A Parisian Summer Holiday
As far back as I can remember, I had always wanted to parade down a street in Paris armed with a long, hard baguette. No pun intended with this phallic-sounding imagery. The French bread penetrated my mind after watching beautiful women in cinema, gliding on Parisian streets with fresh, baked bread tucked under their arms. Oh, but there are far more film noir-ish scenes, I wish to create while strolling in this romantic city; such as, basking in a sunset picnic on the grass at the Eiffel Tower. Or carousing on a luxury, shopping escapade along Champs-Élysées.
Like any American tourist, I mapped the best of Paris before boarding a non-stop flight from Miami. Finally arriving, I found the hot spots to cast myself as a Parisian for a day, a fantasy formed in the curious mind of a child on a playground during school recess. And those were formidable years of wild imagination and good reads-Madeline, set in Paris, was one of my favorite children's book series. Ah, if only life flipped its pages like a glossy picture book or a classic fairy tale.
At the entrance of the Montessori school in sunny, Miami Shores, I still remember the pristine, white stone path and sprawling periwinkle gardens. And the young, tender face of a loving teacher, Miss Peach (yes, that was her real name), standing over me as I counted wood, log blocks in her math class. She exposed her tan shoulders and hour-glass figure, wearing a white strapless, gingham dress. And my teacher wore her long silk, black hair tied in a bun, bound with a wooden pencil. And she, a beautiful woman, was not married. Throughout the school year, I had trouble grasping why a woman like her did not possess a husband. So, one day I drummed up the courage and asked, "Miss Peach, why aren't you married?" She answered, "I'm simply waiting for the right man." Prince charming floated in my mind.
The daydream stalled like a hovering storm in a magnetic, lightening field. The storm wizard, a polar opposite: a hyperactive redhead boy named, Patrick Naughton. Repeatedly, as if trapped in a residual nightmare, the boy with a snot spout, runny nose chased me through the metal chains of the playground swings. And then, he followed me down a long, winding slide, claiming one day we would get married. And as always, I shouted, "No, I will not marry you; I will wait for the right man." Mimicking Miss Peach, I felt confident with the statement, yet clueless as to what it fully meant. Ironically, later in life, I would run from a few more boys, always waiting for "He's the Right One" thunderbolt to strike the top of my crown. Fast forward, years later in Paris, I'm the "runaway, good wife" with severe, incurable wanderlust. This mid-life campaign message, approved by my marriage therapist. Thank you, Dr. Marin.
With "Je m’appelle Michelle Marie" and a basket of French words like bonjour, enchantee and dégage (Buzz Off!), I drank the artificial lemonade on Boulevard de la Bastille, clutching an armful of baguettes (one is never enough) and a bottle of red wine in a knapsack, fetched at a nearby market. Crossing a street packed with pedestrians, heavy eyes raked me as I strolled on the bustling city sidewalks. Blocks later, voila... I blended in with the Parisian crowd. When in Paris-or any foreign city-one should look and act like the locals. Right? Many of my fellow Americans would fare better in Europe, if they heeded this mantra.
On my 42nd birthday-age is just a number *sigh*-I woke up at the first sight of a bright, orange rim lifting in the sky, ready to enjoy my first full day in Paris. "The trick to defying age is simple," Johnny Depp once said in an interview in the Independent-the summer of my European adventure.
“If you keep your curiosity in life, I think it keeps you young beyond numbers.” Curiosity, sprinkled on the sweet and salty rim of a fantasy bucket brought me to the City of Light. Ooh la la.
After a long hot shower, I draped a towel around by naked body and wrapped my wet, long blonde locks in a cotton turban. My mind groped the reality that I was finally in Paris on my birthday, just as I had planned many years ago. With great anticipation to start the day, I threw open the white shutters, inhaling the scent of bread rising in a bakery mixed with a blast of exhaust fumes from the street below.
On the balcony, a patch of geraniums bloomed in a garden box. The petals large, sharp-edged in a scarlet to bright red variety, anchored on tall stems that saluted the rays of sunshine. Down below, the streets were narrow, lined with ornate buildings, an architectural showcase of French Renaissance. Across the street, mythic figures-war heroes- carved in marble, decorated the masonry above a large clock on the top of the building. The dial told time in Roman numerals. The windows, the eyes of the buildings donned antique frames, and mini gardens hung like ornaments on the iron rails. The pristine flower boxes, manicured by Parisian green thumbs brightened the grimy, stone walls. A reminder: I must plant a spectrum of colorful foliage around my house, curb appeal to brighten the dim, concrete walls.
