"This is definitely the first time that I can remember ever riding in an actual passenger train," I commented as the whine of the rails accentuated the swaying movement of the train car that we were sitting in. Mark shifted in his upholstered seat and looked out of the large windows into the bright, sunny day outside. "So theyas is France.." he mumbled with a smile. I looked around at the nearly empty cabin and wondered why they had booked an elderly lady in the seat next to me. The seating was arranged with four pink, cushioned chairs (two facing forwards and two facing backwards) surrounding a low, IKEA-quality table with a narrow isle for walking between the groupings. The sunlight streamed in the copious windows, revealing glimpses of the picturesque French countryside. I turned to glance at the frail woman who was only inches away from me, but who had said nothing so far. She quietly worked on a Sudoku puzzle, occasionally taking in the passing scenery. I wonder why she traveled alone... I thought. Sharron scrolled through her phone, trying to connect to a cell tower while talking to her parents via her data plan. "This SIM card cost me over 50 euros! I can't believe my phone isn't letting it work properly!", she exclaimed in frustration. "I'm just planning to use the WiFi calling option on mine while I'm here. It's not like there will be a lot of people wanting to talk to me. Besides, I'd like to take a break from all the tech usage for a while." I said, reflecting on how much I had been forced to use some app (or computer program) for one work or university related thing or another during my recent college years. "I'm bored," Mark declared over the screeching sound of a passing train on the adjacent track, "Any of y'all gawt some cards ur sumthin'?" I suddenly remembered that I had put some in my luggage before our initial departure, for just such an occasion as this, and went to retrieve it from the storage cabin area.
When I returned empty-handed several minutes later, I had to explain to my traveling companions that my playing cards had somehow gotten lost, and that we'd need to find another way to pass the time. Mark suggested taking a nap and promptly leaned back against the headrest of his seat and closed his eyes in an attempt to doze through the remainder of our journey. "How are we going to know when we are at the right station? We have several stops before we get to Tours...", I nervously inquired of Sharron, who had been scrutinizing the map. "I think our stop is on the third station...it'll say this on the platform," she indicated the name of the Tours rail-station on the map with her finger. "Well, we just passed stop number one, only two more to go!" I was thankful for that information at least. There was no knowing for sure if our host family would be there to meet us or not, and whoever they were, there was no telling if they would recognize us when we finally got there!
I continued to stare out of the window in wonderment at the passing scenery until we arrived at our destination. The reality of my location was only now beginning to sink in. It's like I know we're really here, but at the same time, it's hard to fully believe that we are actually here... I thought to myself in the quiet of the sunlit cabin. The sudden swaying of the train indicated the final stop. I tapped Mark on the shoulder to wake him up and looked out of the window on the far side of the cabin. "Yup! This is definitely our stop!" I announced before heading towards the baggage storage area. As I was lifting my heavy suitcase out from the metal rack where it had been placed at the start of our railway trip, Mark kindly offered to help (since he only had his backpack to carry) and brought it down the steps and across the tracks. We all stood on the platform for a moment before realizing that this deserted place was not our intended final destination. "What do we do now?" Sharron asked. The only practical solution was to ask for assistance, after which we discovered that there was a shuttle train that would take us into the actual Tours train station. Armed with further instructions, we started our way down the platform; Sharron dragging two pieces of luggage and a carry-on behind her, me with my carry-on over my back while wrestling with yet another piece of Sharron's luggage, and Mark with his backpack, gripping my ungainly suitcase.
"I have got to pee!" I declared, my desperation showing as I searched in vain for relief, "There has to be some sort of WC around here somewhere...!" There wasn't. Before long, our shuttle appeared and we climbed aboard, our feet barely above the tracks on the low-budget version of a train car that we were now standing in. I stood there in utter misery for several moments before looking around and noticing a familiar white image of a male and female figure separated by a line. "Hey!", I nudged Mark, "I think that's a public bathroom stall in that corner!" "Ain't much to it", he observed before asking a nearby Asian girl if she knew if anyone was currently using it. She shook her head, and I hurriedly went to claim the as-yet vacant source of my bodily salvation. It is worth mentioning that while I was in the poorly constructed facility (that was comprised of not much more than an airline-style toilet), that the door would not lock, so I had to trust in my fellow-travelers to keep unsolicited visitors out until I was done. To add to my public embarrassment, the door/walls could not have been more than a few centimeters thick, and I was certain that every single person in that car could hear everything that was happening in my "private" stall. Mercifully, I was soon out of there and could not wait to vacate the seemingly over-crowded shuttle. I hope it's not going to be like this for the rest of the trip...
The ear-piercing shriek of the brakes indicated that we were now at our destination. After nearly two full days of traveling, very few hours of which involved sleeping, we were finally disembarking into Tours, France. As we stepped out into the uncertainty that lay ahead for the three of us, we said a quick thanks and goodbye to each other for all of the shared adventures that had led up to this point. Granted, the journey had been exhausting and full of challenges, but we had made it through the ordeal together, and felt a sense of closeness as a result of our time together.
Wednesday, March 21, 2018
Sunday, March 4, 2018
What Happened in France~ Part 6
Oh my word! What is this all about? The sight that met my eyes as I descended unto the level below was startling to say the least, if not utterly intimidating. Three very physically fit men dressed in distinct uniforms of camouflage fatigues, were unmistakably on patrol in the area; their semi-automatic weapons held at the ready in front of them. Their sleeves were neatly rolled up to the elbows, berets were on their heads, and their combat boots clumped across the floor as their eyes scanned every face in the crowd for signs of possible hostility. I had never even heard about such measures being taken in France, not even during our pre-departure briefing from the university foreign affairs office. I did all that I could to keep myself from staring at the authoritative spectacle in front of me. "The train station office should be just beyond the line of ATM's." Sharron informed us, "We can get our tickets there and then wait for the next train to Tours." That was welcome news to the rest of us, who were still rather groggy and tired from the whole trip in general. As we moved in position to get in the queue for the ticket station, I looked around to take in my surroundings. Moving across the overhead balcony was another group of men grasping carbine weapons between their bulging muscles; this time they were dressed in dark blue and black SWAT-style uniforms, with Police Municipal prominently written in white letters across the backs of their Kevlar vests. Moments later I looked up again, this time in the other direction, only to see more uniformed men with weapons descending the narrow staircase (for employee use) to give the waiting area another patrol sweep. I wonder if they're the French version of the FBI... I now became overly self-conscious of my movements, and hoped that nobody wouldn't mistake my curiosity and exhaustion for "suspicious actions".
