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off to France
Monday, January 21 2002
setting: Brooklyn, New York
I was kind of hung over from all the drinking I'd done last night. Luckily for me, there wasn't much to do in preparation for eight days in Europe. Some weeks ago, I'd entertained the idea of perhaps learning some French, but it was far too late for that now. I threw a couple tee shirts in my leather bag, made sure some of my electronic equipment was sufficiently charged, and helped Gretchen a tiny bit with cleaning the house.
Then, since we had a little time to kill, we walked down to Seventh Avenue on a last-minute expedition to buy a European power adapter. The guys in the electronics store must have been having a slow day, because they took an unexpectedly keen interest in our intended purchase, taking the little brick-like device out of its package and trying to figure out how to use it as they chit-chatted about international travel (they looked to be of Middle Eastern origin). We were good sports and played along. It was a good thing we weren't in a hurry.
At 2pm, our car service came and it was time to say goodbye to the critters and ride to JFK.
Terminal One in JFK is the home of several exotic airlines, including the one we'd be taking, Air France. I already felt as if I'd left the country just waiting in line to get our boarding pass. People were speaking incomprehensibly in French and doing things in subtly non-American ways.
There was a bit of a delay for whatever reason, perhaps terrorist-paranoia-related, and it irked Gretchen no end that the woman staffing the first class ticket counter wouldn't deign to lend a hand to processing non-first-class passengers, even though there were no first-class passengers at all.
Evidently the absolutism regarding sharp objects in airplane luggage has slacked a bit; my safety razor passed through the screening process without comment.
[REDACTED]
Our airplane was a huge four-engine airbus, suitable for hauling about 300 passengers. Happily, though, this flight was grossly under-booked and we had plenty of room for stretching out.
I'd never been to Europe and was a bit overwhelmed by the perks of Trans-Atlantic flight: the endless alcohol, the individual movie screens, the real-time map of our progress. There were some quirks, however: the distance to our destination (as reported by the real-time map) was off by more than a factor of three, and whenever I watched it, the audio in my earphones was replaced with cheesy versions of familiar Christmas music. I wonder what sick fuck was serving as DJ; late January is perhaps one of the least-appropriate times for Christmas music.
I was feeling out of my element on the airplane, simply because English was not the first language of the airline attendants. Instead of being almost eager-to-please, like American airline attendants, they had a rather bitchy demeanor. I was unworthy, but at least I knew it.
Our plane.
Gretchen studies her ill-gotten phrase book.
View a gallery of pictures from this adventure.
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