Below on rue Des Archives, I watched a young couple, hooked at the elbows walk past a man on the corner. Dressed in a white, long sleeve cotton shirt with a red bow tie and black pants, he stood in a wide stance, somewhat territorial, as if he owned that stretch of concrete. He flashed a wide smile as delivery trucks whizzed past him. Maybe the man on the corner owned one of the stores in the Mariais section, or he simply took pride with the growing signs of consumerism that summer tourism spawned.
Across the street, another man stood tall and important in a tailored, black suit. The two men waved at one another with a sense of fraternal pride and patriotic affinity to the neighborhood. The friendly display reminded me of a scene in Goodfellas or the popular HBO series, The Sopranos. Everybody seemed to know each other, smiling and nodding to the husky, boss man, at the sidewalk cafe. The man in the black suit flexed his muscle with a thrust of a palm, stopping a beer truck in the middle of the street. He then commanded the driver with excessive hand gestures, directing his delivery to the rear entrance.
From your hotel balcony or at a sidewalk cafe, Paris is a fabulous city to people watch, inviting the voyeur to take part in the city scenes like a TV reality show. Post-Impressionist artist, Paul Cézanne once said we should "participate in the play of life". And that's exactly what I intend to do in Paris, Rome and London.
Shifting my eyes on the clock across the street, I realized time had fleeted, longer than I was willing to spend *alone* in a hotel room. I closed the window, slipped on a black, strapless cotton dress, and pulled my hair in a high ponytail. The temperature in the room felt like winter under a vent on the ceiling. Air conditioning, a luxury never to complain about when weathering a hot, European summer.
I rushed down the stairs instead of taking the elevator, a quick fitness sprint on an empty stomach. Yet, I reminded myself that I'm not counting steps on this trip; my Fitbit is not attached to my wrist, resting idle at home. The salon, four flights down, served breakfast for 12 euros, a fee du jour, automatically charged to the hotel bill. Lucky for my travel partner, Linda, sleeping beauty, she would not miss this meal. Breakfast didn’t have a strict closing time, as we would later face in other countries. After one more set of spiral steps beneath the lobby, I reached the salon, which looked more like a bomb shelter. The ceiling was low, stacked with white stone bricks, the entrance-way shaped in an arch. The air was stale with no ventilation.
A corpulent woman with cocoa skin appeared and announced, "Bonjour Madame". She wore a white lace apron and a friendly smile, inviting me to choose any table. Standing beside her, I mulled over the seating arrangement, as I was the only one in the room. Quickly, I scanned the salon, choosing a cozy spot in the corner, away from the fancy spotlights that splashed color in the room. The lights heated the room like a hot oven.
The glass fixture cascaded in the middle of the room like the winding steps down to the breakfast room. A French tapestry hung on the wall, weaved the image of a Parisian market with potted flowers that lined a cobblestone walkway.
A bright beam of light illuminated the edge of the petals. Marveling at the stitched landscape, I longed to visit an outdoor Parisian market, just like the one in the tapestry.
Cheerfully, I announced to the woman in the white laced apron, "Au jourdee seh meh mon anniversiare." At first, I thought she appreciated my effort speaking French. But my attempt flattened like a failed hot air balloon. To my surprise, she returned in perfect English: "Happy birthday". The breakfast lady was the first person to deliver the greeting-six hours ahead of my friends back home, pinning me as an American, the day after I pretended to be a Parisian, walking on Bastille Boulevard. At least my French fantasy was fulfilled. And fortunately, trans-Atlantic jet lag didn't kill that waking dream.
Alone in the salon, I studied the place mat, set in an extravagant order as though a monarch or emperor dined at the table. Europeans like the "breakfast lady" take pleasure in the art of hospitality. Aside from a regular table setting, she neatly lined sterling silver spoons and gold butter utensils, next to an assortment of fancy jellies and a plate of butter, shaped like sunflowers. She delivered a large platter of flaky croissants, small baguettes and powdered sugar pastries. And later, she delivered a bowl of yogurt with chopped kiwi and strawberries, on the side. I sighed at the lack of protein, no scrambled eggs nor made-to-order eggs at this meal. Usually, I would pass on the carb lovers feast; however, a proclamation was sealed when I booked my four-week European adventure: I shall eat glorious amounts of bread, sans guilt. "Whose Cares!", a new life chant, borrowed from a dear friend from Rio. She also advised, "Pack yoga pants just in case your jeans shrink after the debauchery of French bread and fine wine." Good advice.