Eventually, our little group got to the front of the line and was ushered into a small, but clean and brightly furnished room that resembled something of a help desk and a service storefront put together. As I had previously been elected the spokesperson for the group whenever possible, I moved forward to the desk where several professionally dressed women were standing and addressing customers needs. One of these women corrected me for going up to her so soon, and instructed me to take a number from a nearby distributor machine and wait until my number was called. Before I could ask if this number was allowed to be used for a group, or only for an individual, she gestured me away with a sweep of her hand and began chatting with the next customer. I made the executive decision that we only needed one for our whole trio, and promptly took a slip of paper with a number combination from the machine before going to the crowded indoor waiting area where Sharron and Mark were already waiting to inform them of the situation.
Many long and impatient minutes went by before our number was finally called. I moved forward, suitcase in tow, while Sharron conscripted Mark to help with her excess luggage as they followed on behind me. We had to produce our passports and ID cards before being able to read out the destination details to the ticket agent, given to us by the program director only a week or so earlier. After clarifying that although we were indeed paying the fare separately, we would still appreciate getting adjacent seats, she handed us the large, rectangular billets while we swiped our credit cards one by one in payment of our passage. Moments later, we emerged from the quiet ticket station, and back into the bustling waiting area where we had previously been. "Do you see the time on this thing?!" Sharron almost had to shout above the noise around us. I looked at the departure time for the next train to Tours which we had just booked. "That's nearly six hours away from now!" I exclaimed in annoyance and dismay. "What are going to do in the meantime?" "I'm fixin' ta go out them doors to git myself another smoke!", Mark announced to the group, and proceeded to walk through the exterior doors only a few yards away from where we were standing. He soon returned with a uniformed airport/station employee, who ushered him into a nearby "smoker room" that was hidden away in a corner of the atrium. We laughed at Mark's embarrassment before finding an unused selection of sofas that we could claim by barricading ourselves in through careful construction of our luggage and carry-on pieces, once seated.
Eventually, our little group got to the front of the line and was ushered into a small, but clean and brightly furnished room that resembled something of a help desk and a service storefront put together. As I had previously been elected the spokesperson for the group whenever possible, I moved forward to the desk where several professionally dressed women were standing and addressing customers needs. One of these women corrected me for going up to her so soon, and instructed me to take a number from a nearby distributor machine and wait until my number was called. Before I could ask if this number was allowed to be used for a group, or only for an individual, she gestured me away with a sweep of her hand and began chatting with the next customer. I made the executive decision that we only needed one for our whole trio, and promptly took a slip of paper with a number combination from the machine before going to the crowded indoor waiting area where Sharron and Mark were already waiting to inform them of the situation.
Many long and impatient minutes went by before our number was finally called. I moved forward, suitcase in tow, while Sharron conscripted Mark to help with her excess luggage as they followed on behind me. We had to produce our passports and ID cards before being able to read out the destination details to the ticket agent, given to us by the program director only a week or so earlier. After clarifying that although we were indeed paying the fare separately, we would still appreciate getting adjacent seats, she handed us the large, rectangular billets while we swiped our credit cards one by one in payment of our passage. Moments later, we emerged from the quiet ticket station, and back into the bustling waiting area where we had previously been. "Do you see the time on this thing?!" Sharron almost had to shout above the noise around us. I looked at the departure time for the next train to Tours which we had just booked. "That's nearly six hours away from now!" I exclaimed in annoyance and dismay. "What are going to do in the meantime?" "I'm fixin' ta go out them doors to git myself another smoke!", Mark announced to the group, and proceeded to walk through the exterior doors only a few yards away from where we were standing. He soon returned with a uniformed airport/station employee, who ushered him into a nearby "smoker room" that was hidden away in a corner of the atrium. We laughed at Mark's embarrassment before finding an unused selection of sofas that we could claim by barricading ourselves in through careful construction of our luggage and carry-on pieces, once seated.
An hour passed, during which I chatted some more with my companions, laughed at a few jokes that may not have been so funny in a less sleep-deprived state, and people-watched. Sharron looked up from her phone, "You know that you can sign in to their guest WiFi signal for 20 minutes at a time, right?" "Really? I had no idea! Do we need to make an account?" I pulled out my previously useless smartphone and unlocked the device. "I don't think so...", she said distractedly as she went back to studying the screen in front of her. I selected the guest option on the available WiFi menu, typed in a few personal details, and was taken to a "Bienvenue..." page with a 20 minute countdown timer. I immediately went to my email and typed a message to my mom to say that I had arrived safely, with a few other details about what was going on. Just as I was reviewing my text for any possible edits before sending it through cyberspace, I suddenly felt as though I was being watched. I looked up and was confronted by the gaze of a young soldier, his weapon only a short distance from my person. "Bonjour monsieur", I quietly pronounced despite my perturbed and muddled state of mind. He continued to glare for a moment at my upturned face, and then silently turned to look at the Middle Eastern couple reclining on the adjacent sofa. I wonder if they're looking for someone in particular and I just look like them by coincidence...I thought to myself after the alarm had passed. I looked over at Sharron, curled against the corner of the couch, dozing quietly in the lull of the moment. Mark had gone to explore his surroundings out of sheer boredom, and I decided that since I was apparently so safe in this place, it would be a good idea to rest for a bit myself. I leaned my head on the propped up suitcase that had my carry-on over it. We still had five more hours of waiting, four and a half hours at the least, before we could walk out of the nearby doors and unto the train platform to leave Charles de Gaulle airport behind us.
Tuesday, February 27, 2018
What Happened in France~ Part 5
"You're not going to believe this... Look!", I ushered our group forward to the subject of our recent interest. "It's a smoking room for people who are stuck inside the airport and can't go outside. Have you ever seen one of these before?" "Awesome!", Mark replied and hastily went inside to light a cigarette. He was puffing away before his backpack even hit the ground. As us female companions looked on in amusement, the irony of his position became evident. Granted, the health posters inside the glass room showed a passive-aggressive discouragement of the addictive past-time taking place inside it's transparent walls, but the social and psychological impact was clear; one had to separate themselves from everyone else in order to smoke, and then be displayed to passersby in an exhibit-like fashion, all while protecting the rest of society from the harmful fumes of second-hand smoke (not to mention the nauseating scent that accompanies it). "We could really use those in America!", Sharron observed. "I think so too," I said while noticing a metallic box with images of food on it. I walked up to it and began reading the options on the distributeur automatique. "Hey! They have coffee in this vending machine!" I excitedly informed Sharron. "Well then, there you go! Help yourself, you know I don't drink any" was her reply. As I went to insert my currency and select the coffee option, I noticed a sign by the cash insert slot. "OH NO!", I couldn't help but voice my dismay. I turned to Sharron who was studying a map of Paris that she'd picked up from a nearby travelers resource kiosk. "It's out of order until further notice." "That's some rotten luck!" she laughed, "Sorry... I'm sure they'll be others around here in a place as big as this." "I hope so", I dejectedly replied before studying the directional signage around the baggage/lobby area that we were now in, while we waited for Mark to finish in the newly christened "smoker room".
