Only by the explanation of a bona-fide miracle did I manage to sleep two nights in one of Paris' nicest hotels right in the center of Place de Vendôme. (More on that later.) But, due to empty pockets, I was left sans bed for my last night, so staying up until I had to catch my flight at Charles de Gaulle early in the morn was my only option. I hung with my new dancer friend all day until he got tired and dropped me off at a bar, where I met some new friends to keep me company, one of whom stayed with me right up until I got in the cab. Out of pure thirst, honest, I drank a beer and a half in about 40 minutes. And after drinking wine all day and only getting a few hours of sleep the night before, that is probably what did me in. I got my luggage from hotel storage, changed out of my dress and uncomfortable shoes and realized I had huge blisters all over my feet. I had been walking all day.
I sat down in the cab and the driver was very sweet, letting me practice French with my limited knowledge of the language. It's when I got out of the car when I started hobbling and feeling dizzy. I think when I'm buzzed I tend to get really dramatic in everything I do. When I was going through the security check point I started acting like I was queen of the conveyor belt, over emphasizing my unbuckles and unzips, taking my shoes and coat off so quickly that I almost hit the man next to me. I envisioned myself a little George Clooney from "Up in the Air," snapping and twisting my luggage to the rhythm of the outdated music I had in my head from the bar. (Note: I love to dance. I don't know why. Every time I have an opportunity to go out and dance, I will. I went out dancing in Ireland and Paris a few times but the music was always just a bit off. Even in an of-the-moment type of city like Paris, the music they play in clubs is always from five to 10 years ago, and often with an unnecessary electronic twist that is really such a turn off. A club we went to in Dublin actually played "Summer Lovin' " from "Grease" and the kids went nuts. So while I was performing my little running through the airport masquerade I had some old song stuck in my head, pretending like I was in a movie from many years ago. I hope I lost readers months ago so no one really goes on this site anymore; that was terribly uninteresting information and not exactly relevant to the story.)
I make it to my gate with just...an hour to spare. I was running around for nothing. I eventually made it onto plane number one (I had two more to go), sat down in my seat, and that was the last thing I remembered. I guess I passed out or something because I don't remember taking off, looking at the person next to me, or mouthing the words of the flight attendants explaining to help yourself with your oxygen mask before you help others. The next thing I know, we're landing, I have a box of food on my lap, and I'm not just opening a package or holding a package. I have some sort of meat inside my mouth and I am unwillingly chewing and digesting something I hadn't eaten in over three years. After I became vegetarian I had accidentally eaten meat in small forms, in pastas and soups and such. But two days ago, sitting on that plane with my eyes barely open and blurred from Carlsberg and sauvignon blanc, I was eating a significant amount of some sort of thin ham meat thing, until I realized what was happening and I threw it down. I ate the rest of the breakfast, although I don't think I was hungry, then waited for landing so I could hobble off to my next plane.
In the Dublin airport, the alcohol had worn off and I got all the feeling back in my feet...to my dismay. After I came home I took off my shoes and discovered about 10 blisters as the reason for my tears, yes, tears while going through customs and finding my gate. When I sat down on the next plane while everyone else was still filing in, I started to cry. Like I said, I get dramatic. I think I was crying because a) I was tired, b) I just spent a lot of money on my trip and was now in debt, c) my French skills had been lost with years of neglecting practice, and d) I just ate a few handfuls of meat and was awaiting the uncomfortable repercussions in my digestive system. I stopped crying when my Danish seat mate sat next to me. He was very nice but smelled like he hadn't had a shower in days. Then I realized I hadn't had a shower in a while and probably smelled, too. So I had another beer on the plane because I had some extra euros left over that I wasn't going to be able to exchange. We watched "Taxi" with Queen Latifa and Jimmy Fallon; we both laughed a lot and kept looking at each other with our ear phones on while pointing at the screen and making a ruckus. It put me in a good mood.
I was a bit more optimistic on the next plane because it was my last one until Theodore was going to pick me up from LAX and I could pass out in the car. There was just one problem. Oh yes, the quintessential problem of piling hundreds of passengers into an airborne tube and keeping them there for five hours: a shrieking child. After that ride, I don't think I ever want to have a child. It was the kind of shrieks where it starts off low for a short second then suddenly bursts into high gear, expelling the air from the angry lungs in a loud, unbearable, dizzying moment then a pause to contemplate the meaning of life then starting low and shrieking again. It was like sitting in the stands of a NASCAR race, minding your business, eating a pretzel, then hearing the cars scream past in a thunder that riles up the crowd until they're gone. The audience looks at each other with disbelief then waits again for the next loud whir. My temper was rising.
I disembarked the plane with the reminder of my bubbly painful feet and walked outside to wait. Apparently Theodore drove past me once in the busy LAX arrival circle, yelling out the window trying to get my attention. But I just stared right past him with tears in my eyes. When we finally saw each other on the next round, I sat down in his car and started that little laugh/cry thing I do when I don't get enough sleep and I can't read my feelings. Then I showed him my feet.
This is what I love about Theodore. I smelled like shit and I was acting like a mad woman. But the only thing he could really say is, "Ohhhh, can I pop those for you?" Gross, I know. But he did. He cleaned up my feet for me with water, a safety pin, and band-aids. Just like a real disciple.
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