Careful not to soil the white, silk tablecloth, I slowly poured strong coffee from a porcelain pitcher into a narrow cup. As I sipped the hot beverage, I heard a song playing from a music box, behind the bar. Immediately, I recognized the tune. It was Bruce Springsteen, belting Born in the USA. Suddenly, I felt a tad bit homesick, some four-thousand and five-hundred miles away. This usually happens when I listen to English lyrics when traveling abroad, inside a cab, bar and now here, in the basement salon at the hotel, Villa Marazin. Once again, The Boss, Bruce transformed me to another place in time, a gyrating force of tunes sparked a fierce fire in my rebel soul. Springsteen- a timeless sex symbol- had graced the cover of AARP magazine, hard to believe, he's a grandfather. My next thought, Johnny Depp should handsomely grace the cover soon, since he joined "The Club" at 50. Then again, Depp (like Springsteen) keeps young beyond numbers. As for me, curiosity-traveling the world-plunges me in a fresh spring, my fountain of youth.
.......................
{chapter break}
Feasting on buttery layers of croissants, sugar-dusted pastries, fresh coffee and pressed grapefruit juice, thoughts of seeing the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre and other Parisian gems tangoed in my head.
Shortly after, Linda walked in the room as I literally licked the last scoop of creamy vanilla yogurt on my silver spoon. The light texture tasted like the natural foods I once ate as child, without the harsh chemicals or questionable ingredients in the food supply, found in America today. I miss the puritan taste of food, before the cultivation of genetically modified organisms, GMOs. The thought of alternating the DNA of a vegetable or fruit sounds Frankenstein-like. Unlike America, Europe isn't rushing to sprout seeds in a laboratory. Maybe one day I will live here... another dreamy fantasy.
As my radiant, like a bright sun, travel buddy sat down at the table, I ordered another caffeine jolt of cafe, contemplating whether to order a glass of French champagne instead. Linda ate her late breakfast, and I jotted some of our travelogues in my writing pad...
Oh, the joys of traveling....
No matter how you master your travel plans, things are bound to get screwed up. First hiccup: botched seat assignments on Air France. Prior to boarding, I argued with the attendant at the gate, on mere travel principle; we had called ahead and selected our seats, next to each together from Miami to Paris. No explanation given, other than a lecture from the agent with a handle bar mustache. "One must never assume anything." he said, rolling his eyes at me.
Standing behind the counter, I replied, "Yes, I understand... I am fully aware never to assume facts or details... I'm a journalist. We were given confirmation from an agent at the Air France call center; our seats were assigned after a 40 minute phone call." My demands for resolution were not being met, so I waited for him to leave the desk and then vented to another Air France agent. This time, a Spanish lady with plump, red lips that matched the strawberry color beret on her head. She listened to a bungled version of Spanglish as I waved my hands, using emotional props, pleading for her help. "Entonces", and then... "Por favor", please help. and "Si, yes Linda, mi amiga, my friend flew in from Dallas. The language worked. Voila! The magic, Tower of Babylon rabbit was pulled out of her red beret; the lovely Air France agent found two empty seats in row 29. Our seats were downgraded, but at least we would sit together on a nine hour flight. As expected, the plane was packed and so were my long legs, crossed together like the claws of a Florida blue crab. Linda, in the middle, was seated next to an old, French man. He fared better, in a seat next to the window with plenty of leg room; there was no seat in front of him, in the emergency exit row. Before we took off, I wished the flight attendant would deem the old man unfit to open the door in a sudden evacuation. Selfishly, I wanted to muscle, hijack his seat. Surprisingly, she didn't flag him. Shortly after, our leg room was invaded when the two men in front of us jerked their seats back, at the same time. Ouch, my knees! Escaping confinement, I got up many times to stretch, visiting the lavatories and walking down the aisles. With two hours left on the flight, Linda and I bubbled in giddy anticipation like school girls going to the spring dance. That’s when old Frenchie beside us leaned forward, and shot us a stern glare. He pressed a finger on his lips to gesture, "silence" as if he were a gate guardian at the Sistine Chapel. And brusquely, he mimicked our chatter, opening and closing his lips. Ugh, the grump apparently did not like our girlish laughter. He then slipped on a black eye mask as if he were drifting to sleep and...
honked a few farts. Shocked at first, revenge took hold of me.