Just as he was emerging, I noticed a uniformed man in a reflective orange vest heading in our general direction, pulling some sort of trolley system. "Pardonnez-moi monsieur, mais ou est la station de train?" I inquired. The man gestured in a general direction while replying that it was back through the door that we had just come out of a few moments ago to get our luggage. "Merci! Vous-êtes trop gentil!" I thanked him. We subsequently went back through the doorway and looked around for any signs of direction. When none became apparent, we went back into the baggage area and through the door on the far end, just in case there had been a misunderstanding. "There's nothing here!" Sharron exclaimed. "Why don't you go ask one of the women at that tourist help center?", she suggested to me. "No way! I don't want to do that!" My social anxiety was beginning to show itself again. "Mark, you go and ask them!" I pushed him. "Wut em I gonna say?", he asked in a desperate manner, "Y'all know I don' tawk like them." "Just use your charm or something like that..." I suggested. Mere moments later he was sauntering up to the women there and nervously asking for directions in the clearest English he could muster. He soon turned around and told us he didn't know what they had said, and recommended that we just wander around until we found somewhere that looked like the right place. No doubt about it, we're lost in a huge airport and nobody that we know could help us if we called them. We were truly out of options, so we decided it was best to follow Mark's advice and simply go searching in all directions until we found at least one of the things that we were looking for. It was then put forward that we might be more effective in our goal if we searched the expansive areas around us individually, then meet back in the middle where there were sofas and artificial trees prominently placed for the comfort of weary travelers.
We were just heading to one of the many stairways that were on that particular level of the airport when suddenly, Sharron noticed a sales stand by the railing. "Let's grab a snack. I'm starving!" she said. That sounded good with me, as there had been nothing but snacks, and airplane food- that to be honest, was little more than a glorified snack itself- and water for the past two days. While selecting our bottled beverages (mine included an iced coffee, as that was the only coffee option available), sandwiches, and various other foodstuffs, Sharron noticed the SIM card that she had been looking for on display for purchase. "Great! Now I've got everything I need, even if it's more expensive than I thought it'd be...", she voiced her glee. After paying for our colloquially-termed haul, we moved over to a nearby empty bench to eat, and to let Sharron insert her new SIM card and get her cell phone working on the new French network. Mark and I talked to pass the time and to get to know each other a little better. After all, if we were going to be "stuck" in the same place for over a month in the same group, we should at least learn enough about the other person to be comfortable with the situation.
Just as he was emerging, I noticed a uniformed man in a reflective orange vest heading in our general direction, pulling some sort of trolley system. "Pardonnez-moi monsieur, mais ou est la station de train?" I inquired. The man gestured in a general direction while replying that it was back through the door that we had just come out of a few moments ago to get our luggage. "Merci! Vous-êtes trop gentil!" I thanked him. We subsequently went back through the doorway and looked around for any signs of direction. When none became apparent, we went back into the baggage area and through the door on the far end, just in case there had been a misunderstanding. "There's nothing here!" Sharron exclaimed. "Why don't you go ask one of the women at that tourist help center?", she suggested to me. "No way! I don't want to do that!" My social anxiety was beginning to show itself again. "Mark, you go and ask them!" I pushed him. "Wut em I gonna say?", he asked in a desperate manner, "Y'all know I don' tawk like them." "Just use your charm or something like that..." I suggested. Mere moments later he was sauntering up to the women there and nervously asking for directions in the clearest English he could muster. He soon turned around and told us he didn't know what they had said, and recommended that we just wander around until we found somewhere that looked like the right place. No doubt about it, we're lost in a huge airport and nobody that we know could help us if we called them. We were truly out of options, so we decided it was best to follow Mark's advice and simply go searching in all directions until we found at least one of the things that we were looking for. It was then put forward that we might be more effective in our goal if we searched the expansive areas around us individually, then meet back in the middle where there were sofas and artificial trees prominently placed for the comfort of weary travelers.
We were just heading to one of the many stairways that were on that particular level of the airport when suddenly, Sharron noticed a sales stand by the railing. "Let's grab a snack. I'm starving!" she said. That sounded good with me, as there had been nothing but snacks, and airplane food- that to be honest, was little more than a glorified snack itself- and water for the past two days. While selecting our bottled beverages (mine included an iced coffee, as that was the only coffee option available), sandwiches, and various other foodstuffs, Sharron noticed the SIM card that she had been looking for on display for purchase. "Great! Now I've got everything I need, even if it's more expensive than I thought it'd be...", she voiced her glee. After paying for our colloquially-termed haul, we moved over to a nearby empty bench to eat, and to let Sharron insert her new SIM card and get her cell phone working on the new French network. Mark and I talked to pass the time and to get to know each other a little better. After all, if we were going to be "stuck" in the same place for over a month in the same group, we should at least learn enough about the other person to be comfortable with the situation.
Monday, February 19, 2018
What Happened in France~ Part 4
Sharron was already waiting in the hallway as I entered the reception terminal. I looked over to my right in time to see Mark emerge from the customs terminal and swing his backpack over his shoulder before joining us as we walked out of the corridor and into the larger section of the airport. Immediately, Sharron began making it clear that getting her luggage was a priority, "We have to find the luggage terminal before we do anything else!" We looked around and soon realized the near impossibility of doing so, as there were no signs/labeled areas that led to anywhere we may need to go, no uniformed persons to ask directions from, and no instructions on our luggage claim slips for finding the "baggage claim" area. "Wut are we goin' da do?", Mark inquired bewilderingly. "Just so I know what to expect, do you actually speak French, or is that the whole reason you came on this trip in the first place?", I asked. Sharron and I had spent some time in French classes together at university, but her reading comprehension always surpassed her spoken ability/vocal knowledge of the language. Not that it would matter in this case... unless she had to speak to someone in French. "I don' know mucha' tall", Mark responded, his accent seemingly verifying his claim. Great! So I guess all the verbals are going to be up to me, I thought. I didn't doubt my ability, just my nerve to go so far out of my comfort zone while our entire trip practically hinged on my ability to successfully communicate and comprehend.
