Tales from France, Part I: Le Straight Par-ee

I've had a busy couple of months. Started a book club. Got promoted at that attorney gig that I do in my spare time. Went all Fatal Attraction on Coop by cutting up a Christmas/birthday gift and leaving it on his doorstep after he asked if he could have it back. Welcomed the Sox back to Fenway on a winter(?) day:

Seriously, someone needs to have a talk with Mother Nature.

Mel: Mother Nature, I found snow in my backyard on April 15. Where did you get it?
Mother Nature: Mel, I...
Mel [interrupting] Answer me! Who taught you how to do this stuff?
Mother Nature: YOU, all right!!! I learned it by watching you!!!!

Ok, what is happening?

Anyway, perhaps one of the most exciting things that I did recently was take a trip to Paris. I briefly mentioned a fling with a Dutchman, but I didn't really get into any of my Parisian adventures. They started from the moment that I got off the plane...

If you've ever stood in line in customs waiting to enter a foreign country, you will be able to relate to this feeling. For some reason, even if you're not smuggling anything in, or doing anything remotely illegal, you always feel like you're doing something wrong when you stand in line at customs. For me, personally, I always draw a blank at the questions that the border officer asks me. All of the sudden, I can't remember where I flew from, where I'm going, how long am I staying... I once answered "three days" when I knew I was staying for seven and then corrected myself right away, and then went back to three days for some reason so that I wouldn't seem suspicious. So, already I was very uncomfortable. It didn't help matters that the customs area was being kept at a balmy 101 degrees, that's 38 degrees Celsius.

After standing about 20 minutes in line, one of the customs officials announced something in French, opened up one of the ropes and a bunch of people went to a lineless area on the other side of the room. I'm not sure if you've noticed that a major difference between men and women is that men have a tendency to act first and think later. So, as you might imagine, even though the men in the line that we were in didn't speak French and had no way of understanding the announcement, they all saw a shorter line and similar to what happens when they see power tools or sausages, all of the men (including my two male friends) made a mad dash for the open rope, with their respective women trailing behind in a chorus of "What did that announcement say though?" "Is this line just for the French citizens?" "Why didn't they announce that in English?" And sure enough after standing in that line for 20 minutes, and making it toward the front, we learned that that line was for European Union passports only. So, back to the original line (now about twice as long as it was before) we went.

By this point, we had been in customs for 40 minutes. I was sweating bullets from the heat and also because I had convinced myself that while we were standing in line, someone had planted 1200 grams of cocaine in my suitcase and I would be thrown into a foreign prison, which in my imagination was the Thai prison in Brokedown Palace for some reason. With all of this happening, I began to feel a bit nauseous. Now, I haven't thrown up since I was five years old. Not from stomach bugs, not from food poisoning, not from car sickness, not from too much tequila. But, somehow I knew that this might be the day that my Seinfeldian vomit streak may end. After about 30 more minutes of waiting in line (we had been in customs for a total of 70 minutes at this time), I had finally made it to the front of the line. I had visions of the cool air of a Charles De Gaulle baggage claim carousel whisking by my face. I thought to myself, you just have to hang in there a little bit longer and this will all be over. My friend, Jeff, went through the customs line. My friend, Eric, went through the customs line. Just when it was about to be my turn, I knew that I couldn't wait any longer. I ran out of the customs line for the bathroom, too sick to even worry about the perceived guilt of racing to the restroom just when I'm about to be questioned by border patrol.

I will spare you the gory details. Let's skip ahead a few minutes, when I emerged from the bathroom feeling much better but really bummed that my vomit clock had been reset to zero. I started to go to the front of the line, hoping that someone nice would let me back into my spot, since I didn't know if I could stay in that room of hellfire for another 45 minutes, and I was concerned that Jeff and Eric, having gone through the doors without me and not having cell phones that worked internationally, would be worried that I had been arrested by the border police. As I approached the front of the line, a female real-life version of a cartoonish French maitre d, complete with a sneer...and probably a mustache, I don't really remember, stopped me with an "Excusez moi, Madame." and pointed to the end of the line. I pleaded with her. "Didn't you just see me run by here? I had to go to the restroom. I was sick." Her nose wriggled with disgust at my words and she said merely, "Please go to the line."

At this point, between ruining my vomit streak, worrying that my friends would leave the airport without me, and dealing with snooty French TSA equivalents, it all became too much for me and I burst into tears. Even the humorous thought that airport employees are as miserable in France as they are in the US and of the possibility of some kind of special international camp where all airport employees go to learn the basics of How to Be a Dick and How Not to Help People didn't cheer me up. Needless to say, everyone else in line (save the one guy who looked extremely uncomfortable and probably has a similar reaction when any woman cries) looked at me sympathetically. After 30 more minutes in line, I arrived at the front again and tearfully answered the border agent's questions without incident. As I passed through the electric doors, I heard a woman call out in a Southern accent, "We're praying for you, honey!" which made me feel really bad because these people probably thought that I was dealing with an actual crisis, not an imaginary one involving waiting in customs for an hour and a half with a brief intermission of throwup.

I found my friends waiting for me at the baggage claim and told them my tale of woe. They looked at me with compassion and an underlying not-so-subtle air of glee.

And so began my adventures in Paris. The trip got much MUCH better after this. And I will tell you all about it in my next post. Until then, au revoir!