I pulled out a TSA-approved spray from Victoria Secret out of my carry on bag and squirted him. The fragrant, Angel scent wouldn’t turn him into anything heavenly- but at least row 29, seats A and B, and maybe his C would smell like roses. Eventually, he fell in a deep slumber, neck bent sideways, like a zombie. Just in case he honked more, I sprayed the fart control, over and over.When the plane landed he sprouted out of his seat and attempted to jump in front of a procession of air travelers. Where do you think you are going? I muttered, under my breath. Annoying impatient, smelly old, French fart.... He squirmed out of our row and positioned himself in the aisle. Grabbing his bag from the overhead bin, he swiped an old lady on her forehead. I recognized the woman with the purple scarf wrapped around her head . During the flight, she walked by me several times. Her eyes locking mine as if she wanted to forewarn me of something. Young lady, please don't die with too many regrets. As she passed me, she almost tripped over the giant foot of a high school basketball player spread out in the aisle.
Watching her, I warned her that his Nike sneaker blocked the aisle. As I gazed closely at her, I saw my reflection in her face. And I froze... Why do I keep seeing my reflection in the faces of old women? Is the universe trying to tell me something? When I'm ancient with a nest of wrinkles on my face, I don’t want to look back with ANY regrets. Gazing at the woman wearing the purple scarf, I received a cosmic message, blaring "Explore, dream, discover new places before you die." A smile stretched wide across my face; I'm landing in Paris and will not die with never seeing the Eiffel Tower lit up at night.
Once the cabin door opened, the grumpy, French fossil wedged his way in front of the line like a race car, but he had sluggish wheels with no opportunity to advance. We, the passengers moved slowly in a processional line like parishioners, exiting a church.The old man had no choice but to conform to the slow pace of the deplane sacrament. Happy to see him fade in the distance, I planted my feet on French soil. Yet I could not stop thinking about the old lady with the purple scarf and wonder if she lives with tear-soaked, empty bucket lists, faded dreams or lost loves.
As far back as I can remember, I had always wanted to parade down a street in Paris armed with a long, hard baguette. No pun intended with this phallic-sounding imagery. The French bread penetrated my mind after watching beautiful women in cinema, gliding on Parisian streets with fresh, baked bread tucked under their arms. Oh, but there are far more film noir-ish scenes, I wish to create while strolling in this romantic city; such as, basking in a sunset picnic on the grass at the Eiffel Tower. Or carousing on a luxury, shopping escapade along Champs-Élysées.
Like any American tourist, I mapped the best of Paris before boarding a non-stop flight from Miami. Finally arriving, I found the hot spots to cast myself as a Parisian for a day, a fantasy formed in the curious mind of a child on a playground during school recess. And those were formidable years of wild imagination and good reads-Madeline, set in Paris, was one of my favorite children's book series. Ah, if only life flipped its pages like a glossy picture book or a classic fairy tale.
At the entrance of the Montessori school in sunny, Miami Shores, I still remember the pristine, white stone path and sprawling periwinkle gardens. And the young, tender face of a loving teacher, Miss Peach (yes, that was her real name), standing over me as I counted wood, log blocks in her math class. She exposed her tan shoulders and hour-glass figure, wearing a white strapless, gingham dress. And my teacher wore her long silk, black hair tied in a bun, bound with a wooden pencil. And she, a beautiful woman, was not married. Throughout the school year, I had trouble grasping why a woman like her did not possess a husband. So, one day I drummed up the courage and asked, "Miss Peach, why aren't you married?" She answered, "I'm simply waiting for the right man." Prince charming floated in my mind.
The daydream stalled like a hovering storm in a magnetic, lightening field. The storm wizard, a polar opposite: a hyperactive redhead boy named, Patrick Naughton. Repeatedly, as if trapped in a residual nightmare, the boy with a snot spout, runny nose chased me through the metal chains of the playground swings. And then, he followed me down a long, winding slide, claiming one day we would get married. And as always, I shouted, "No, I will not marry you; I will wait for the right man." Mimicking Miss Peach, I felt confident with the statement, yet clueless as to what it fully meant. Ironically, later in life, I would run from a few more boys, always waiting for "He's the Right One" thunderbolt to strike the top of my crown. Fast forward, years later in Paris, I'm the "runaway, good wife" with severe, incurable wanderlust. This mid-life campaign message, approved by my marriage therapist. Thank you, Dr. Marin.