After several anxious moments of consulting various directories on giant TV screens around the airport, we finally found what we hoped would be the luggage from our flight number. It should be mentioned that in the process of our search, we also discovered that our recent flight booked from a major US-based airline was also listed under a completely different name (or company) and number than the original one that we had been given, apparently due to a partnership between the US airline and a major France-based airline, although it was in fact the very same airplane! Once we had figured that out, we were able to locate the right alphabetical area for our baggage claim. Now we were standing around a rotating conveyor belt of luggage fitting every possible type of description, hoping that the proverbial fruits of our labors would soon be made evident. Sharron presently spotted her distinctly patterned pieces of luggage with personalized tags, and the excitement of our first big accomplishment set in as we began looking for my much less remarkable old grey suitcase, passed down to me from my late grandfather. In the sea of baggage, seemingly consisting of one shade of grey or another, it took several minutes for me to be able to claim my heavy traveling accessory. I turned to Mark and asked where his claim was located, to which he replied, "This is awal I got!", gesturing to his backpack as he did so, "I prefer d' travel lyed..." It would appear so, I thought to myself, but kept quiet as we moved forward to the next phase of our adventure: getting the train tickets to Tours.
It was at this time that Mark decided to announce to the group that he was a smoker and had an urgent need for a cigarette. Apparently being on a non-smoking flight (and in an airport with a likewise restriction) for the last day or so had really taken its toll on his nicotine addiction. It was also at this time that I realized my urgent need for a cup of coffee! To make matters even more interesting, Sharron voiced her need to purchase a specific SIM card for an international cell phone plan that was supposedly located somewhere nearby. As we were leaving the now practically deserted baggage claim terminal, we noticed a strange room or chamber located at the exit area across from us. It was made of clear glass, possibly soundproof, and had an unmistakable vent pipe sticking out of the flat, white roof. How unusual, I wonder what it's for... my curiosity peaked as I moved towards this transparent encasement.
After several anxious moments of consulting various directories on giant TV screens around the airport, we finally found what we hoped would be the luggage from our flight number. It should be mentioned that in the process of our search, we also discovered that our recent flight booked from a major US-based airline was also listed under a completely different name (or company) and number than the original one that we had been given, apparently due to a partnership between the US airline and a major France-based airline, although it was in fact the very same airplane! Once we had figured that out, we were able to locate the right alphabetical area for our baggage claim. Now we were standing around a rotating conveyor belt of luggage fitting every possible type of description, hoping that the proverbial fruits of our labors would soon be made evident. Sharron presently spotted her distinctly patterned pieces of luggage with personalized tags, and the excitement of our first big accomplishment set in as we began looking for my much less remarkable old grey suitcase, passed down to me from my late grandfather. In the sea of baggage, seemingly consisting of one shade of grey or another, it took several minutes for me to be able to claim my heavy traveling accessory. I turned to Mark and asked where his claim was located, to which he replied, "This is awal I got!", gesturing to his backpack as he did so, "I prefer d' travel lyed..." It would appear so, I thought to myself, but kept quiet as we moved forward to the next phase of our adventure: getting the train tickets to Tours.
It was at this time that Mark decided to announce to the group that he was a smoker and had an urgent need for a cigarette. Apparently being on a non-smoking flight (and in an airport with a likewise restriction) for the last day or so had really taken its toll on his nicotine addiction. It was also at this time that I realized my urgent need for a cup of coffee! To make matters even more interesting, Sharron voiced her need to purchase a specific SIM card for an international cell phone plan that was supposedly located somewhere nearby. As we were leaving the now practically deserted baggage claim terminal, we noticed a strange room or chamber located at the exit area across from us. It was made of clear glass, possibly soundproof, and had an unmistakable vent pipe sticking out of the flat, white roof. How unusual, I wonder what it's for... my curiosity peaked as I moved towards this transparent encasement.
Monday, January 29, 2018
What Happened in France~ Part 3
The pressure in my chest, combined with the tilting cabin in my limited field of view, signaled the reality of my journey's end. "Good morning Ladies and Gentleman! This is your Captain speaking. Please fasten your seat belts as we begin our decent..." the sharply pitched masculine voice continued over the loudspeaker system (and headset), "The time at your destination of Charles de Gaulle International Airport in Paris is now 04:30 am...". The subsequent remarks and instructions faded into the background as my heartbeat increased its rhythm, despite my very groggy, sleep-deprived state. This is it! I actually made it here. I can't believe this has actually happened... What do I do now? This loss of direction was simply due the the fact that we had not been given any specific instructions by our program director about where to go once we got in-country, or how to maneuver the many terminals, border security checkpoints, and transportation to the train station that would take us to our ultimate destination: Tours.
Moments later Sharron and I were disembarking into a very large airport reception area, carry-on bags in hand and a swiveled head for the luggage pick-up terminal. "Looks like we're going to have to go through security first." Sharron deduced. We were both so tired that we almost didn't notice Mark joining us, "Best if we stick together, don't y'all think?" Together we searched the overhead signs for the correct security checkpoint to have our passports stamped. "It looks like non-European passengers need to take this one here!" I said, moving in the indicated direction with all possible speed. The sooner we got in line, the shorter the wait to get past this hurdle and into some semblance of a restful state. "Look at how short the line is for French citizens..." I remarked with both envy and disgust at the rapidly shrinking line adjacent to us. The European citizens' group was also moving faster than we were. I checked the clock- 05:25. The air was close and warm, not in a "let's-keep-this-place-cozy" sort of way, but a "there's-no-air-conditioning-and-it's-summer-in-a-crowded-space" sort of way. I looked around at my fellow queue members. There was a tall, thin middle aged man with thick black hair cut in a timeless style, talking with a much older, balded man in an energetic tone I could only hope to have in my current state, in a language I did not understand. Since all persons needed to have their passports and baggage claim checks in hand during this process, I stole a glimpse of his maroon colored booklet. The golden insignia stated that, unlike my royal blue U.S. passport, his was from Greece. I thought Greece was a country in the European Union... I mused. My years of studying for my international degree, specializing in the European regions, could not have been mistaken in such a simple fact. Maybe he's traveling with the man he's talking to who might be from somewhere else, I reasoned with myself.
