I’m posting this now as the majority of you know that I am, in fact, home for the holidays. Even if it was incredibly hard to get here. I don’t know whether to blame it on the snow in Amsterdam, or my all encompassing anxiety - the correct foresight that everything would go wrong.
Last night, however, went wonderfully. My host family and I had a very nice last dinner, where I got to drink apple cider and eat some chicken. I waited until after the meal to give them their presents which they absolutely enjoyed (I hope), and my host dad gave me a bottle of champagne to take home. We sat and talked for a while, then went to get ready for bed and our 3 AM wake-up. I didn’t get any sleep, and as I lay there in bed, it snowed sneakily.
We woke up and left very shortly after. We said our goodbyes and I got on the bus to the Lyon airport for an hour. Check-in and security went well, and I found my terminal easily. And there I waited. And waited. The plane to Amsterdam was delayed more and more until finally it was cancelled. That airport completely closed. So up we rose from our seats to go down to get our baggage, and every step filled me with dread and panic. And here I finally realized that one of those magical days, Satan created airports, and so they were, and it was terrible. As the carousel went round and round, not only was I worried that it wasn’t going to show, but that the bottle of champagne would be broken. Many minutes before it showed up, I smelled a faint whiff of alcohol. Was it my bag? Was it somebody who just smelled like alcohol? Was the wetness on some of these peoples’ baggage moisture from outside - melted snow, perhaps - or from my broken bottle? I’m not sure where their wetness came from, but when my little luggage came around it was wet from the inside out.
So we went upstairs to wait for eternity in a line that may or may not be able to help us. Interestingly enough, the girl behind me was from the Netherlands and just trying to get home… and she looked like Haley Joel Osment. Haley Dutch and I waited there, moving ever so slowly toward the front, exchanging looks of mutual helplessness and frustration. Finally I got to talk to someone, a pregnant lady with a very nice demeanor, and I either had the option of leaving the next day at 1 or so PM, or 7ish in the morning. So, naturally, after staying in the airport all day and all night, I’d want to leave as soon as possible. My flight goes from Lyon to Paris, Paris to Los Angeles, and Los Angeles to Seattle. Rather, that’s the plan…
[2:44PM]
After sitting for a while, feeling my eyes sting and droop from fatigue, I decided I’d like to go somewhere quieter. Or rather, I looked up, saw a sign that said “NH Hotels Lyon Airport,” and after psyching myself up enough to stand and walk, I followed the signs. After seeing a hotel in the Hell that is Charles De Gaulle airport, I realized it’s a pretty novel idea. I wanted a bed. I wanted a shower. I wanted to sleep for eternity. And I was also curious about the bottle of champagne in my suitcase. The signs, though, ended up pointing to the hotel across the street, and not actually one situated in the airport. Getting discouraged by the unknown; how much is it a night? are there any vacancies? how far is it really… would I get up and have enough time? I decided to turn around. I sat down in a family (read children) area where the design on the linoleum was flowing green grass, I waited there and hallucinated a dog (which was really a luggage trolley) for the second time (the first was in line to get new plane tickets - a Dalmatian!), and had another internal battle about whether or not to stay at the hotel. I almost convinced myself to stay the night in the airport, and I would have, were it not for my paranoia of someone stealing my stuff while I slept, and this annoying children’s ride (think 25 cent machine) shaped like a motorcycle that would randomly make a noise as if it were speeding off into the distance. Four speeding motorcycles later and I got up, walked my tired rump down the escalators, out the door, and across the street. It’s really not that far. Now here I sit, after spending an exorbitant amount of money, wanting to get clean, but waiting for a follow-up phone call from my mom. Perfect timing!
[5:04PM]
Having eaten very little this morning, and being incredibly hungry, I called for room service. My hamburger, fries, and green salad still aren’t here, and it’s probably been an hour. Which I guess isn’t too long… SO HUNGRY. Also, yes, my exit meal will be a hamburger. First one all semester. Which reminds me of things I want to eat over this winter vacation: bagels (with cream cheese), KFC, Mexican, Chinese, Cheez-Its, probably some McDonald’s or Burger King, Afternoon Tea, and probably a bunch of other stuff. Pancakes and bacon. I was pretty good about keeping all of this out of my mind this semester but now that I’m going to be home for Winter break, I’m going to eat everything and clog every artery.
[6:39PM]
STILL SO HUNGRY. Two cups of tea doesn’t do it. I had to call room service back and ask them where my food was. The lady had this yeah-you-asked-for-food-what-of-it? attitude, which I did not appreciate. What of it?! You’re late! They just take their sweet time because tip is included in the bill already. Lady, what if I had things to do! I don’t, but what if I did! T-OH KNOCK, KNOCK!
She had a Santa hat so I said “Joyeux Noël.” Lady hates my guts, and probably spit in my food.