With "Je m’appelle Michelle Marie" and a basket of French words like bonjour, enchantee and dégage (Buzz Off!), I drank the artificial lemonade on Boulevard de la Bastille, clutching an armful of baguettes (one is never enough) and a bottle of red wine in a knapsack, fetched at a nearby market. Crossing a street packed with pedestrians, heavy eyes raked me as I strolled on the bustling city sidewalks. Blocks later, voila... I blended in with the Parisian crowd. When in Paris-or any foreign city-one should look and act like the locals. Right? Many of my fellow Americans would fare better in Europe, if they heeded this mantra.
On my 42nd birthday-age is just a number *sigh*-I woke up at the first sight of a bright, orange rim lifting in the sky, ready to enjoy my first full day in Paris. "The trick to defying age is simple," Johnny Depp once said in an interview in the Independent-the summer of my European adventure.
“If you keep your curiosity in life, I think it keeps you young beyond numbers.” Curiosity, sprinkled on the sweet and salty rim of a fantasy bucket brought me to the City of Light. Ooh la la.
After a long hot shower, I draped a towel around by naked body and wrapped my wet, long blonde locks in a cotton turban. My mind groped the reality that I was finally in Paris on my birthday, just as I had planned many years ago. With great anticipation to start the day, I threw open the white shutters, inhaling the scent of bread rising in a bakery mixed with a blast of exhaust fumes from the street below.
On the balcony, a patch of geraniums bloomed in a garden box. The petals large, sharp-edged in a scarlet to bright red variety, anchored on tall stems that saluted the rays of sunshine. Down below, the streets were narrow, lined with ornate buildings, an architectural showcase of French Renaissance. Across the street, mythic figures-war heroes- carved in marble, decorated the masonry above a large clock on the top of the building. The dial told time in Roman numerals. The windows, the eyes of the buildings donned antique frames, and mini gardens hung like ornaments on the iron rails. The pristine flower boxes, manicured by Parisian green thumbs brightened the grimy, stone walls. A reminder: I must plant a spectrum of colorful foliage around my house, curb appeal to brighten the dim, concrete walls.
Below on rue Des Archives, I watched a young couple, hooked at the elbows walk past a man on the corner. Dressed in a white, long sleeve cotton shirt with a red bow tie and black pants, he stood in a wide stance, somewhat territorial, as if he owned that stretch of concrete. He flashed a wide smile as delivery trucks whizzed past him. Maybe the man on the corner owned one of the stores in the Mariais section, or he simply took pride with the growing signs of consumerism that summer tourism spawned.
Across the street, another man stood tall and important in a tailored, black suit. The two men waved at one another with a sense of fraternal pride and patriotic affinity to the neighborhood. The friendly display reminded me of a scene in Goodfellas or the popular HBO series, The Sopranos. Everybody seemed to know each other, smiling and nodding to the husky, boss man, at the sidewalk cafe. The man in the black suit flexed his muscle with a thrust of a palm, stopping a beer truck in the middle of the street. He then commanded the driver with excessive hand gestures, directing his delivery to the rear entrance.
From your hotel balcony or at a sidewalk cafe, Paris is a fabulous city to people watch, inviting the voyeur to take part in the city scenes like a TV reality show. Post-Impressionist artist, Paul Cézanne once said we should "participate in the play of life". And that's exactly what I intend to do in Paris, Rome and London.
Shifting my eyes on the clock across the street, I realized time had fleeted, longer than I was willing to spend *alone* in a hotel room. I closed the window, slipped on a black, strapless cotton dress, and pulled my hair in a high ponytail. The temperature in the room felt like winter under a vent on the ceiling. Air conditioning, a luxury never to complain about when weathering a hot, European summer.
I rushed down the stairs instead of taking the elevator, a quick fitness sprint on an empty stomach. Yet, I reminded myself that I'm not counting steps on this trip; my Fitbit is not attached to my wrist, resting idle at home. The salon, four flights down, served breakfast for 12 euros, a fee du jour, automatically charged to the hotel bill. Lucky for my travel partner, Linda, sleeping beauty, she would not miss this meal. Breakfast didn’t have a strict closing time, as we would later face in other countries. After one more set of spiral steps beneath the lobby, I reached the salon, which looked more like a bomb shelter. The ceiling was low, stacked with white stone bricks, the entrance-way shaped in an arch. The air was stale with no ventilation.