I turned my attention to the group of several overweight African women, unmistakably dressed in Islamic attire. I bet they're going to have a much more difficult time entering than the rest of us, I thought as I reflected on the current state of emergency that had recently been declared in France due to the very real threat of terrorist attacks. A younger woman, also dressed in elaborately printed Muslim drapery approached our location with several small children in tow. Nearly an hour passed without any significant observations until the queue moved forward enough for the twisting bends in the roped-off waiting area to separate the group of Muslim women into single file. An obese older member turned around, and pressed the hand of the younger woman behind her in her hands and quietly, but audibly said the infamous words, "Allah 'akbar!" (or 'God is great' in Arabic). Well, this would certainly freak-out an American crowd, I observed in surprising calmness. As the words were not said in any loud, martyr-like manner, and no sudden or violent movements were made, the line moved forward without incident. I soon realized that the older woman was most likely trying to encourage her fellow devotee in whatever ordeal they were about to face. As American a concept as it may seem, I respected their right to religion (so long as it be harmless to others) even though I chose to believe differently myself.
"There's three or four different terminal booths to get into...look!" Sharron's words broke my reverie. Looking ahead at the nearing junction in the queue, one could indeed see that the single line split into four possible mini-lines for the corresponding border agent booth. I directed her attention to a sign nearby as I observed this. "It says we need to have our boarding passes from our recent flight out too." "Great!" Sharron said sarcastically as she started rifling through her carry-on, "It's in here somewhere." I repeated this information to Mark, who I'd casually been chatting with during our wait, then added, "I only have the digital version on my cell phone, but the other sign over the booth says you are not allowed to have your cell phone out during this process. What am I going to do?" "I'd wait an' see wut happens", Mark advised. Sharron's eyes lit up with an sudden idea, "The smaller lines all look to be moving at about the same speed. Why don't we each choose a different booth, and then wait on the other side of them for the other two people? Does that sound good?" We agreed it was worth a try, and split into our subsequent lanes soon after.
After what must have been minutes, but felt like hours, my turn at the glass-fronted booth arrived. As the space in front of me cleared, I gripped my carry-on bag, ready to brandish the file of documentation that I had previously painstakingly assembled for this moment of entry. With no small amount of trepidation, I approached an exhausted looking man in a pale blue uniform sitting behind the glass partition. "Le passporte!", he demanded and held out his hand. I quickly passed my American passport through the circular opening in the (presumed to be) bullet-proof glass, opened to the ID page. He scrutinized the document, comparing it carefully with my face as he did so. Did I look different somehow? Granted, I must not have been looking my best after my tiresome journey, but it couldn't have been that bad...right? I started to have a friendly smile, and then stopped, awkwardly unsure of just what expression to have on my face. Is a smile really appropriate for right now? But maybe a serious look would look suspicious? I continued my overthinking until he looked up and requested to see my boarding pass. "Il est sur mon telephone portable", I hesitatingly informed him, unsure if I might be an exception to the "no cell phones allowed in use" rule that was blatantly stated on a sign just above my head. "Just let me see it!", he declared in a thick accent, gesturing impatiently as he did so. I quickly unlocked the screen on my phone and passed through the screenshot of my digital boarding pass. Once again he carefully scrutinized the information presented to him, this time comparing it with my passport that he was still holding. Suddenly, the border agent turned to the booth on his right, twisted his head away from me, and then quietly said something (in French of course) to the man next to him. What is happening? Is something wrong? What if I end up being held and questioned, or have to have my papers (now safely in my file) verified by the embassy like Lucita (another girl in our university group) had endured yesterday? Eventually he turned back around to me with a rather blasé expression and roughly stamped my passport saying, "Bienvenue à France!". "Merci, monsieur!" I replied as I retrieved my items before passing through the now opened terminal. As the metal gate closed behind me, I looked down at the passport booklet. My very first international stamp was now clearly visible on a previously blank page; through the Mount Rushmore watermark, I read the still damp letters in blue and red ink "....PARIS". Yes, I was finally and officially here in the City of Light. Excitement warmed my heart as I stepped out into the lobby to wait for the others. Look out world, because here I come!
Moments later Sharron and I were disembarking into a very large airport reception area, carry-on bags in hand and a swiveled head for the luggage pick-up terminal. "Looks like we're going to have to go through security first." Sharron deduced. We were both so tired that we almost didn't notice Mark joining us, "Best if we stick together, don't y'all think?" Together we searched the overhead signs for the correct security checkpoint to have our passports stamped. "It looks like non-European passengers need to take this one here!" I said, moving in the indicated direction with all possible speed. The sooner we got in line, the shorter the wait to get past this hurdle and into some semblance of a restful state. "Look at how short the line is for French citizens..." I remarked with both envy and disgust at the rapidly shrinking line adjacent to us. The European citizens' group was also moving faster than we were. I checked the clock- 05:25. The air was close and warm, not in a "let's-keep-this-place-cozy" sort of way, but a "there's-no-air-conditioning-and-it's-summer-in-a-crowded-space" sort of way. I looked around at my fellow queue members. There was a tall, thin middle aged man with thick black hair cut in a timeless style, talking with a much older, balded man in an energetic tone I could only hope to have in my current state, in a language I did not understand. Since all persons needed to have their passports and baggage claim checks in hand during this process, I stole a glimpse of his maroon colored booklet. The golden insignia stated that, unlike my royal blue U.S. passport, his was from Greece. I thought Greece was a country in the European Union... I mused. My years of studying for my international degree, specializing in the European regions, could not have been mistaken in such a simple fact. Maybe he's traveling with the man he's talking to who might be from somewhere else, I reasoned with myself.
I turned my attention to the group of several overweight African women, unmistakably dressed in Islamic attire. I bet they're going to have a much more difficult time entering than the rest of us, I thought as I reflected on the current state of emergency that had recently been declared in France due to the very real threat of terrorist attacks. A younger woman, also dressed in elaborately printed Muslim drapery approached our location with several small children in tow. Nearly an hour passed without any significant observations until the queue moved forward enough for the twisting bends in the roped-off waiting area to separate the group of Muslim women into single file. An obese older member turned around, and pressed the hand of the younger woman behind her in her hands and quietly, but audibly said the infamous words, "Allah 'akbar!" (or 'God is great' in Arabic). Well, this would certainly freak-out an American crowd, I observed in surprising calmness. As the words were not said in any loud, martyr-like manner, and no sudden or violent movements were made, the line moved forward without incident. I soon realized that the older woman was most likely trying to encourage her fellow devotee in whatever ordeal they were about to face. As American a concept as it may seem, I respected their right to religion (so long as it be harmless to others) even though I chose to believe differently myself.
