the word blasé.

Now I’m waiting for Diane to arrive from Miami. In the meantime, I’m reading the huge signs for the Cannes Film Festival (sponsored by L’Oreal because, no doubt, they’re worth it), the perfume billboards and listening to the rapid-fire French dialogues around me. Far from the language lab of 1977… from my college French textbook conversations that I can still recite verbatim (“La neige est belle aujourd hui; si on allez faire du ski?” Translation: “The snow is beautiful today… would you like to go skiing?”) A lovely couple from the plane smiled as they passed me with their luggage and said, “Have a good trip,” to which I replied, “You, too,” then belatedly, sensing something in them that hinted at more savoir faire than the typical American, “Or do you live here?” The woman smiled and nodded, Yes. “Je suis jalouse,” I countered. Haven’t even gotten out of the airport and already I’m jealous of any American who gets to live here.

The plane ride was uneventful, surprisingly like every other plane ride only, of course, longer. Read one of my Paris guide books from the library called “The Irreverent Guide to Paris.” It’s very funny, wickedly written and I can’t wait to use it when we plot our next few days. Watched two movies: “Miss Potter” with Renee Zellweger and “Dirty Dancing.” Oy vey, that was a throwback. Hard to believe it was such a hit with such a corny script, but it was fun to watch them dance and to marvel at Patrick Swayze’s muscles rippling.

I sat next to a gentleman from Beirut who lives in Australia… he struck up a short conversation and I learned he’s in Paris to visit his niece. He was very, em, ripe and I caught a whiff of him from time to time. After reading a book in Arabic, he put the regulation airplane blanket over his head and fell asleep, spilling over into my seat with his elbow. Even a gentle nudge didn’t move him. I finally got up and walked around a bit, checked in with the flight attendant to see if she knew anything about Di’s flight from Miami which was delayed, and by the time I got back to my seat, he had shifted. I don’t know why but I was very surprised when he strapped on a clerical collar upon landing. Would I have thought of him differently if I knew he was a priest?

There’s a café upstairs but if I exit, I can’t get back in, so I’m waiting instead. I could go for a strong cup of coffee right now… it’s 2:35 a.m. Chicago time, and now I’m getting used to looking at my dual-dial watch in its respective time zones from the other side of the Atlantic. I think of my boys, asleep, Peanut munching contentedly on one of my quilts, no doubt. I know they’ll be fine without me but I worry that they won’t talk to each other, won’t buy any food except bread and milk, won’t survive unless I’m there to keep their world spinning. Silly, really. They’re both grown men. And Bill—how did he get by for 31 years without me?