A corpulent woman with cocoa skin appeared and announced, "Bonjour Madame". She wore a white lace apron and a friendly smile, inviting me to choose any table. Standing beside her, I mulled over the seating arrangement, as I was the only one in the room. Quickly, I scanned the salon, choosing a cozy spot in the corner, away from the fancy spotlights that splashed color in the room. The lights heated the room like a hot oven.
The glass fixture cascaded in the middle of the room like the winding steps down to the breakfast room. A French tapestry hung on the wall, weaved the image of a Parisian market with potted flowers that lined a cobblestone walkway.
A bright beam of light illuminated the edge of the petals. Marveling at the stitched landscape, I longed to visit an outdoor Parisian market, just like the one in the tapestry.
Cheerfully, I announced to the woman in the white laced apron, "Au jourdee seh meh mon anniversiare." At first, I thought she appreciated my effort speaking French. But my attempt flattened like a failed hot air balloon. To my surprise, she returned in perfect English: "Happy birthday". The breakfast lady was the first person to deliver the greeting-six hours ahead of my friends back home, pinning me as an American, the day after I pretended to be a Parisian, walking on Bastille Boulevard. At least my French fantasy was fulfilled. And fortunately, trans-Atlantic jet lag didn't kill that waking dream.
Alone in the salon, I studied the place mat, set in an extravagant order as though a monarch or emperor dined at the table. Europeans like the "breakfast lady" take pleasure in the art of hospitality. Aside from a regular table setting, she neatly lined sterling silver spoons and gold butter utensils, next to an assortment of fancy jellies and a plate of butter, shaped like sunflowers. She delivered a large platter of flaky croissants, small baguettes and powdered sugar pastries. And later, she delivered a bowl of yogurt with chopped kiwi and strawberries, on the side. I sighed at the lack of protein, no scrambled eggs nor made-to-order eggs at this meal. Usually, I would pass on the carb lovers feast; however, a proclamation was sealed when I booked my four-week European adventure: I shall eat glorious amounts of bread, sans guilt. "Whose Cares!", a new life chant, borrowed from a dear friend from Rio. She also advised, "Pack yoga pants just in case your jeans shrink after the debauchery of French bread and fine wine." Good advice.
Careful not to soil the white, silk tablecloth, I slowly poured strong coffee from a porcelain pitcher into a narrow cup. As I sipped the hot beverage, I heard a song playing from a music box, behind the bar. Immediately, I recognized the tune. It was Bruce Springsteen, belting Born in the USA. Suddenly, I felt a tad bit homesick, some four-thousand and five-hundred miles away. This usually happens when I listen to English lyrics when traveling abroad, inside a cab, bar and now here, in the basement salon at the hotel, Villa Marazin. Once again, The Boss, Bruce transformed me to another place in time, a gyrating force of tunes sparked a fierce fire in my rebel soul. Springsteen- a timeless sex symbol- had graced the cover of AARP magazine, hard to believe, he's a grandfather. My next thought, Johnny Depp should handsomely grace the cover soon, since he joined "The Club" at 50. Then again, Depp (like Springsteen) keeps young beyond numbers. As for me, curiosity-traveling the world-plunges me in a fresh spring, my fountain of youth.
.......................
{chapter break}
Feasting on buttery layers of croissants, sugar-dusted pastries, fresh coffee and pressed grapefruit juice, thoughts of seeing the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre and other Parisian gems tangoed in my head.
Shortly after, Linda walked in the room as I literally licked the last scoop of creamy vanilla yogurt on my silver spoon. The light texture tasted like the natural foods I once ate as child, without the harsh chemicals or questionable ingredients in the food supply, found in America today. I miss the puritan taste of food, before the cultivation of genetically modified organisms, GMOs. The thought of alternating the DNA of a vegetable or fruit sounds Frankenstein-like. Unlike America, Europe isn't rushing to sprout seeds in a laboratory. Maybe one day I will live here... another dreamy fantasy.
As my radiant, like a bright sun, travel buddy sat down at the table, I ordered another caffeine jolt of cafe, contemplating whether to order a glass of French champagne instead. Linda ate her late breakfast, and I jotted some of our travelogues in my writing pad...