"There's three or four different terminal booths to get into...look!" Sharron's words broke my reverie. Looking ahead at the nearing junction in the queue, one could indeed see that the single line split into four possible mini-lines for the corresponding border agent booth. I directed her attention to a sign nearby as I observed this. "It says we need to have our boarding passes from our recent flight out too." "Great!" Sharron said sarcastically as she started rifling through her carry-on, "It's in here somewhere." I repeated this information to Mark, who I'd casually been chatting with during our wait, then added, "I only have the digital version on my cell phone, but the other sign over the booth says you are not allowed to have your cell phone out during this process. What am I going to do?" "I'd wait an' see wut happens", Mark advised. Sharron's eyes lit up with an sudden idea, "The smaller lines all look to be moving at about the same speed. Why don't we each choose a different booth, and then wait on the other side of them for the other two people? Does that sound good?" We agreed it was worth a try, and split into our subsequent lanes soon after.
After what must have been minutes, but felt like hours, my turn at the glass-fronted booth arrived. As the space in front of me cleared, I gripped my carry-on bag, ready to brandish the file of documentation that I had previously painstakingly assembled for this moment of entry. With no small amount of trepidation, I approached an exhausted looking man in a pale blue uniform sitting behind the glass partition. "Le passporte!", he demanded and held out his hand. I quickly passed my American passport through the circular opening in the (presumed to be) bullet-proof glass, opened to the ID page. He scrutinized the document, comparing it carefully with my face as he did so. Did I look different somehow? Granted, I must not have been looking my best after my tiresome journey, but it couldn't have been that bad...right? I started to have a friendly smile, and then stopped, awkwardly unsure of just what expression to have on my face. Is a smile really appropriate for right now? But maybe a serious look would look suspicious? I continued my overthinking until he looked up and requested to see my boarding pass. "Il est sur mon telephone portable", I hesitatingly informed him, unsure if I might be an exception to the "no cell phones allowed in use" rule that was blatantly stated on a sign just above my head. "Just let me see it!", he declared in a thick accent, gesturing impatiently as he did so. I quickly unlocked the screen on my phone and passed through the screenshot of my digital boarding pass. Once again he carefully scrutinized the information presented to him, this time comparing it with my passport that he was still holding. Suddenly, the border agent turned to the booth on his right, twisted his head away from me, and then quietly said something (in French of course) to the man next to him. What is happening? Is something wrong? What if I end up being held and questioned, or have to have my papers (now safely in my file) verified by the embassy like Lucita (another girl in our university group) had endured yesterday? Eventually he turned back around to me with a rather blasé expression and roughly stamped my passport saying, "Bienvenue à France!". "Merci, monsieur!" I replied as I retrieved my items before passing through the now opened terminal. As the metal gate closed behind me, I looked down at the passport booklet. My very first international stamp was now clearly visible on a previously blank page; through the Mount Rushmore watermark, I read the still damp letters in blue and red ink "....PARIS". Yes, I was finally and officially here in the City of Light. Excitement warmed my heart as I stepped out into the lobby to wait for the others. Look out world, because here I come!
Monday, January 15, 2018
What Happened in France~ Part 2
I shifted uncomfortably in my confining airline seat as the steady drone of the jet engines hummed through my very being. SWOOSH! Another startlingly loud flush of the overused toilets behind me ruptured the monotony. A stewardess, struggling to roll an unruly cart down the crowded isle, moved towards my row of seats, "Water, coffee, coke, or wine?" she asked. "Wine please," I responded. "White or red?", she interjected."White, thanks", I specified before awkwardly reaching over an impressively tall and thin African Francophone male to my left who appeared to be just as uncomfortable in his aisle seat as I was in my middle one. "Pardonnez moi," I apologized, "Je suis désolée." I felt as though these were the only words that we had exchanged on this flight. Whenever I had the need to use the facilities behind me, or make any movement really, I had to say these words while trying to do so. My fellow passenger to the right was in no condition to move out of the way for me either. He was a very overweight Swahili/African man of middle age, and therefore could barely fit in his seat. This made it so that every time he moved, I was jabbed in one area of my person or another.
Only a few moments before, the seat belt light was turned off (for about the fifth time on our turbulent journey), which I promptly took advantage of and walked up the rows of seats to where Sharron was watching a movie with her headset and asked her about the sleeping pills that we had both brought. "We have about 4-5 hours before they bring us breakfast, so let's try and grab some sleep while we can, okay?", I reasoned with her. "It's only 6 o'clock in the afternoon back home. I'm not even tired", she complained, "and I forgot to unpack my sleeping pills before we sent off our luggage...so can you just bring me some of yours?" "I guess so, sure!" I said as I turned to go, "Just let me go back there and take down my carry-on." On my way back with the medication, I passed a somewhat familiar face in line for the restrooms. "Hi!", I quietly greeted Mark with a wave. He flashed another smile before turning away to look at another passenger.
I was now desperately trying to get some sleep in this unrelenting environment. I slowly finished the Dixie cup of generic wine from the stewardess before curling myself as far down in my upright seat as I could, while leaning hard against the toilet station wall behind me, as if trying to gain just one more inch of recline. I put on the provided sleeping mask, turned on the meditation music station through my headphones, and tried to force myself into a dreamlike state. I could feel the men to my sides turn and shift restlessly in their seats, unavoidably nudging me as they did so. At least I'm not the only person suffering at this moment, I thought through my medically-induced drowsiness. I drifted off and began to see visions of places now far away when suddenly...SWOOSH! I was jolted awake by another passengers' bodily fluids being loudly disposed of. I am never going to get any sleep at this rate...what are they..6 hours ahead of us in France? That means I'm going to go a very long time without any sleep doesn't it? My tortured thoughts voiced their despair in my head. This would indeed be a very long, cramp inducing, and groggily-maneuvered flight before we reached our destination.
Only a few moments before, the seat belt light was turned off (for about the fifth time on our turbulent journey), which I promptly took advantage of and walked up the rows of seats to where Sharron was watching a movie with her headset and asked her about the sleeping pills that we had both brought. "We have about 4-5 hours before they bring us breakfast, so let's try and grab some sleep while we can, okay?", I reasoned with her. "It's only 6 o'clock in the afternoon back home. I'm not even tired", she complained, "and I forgot to unpack my sleeping pills before we sent off our luggage...so can you just bring me some of yours?" "I guess so, sure!" I said as I turned to go, "Just let me go back there and take down my carry-on." On my way back with the medication, I passed a somewhat familiar face in line for the restrooms. "Hi!", I quietly greeted Mark with a wave. He flashed another smile before turning away to look at another passenger.
I was now desperately trying to get some sleep in this unrelenting environment. I slowly finished the Dixie cup of generic wine from the stewardess before curling myself as far down in my upright seat as I could, while leaning hard against the toilet station wall behind me, as if trying to gain just one more inch of recline. I put on the provided sleeping mask, turned on the meditation music station through my headphones, and tried to force myself into a dreamlike state. I could feel the men to my sides turn and shift restlessly in their seats, unavoidably nudging me as they did so. At least I'm not the only person suffering at this moment, I thought through my medically-induced drowsiness. I drifted off and began to see visions of places now far away when suddenly...SWOOSH! I was jolted awake by another passengers' bodily fluids being loudly disposed of. I am never going to get any sleep at this rate...what are they..6 hours ahead of us in France? That means I'm going to go a very long time without any sleep doesn't it? My tortured thoughts voiced their despair in my head. This would indeed be a very long, cramp inducing, and groggily-maneuvered flight before we reached our destination.
Sunday, January 14, 2018
What Happened In France~ Part 1
The metallic clattering of the train car coincided with the jostling speed of the subway on it's way to the International Terminal at the ATL Hartsfield-Jackson airport. The light suddenly flickered and I was in momentary darkness, closed-in by strangers in the crowded place, with my only friend in the world next to me as we sat on the brink of this incredible journey. The last few days had seen a hectic pace of travel that was only the precursor of what I was about to embark upon. Our anxiety and excitement was palpable in the relative silence around us, and as the flashing light revealed glimpses of my bleak surroundings, I reflected on how I had come this far.
Only two days prior, I was sitting in a lecture hall at my Alma Mater hundreds of miles away, desperately trying to keep my intellectual juices flowing just long enough to stay focused on my back-to-back environmental biology finals, before closing my rented duplex for the next 5 weeks and driving my luggage-packed car 5-6 hours upstate to my friend Sharron's family home. They were kind and very hospitable to me upon arrival, which was merciful considering that my level of exhaustion had turned me into less than my typically sociable self. After a rather late evening meal and a few blissful hours of sleep on their luxurious guest room bed, I joined the ladies of the house the next morning on an all-day shopping spree at a large Atlanta mall for last minute luggage essentials, clothing items, and a pampering pedicure. An evening at the house visiting with Sharron's siblings and helping her pack (with her mother) finished our last day in the USA. Her father's early morning drive to see us well on our way had gotten us to where we were at this moment: about to board our first non-stop flight out of the country...
"Hey!" Sharron's voice abruptly snapped me out of my momentary reverie. "Isn't that the guy who we saw earlier?" Her gesturing hand indicated the location of a long-haired, unshaven young man sitting across from us several feet away. He was slumped over in a worn T-shirt that at one time may have been red, his loosely fitted khaki cargo pants and a single backpack hanging carelessly by his side completed the disheveled look. "I think it is.." I hesitatingly replied. He looked up as he gathered his unkept hair into a ponytail, and I saw a kind face smile shyly to the both of us during another flash of light through the gritty window to our right. "This is our stop." Sharron remarked and began to stand up as the train slowed next to a well-lit station. The florescent lighting hurt my squinting eyes as we exited the subway.
We planned our next move on our way up the escalator, "Let's find our boarding terminal first, and then see what we can find close by to grab for lunch, okay?" "Sounds good to me", she said. Several minutes of following overhead signs, and double then triple checking our boarding passes and tickets went by before we only had a few more hallway turns left to go. I looked over my shoulder and saw the mysterious figure appear some distance behind us. "Look! There he is again!" I quietly exclaimed to Sharron. We began keeping our focus behind, as well as in front of our route, and suddenly he was halfway up the escalator in front of us. "How the heck did that happen?!" Sharron muttered as a sudden uneasiness swept over our already anxious minds. Was this man following us? Impossible...surely he's just on his way somewhere like everybody else and this is just a coincidence...right? I tried to reason with myself. Living practically alone in a college city had made me over-conscience of my surroundings, even if it was to the point of being irrational. I stuffed these thoughts back in my head and focused on matching the right number and letter combination to an imminently visible overhead sign in the copious waiting area, sectioned off by that annoying seat-belt like rope used at events and (of course) airports, in which we now were. "There's hardly anyone here yet, and we still have around 45 minutes before they even start to board." I remarked to Sharron. "Yeah, but I still want to be right in front so I can be the first to board with the express pass that Dad bought me yesterday. You're coming with me as my 'traveling companion', so I need you to stick with me, okay?" she declared. "Fine! But I'm buying some water and something to eat. It's a 10 hour flight minimum, and I'm already hungry and thirsty. Want to come?", I replied. "Make it quick!", she ordered and briskly began walking in the direction of the non-distinct food odors.
Several minutes later, we returned to the spot of our last discussion with take-away deli wraps, a few snacks, and an extra large bottle of water. I promptly sat down and began munching on my lunch while she called her parents to let them know what was going on. I jumped when I suddenly heard my name called over the intercom above us, "Please go to your terminal at once with your passport", it instructed in a booming voice. My stomach sank like a pebble in a still pond. What happened? I couldn't possibly be in any trouble... After all, I'd already gone through TSA security and everything. I went to the awaiting uniformed employee behind the podium at the boarding gate; with no small amount of trepidation in my voice, I identified myself and subsequently handed my passport into his open hand. After what felt like a long time, he simply handed it back with a tight smile, after typing something into his computer while inspecting my documentation. Whew! Why do I feel like I just dodged a bullet?, I wondered as I returned to my seat and quickly finished my meal before calling my mom for one last goodbye before my leap into the great unknown through that gate.
Only a few moments before they called for the first boarders, another name was called to have their passport checked, and who should show up to our gate and answer the call but the mysterious stranger from the subway! "Go say hi", urged Sharron. "I can't do that!", I gasped "What would I say to the guy? 'Hey! We've been noticing you following us all this time and thought we should at least say hello?!' " "Whatever! He noticed us looking at him and is coming this way now", she said as her eyes faced the general direction behind me. Before I could say another word, the all too comfortably dressed traveler sat by us and proceeded to introduce himself. "Hi! I'm Mark. I saw y'all a lot earlier and it looks like we're on the same flight outta here," his thick southeastern drawl continued, "sorta looks like we're goin' to the same place now don't it?" Before I could stop her, Sharron (not used to having to be cautious around strangers) blurted out, "We're on our way to France for a study abroad trip in Tours!", and commenced the introductions. "That's cool," the now identified man commented, "I'm doin' the same thang myself." You have got to be kidding me! This kind of person is going abroad for intellectual purposes? I sat in disbelief while our flight was called to board. At least we won't be sitting together.