Oh, the joys of traveling....
No matter how you master your travel plans, things are bound to get screwed up. First hiccup: botched seat assignments on Air France. Prior to boarding, I argued with the attendant at the gate, on mere travel principle; we had called ahead and selected our seats, next to each together from Miami to Paris. No explanation given, other than a lecture from the agent with a handle bar mustache. "One must never assume anything." he said, rolling his eyes at me.
Standing behind the counter, I replied, "Yes, I understand... I am fully aware never to assume facts or details... I'm a journalist. We were given confirmation from an agent at the Air France call center; our seats were assigned after a 40 minute phone call." My demands for resolution were not being met, so I waited for him to leave the desk and then vented to another Air France agent. This time, a Spanish lady with plump, red lips that matched the strawberry color beret on her head. She listened to a bungled version of Spanglish as I waved my hands, using emotional props, pleading for her help. "Entonces", and then... "Por favor", please help. and "Si, yes Linda, mi amiga, my friend flew in from Dallas. The language worked. Voila! The magic, Tower of Babylon rabbit was pulled out of her red beret; the lovely Air France agent found two empty seats in row 29. Our seats were downgraded, but at least we would sit together on a nine hour flight. As expected, the plane was packed and so were my long legs, crossed together like the claws of a Florida blue crab. Linda, in the middle, was seated next to an old, French man. He fared better, in a seat next to the window with plenty of leg room; there was no seat in front of him, in the emergency exit row. Before we took off, I wished the flight attendant would deem the old man unfit to open the door in a sudden evacuation. Selfishly, I wanted to muscle, hijack his seat. Surprisingly, she didn't flag him. Shortly after, our leg room was invaded when the two men in front of us jerked their seats back, at the same time. Ouch, my knees! Escaping confinement, I got up many times to stretch, visiting the lavatories and walking down the aisles. With two hours left on the flight, Linda and I bubbled in giddy anticipation like school girls going to the spring dance. That’s when old Frenchie beside us leaned forward, and shot us a stern glare. He pressed a finger on his lips to gesture, "silence" as if he were a gate guardian at the Sistine Chapel. And brusquely, he mimicked our chatter, opening and closing his lips. Ugh, the grump apparently did not like our girlish laughter. He then slipped on a black eye mask as if he were drifting to sleep and...
honked a few farts. Shocked at first, revenge took hold of me.
I pulled out a TSA-approved spray from Victoria Secret out of my carry on bag and squirted him. The fragrant, Angel scent wouldn’t turn him into anything heavenly- but at least row 29, seats A and B, and maybe his C would smell like roses. Eventually, he fell in a deep slumber, neck bent sideways, like a zombie. Just in case he honked more, I sprayed the fart control, over and over.When the plane landed he sprouted out of his seat and attempted to jump in front of a procession of air travelers. Where do you think you are going? I muttered, under my breath. Annoying impatient, smelly old, French fart.... He squirmed out of our row and positioned himself in the aisle. Grabbing his bag from the overhead bin, he swiped an old lady on her forehead. I recognized the woman with the purple scarf wrapped around her head . During the flight, she walked by me several times. Her eyes locking mine as if she wanted to forewarn me of something. Young lady, please don't die with too many regrets. As she passed me, she almost tripped over the giant foot of a high school basketball player spread out in the aisle.
Watching her, I warned her that his Nike sneaker blocked the aisle. As I gazed closely at her, I saw my reflection in her face. And I froze... Why do I keep seeing my reflection in the faces of old women? Is the universe trying to tell me something? When I'm ancient with a nest of wrinkles on my face, I don’t want to look back with ANY regrets. Gazing at the woman wearing the purple scarf, I received a cosmic message, blaring "Explore, dream, discover new places before you die." A smile stretched wide across my face; I'm landing in Paris and will not die with never seeing the Eiffel Tower lit up at night.
Once the cabin door opened, the grumpy, French fossil wedged his way in front of the line like a race car, but he had sluggish wheels with no opportunity to advance. We, the passengers moved slowly in a processional line like parishioners, exiting a church.The old man had no choice but to conform to the slow pace of the deplane sacrament. Happy to see him fade in the distance, I planted my feet on French soil. Yet I could not stop thinking about the old lady with the purple scarf and wonder if she lives with tear-soaked, empty bucket lists, faded dreams or lost loves.
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