"Boarding pass, Miss!", demanded an overly stressed flight attendant. I showed her my seat number; a full class behind Sharron's, even though I had boarded as her companion. The woman sniffed and then sputtered through ill-concealed disdain, "That will be way back there to the partition and then to the left." I meekly followed her instructions. It wasn't my fault that the airline had forgotten my seat assignment and had to assign me a new one only a day or so ago. I approached where my next 10-12 hours would be spent. Oh my gosh...This is really bad! I thought as I regarded my situation with dismay, not only was I in the "sandwich seating", I was directly in front of the jet-powered toilet stations. On an overnight flight to a foreign destination, I was already having a nightmare.
Only two days prior, I was sitting in a lecture hall at my Alma Mater hundreds of miles away, desperately trying to keep my intellectual juices flowing just long enough to stay focused on my back-to-back environmental biology finals, before closing my rented duplex for the next 5 weeks and driving my luggage-packed car 5-6 hours upstate to my friend Sharron's family home. They were kind and very hospitable to me upon arrival, which was merciful considering that my level of exhaustion had turned me into less than my typically sociable self. After a rather late evening meal and a few blissful hours of sleep on their luxurious guest room bed, I joined the ladies of the house the next morning on an all-day shopping spree at a large Atlanta mall for last minute luggage essentials, clothing items, and a pampering pedicure. An evening at the house visiting with Sharron's siblings and helping her pack (with her mother) finished our last day in the USA. Her father's early morning drive to see us well on our way had gotten us to where we were at this moment: about to board our first non-stop flight out of the country...
"Hey!" Sharron's voice abruptly snapped me out of my momentary reverie. "Isn't that the guy who we saw earlier?" Her gesturing hand indicated the location of a long-haired, unshaven young man sitting across from us several feet away. He was slumped over in a worn T-shirt that at one time may have been red, his loosely fitted khaki cargo pants and a single backpack hanging carelessly by his side completed the disheveled look. "I think it is.." I hesitatingly replied. He looked up as he gathered his unkept hair into a ponytail, and I saw a kind face smile shyly to the both of us during another flash of light through the gritty window to our right. "This is our stop." Sharron remarked and began to stand up as the train slowed next to a well-lit station. The florescent lighting hurt my squinting eyes as we exited the subway.
We planned our next move on our way up the escalator, "Let's find our boarding terminal first, and then see what we can find close by to grab for lunch, okay?" "Sounds good to me", she said. Several minutes of following overhead signs, and double then triple checking our boarding passes and tickets went by before we only had a few more hallway turns left to go. I looked over my shoulder and saw the mysterious figure appear some distance behind us. "Look! There he is again!" I quietly exclaimed to Sharron. We began keeping our focus behind, as well as in front of our route, and suddenly he was halfway up the escalator in front of us. "How the heck did that happen?!" Sharron muttered as a sudden uneasiness swept over our already anxious minds. Was this man following us? Impossible...surely he's just on his way somewhere like everybody else and this is just a coincidence...right? I tried to reason with myself. Living practically alone in a college city had made me over-conscience of my surroundings, even if it was to the point of being irrational. I stuffed these thoughts back in my head and focused on matching the right number and letter combination to an imminently visible overhead sign in the copious waiting area, sectioned off by that annoying seat-belt like rope used at events and (of course) airports, in which we now were. "There's hardly anyone here yet, and we still have around 45 minutes before they even start to board." I remarked to Sharron. "Yeah, but I still want to be right in front so I can be the first to board with the express pass that Dad bought me yesterday. You're coming with me as my 'traveling companion', so I need you to stick with me, okay?" she declared. "Fine! But I'm buying some water and something to eat. It's a 10 hour flight minimum, and I'm already hungry and thirsty. Want to come?", I replied. "Make it quick!", she ordered and briskly began walking in the direction of the non-distinct food odors.
Several minutes later, we returned to the spot of our last discussion with take-away deli wraps, a few snacks, and an extra large bottle of water. I promptly sat down and began munching on my lunch while she called her parents to let them know what was going on. I jumped when I suddenly heard my name called over the intercom above us, "Please go to your terminal at once with your passport", it instructed in a booming voice. My stomach sank like a pebble in a still pond. What happened? I couldn't possibly be in any trouble... After all, I'd already gone through TSA security and everything. I went to the awaiting uniformed employee behind the podium at the boarding gate; with no small amount of trepidation in my voice, I identified myself and subsequently handed my passport into his open hand. After what felt like a long time, he simply handed it back with a tight smile, after typing something into his computer while inspecting my documentation. Whew! Why do I feel like I just dodged a bullet?, I wondered as I returned to my seat and quickly finished my meal before calling my mom for one last goodbye before my leap into the great unknown through that gate.
Only a few moments before they called for the first boarders, another name was called to have their passport checked, and who should show up to our gate and answer the call but the mysterious stranger from the subway! "Go say hi", urged Sharron. "I can't do that!", I gasped "What would I say to the guy? 'Hey! We've been noticing you following us all this time and thought we should at least say hello?!' " "Whatever! He noticed us looking at him and is coming this way now", she said as her eyes faced the general direction behind me. Before I could say another word, the all too comfortably dressed traveler sat by us and proceeded to introduce himself. "Hi! I'm Mark. I saw y'all a lot earlier and it looks like we're on the same flight outta here," his thick southeastern drawl continued, "sorta looks like we're goin' to the same place now don't it?" Before I could stop her, Sharron (not used to having to be cautious around strangers) blurted out, "We're on our way to France for a study abroad trip in Tours!", and commenced the introductions. "That's cool," the now identified man commented, "I'm doin' the same thang myself." You have got to be kidding me! This kind of person is going abroad for intellectual purposes? I sat in disbelief while our flight was called to board. At least we won't be sitting together.
"Boarding pass, Miss!", demanded an overly stressed flight attendant. I showed her my seat number; a full class behind Sharron's, even though I had boarded as her companion. The woman sniffed and then sputtered through ill-concealed disdain, "That will be way back there to the partition and then to the left." I meekly followed her instructions. It wasn't my fault that the airline had forgotten my seat assignment and had to assign me a new one only a day or so ago. I approached where my next 10-12 hours would be spent. Oh my gosh...This is really bad! I thought as I regarded my situation with dismay, not only was I in the "sandwich seating", I was directly in front of the jet-powered toilet stations. On an overnight flight to a foreign destination, I was already having a nightmare.
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