The 18th
[10:36AM]
After eating my dinner (which also came with butter and two rolls! bonus!), I showered again just because I was cold and just because I could. Also, a hot shower/bath is the most relaxing thing in the world to me so I took as much as I wanted. I earned it. I went to bed around nine, fell asleep around ten-thirty, and got up at five-fifty very relaxed. I hurried on out of there, across the street to the airport, through baggage-check and security, to wait for my plane to Paris which was fortunately on time. The plane ride was short and I slept most of the way so it took no time at all. When everyone was getting out of their seats I noticed this guy who I knew was American (maybe I’m learning how to tell?) and as I was looking at him, trying to discern how one would spot somebody from America, he became more and more familiar. My thoughts quickly filed themselves in the back of my mind as I got up to get of the plane. I needed to prep for Charles de Gaulle. I walked and walked through the hallways toward Terminal E, and began to realize that I was probably in the best part of this God forsaken airport. At points, I didn’t know if I was in Paris or London Heathrow (pure class, right there). For some reason I told myself it would be relatively easy from here to LA, and I still hope that as I sit here at E61 until nearly four this afternoon, but we had to go through security again. W-why? Are there hidden knives on your planes that people just pick up and use to stab people waiting for their planes? No. It’s ridiculous. Y’all are crazy. Going through security, or rather, as I was about to get in line, I see the American again. And then it hits me. Is that Paul, my fourth/fifth grade teacher, Miss Shannon’s, husband? I’m nearly certain it is, I don’t know what he’s doing in this airport because she wasn’t with him and I don’t know where he went… was there some other direct flight to Seattle? If so, thank you, pregnant lady at the Air France desk in Lyon, for giving me this crazy replacement ticket. Just when I was beginning to feel better about pregnant women everywhere. Well enjoy your flight, Paul! Although, I am incredibly early… he could have went to go get something to eat. If I see him I’m going to shout at him like a crazy person: “PAUL! Where’s your wife?!” I’m not even going to ask if he remembers meeting me that one time at his sister-in-law’s house.
So here I am, at gate E61, alone because all the people who were here to go to Atlanta have boarded their flight. Also, apparently I have go pick up my baggage in LA and then check it in again. First I have to go through customs. I’ll be glad to be in the States though because; occasionally in these French airports I’ve been called madame - I really need a haircut - (although they have been calling me jeune homme endearingly which means ‘young man,’ and makes me feel special - like they’re making sure I need to get where I’m going because I’m young and alone), and I’ll be giving and receiving smiles without a cultural problem. Hey! So in the hotel room last night I delicately opened my little suitcase to survey the damage of the broken champagne bottle. I lifted up the shirts which were placed on top, and to my surprise, the bottle was intact. However, I did not touch it, did not lift it up for fear of the bottom suddenly dropping out or some other disaster so I put the shirts back and zipped it up. Let’s see what customs says… I don’t even know if I’m allowed to have it. It’s a gift… but I’m underage. If they confiscate it I hope they have a fun time dumping the rest all over my possessions.
[2:25PM]
I’ve been sitting in the same seat. I watched the Hanoi group come and go. I heard a man, neither from France, nor anywhere English speaking, cry in a frustrated frenzy, pacing back and forth and then the snow began to lightly fall. Now I see big flakes everywhere. I’d get up and go get something to eat but nobody’s here to watch my things and I don’t feel like carrying them around because my shoulders hurt. If this snow perturbs my flight to LA I’m going to be a crying man in an airport.
[2:53PM]
I found all my friends! Luckily I got up from my seat to look at the screen at my gate, E61, to see that the LA flight gate was changed to E76. So I grabbed all of my stuff and high-tailed it over here. And here they are! A small crowd of people.
The 19th
This crowd of people consisted of a man in a red shirt, a man (let’s call him) Jim D. who was going to San Diego from LA, and an older couple with a baby. After I sat down, Red Shirt kept looking over his shoulder at four second intervals, and I didn’t know if it was at me or the girl sitting next to me, and I couldn’t figure him out, and frankly I was getting so annoyed. What are you looking at, sir?! And then I realized that he was waiting for his son, who eventually came. Jim D. San Diego came and put his bags in the chair next to me, starting with “Is anyone sitting here?” to which I replied “non,” and I don’t know why because he was speaking English. So he said “Can I leave my bags here for a second?” to which I replied “oui.” I don’t know what’s happening. I can’t communicate with anyone! A little while later a couple, the woman in her fifties (very tall and skinny, long white-blonde hair, dressed like a hippy) and her… father? husband? who was in his mid-sixties maybe, came with a baby who was running all over the place. I looked at her and realized she had Down Syndrome which lead to more questions… did these two people reproduce? I let it alone until Jim D. San Diego came back, looked at the couple, and said “That girl’s retarded.” to which I replied “yeah…” Thank you Captain Obvious. Who says that? I don’t know you! We’re not friends!
We couldn’t get on the plane for over twenty minutes because they were taking forever to clean the cabin. I was afraid I was going to miss my flight to Seattle if we didn’t get to LA on time because my layover wasn’t that long. In fact, when we got on the plane we were sitting there for a long time, and then they had to de-ice everything. I was most certainly going to miss my flight home.
I was sitting next to a lady, a Guatemalan-American, who was very nice, but whom I started to hate because she slept so easily. I couldn’t get comfortable and I only dozed in bits and pieces. I never got her name but I named her Lupe in my head. Apparently, Lupe’s customs papers were in French, which explained why she was having such a hard time reading and filling them out. I helped her as much as I could but I don’t know how much correct information she got on there because of scratching things out and rewriting everything.
Finally in LA and past customs, I got my bag (which was wet again), and headed to find the Air France desk to get a new ticket to Seattle. It was around ten at night, and as I got to the level of my desk, I found my cousins who came to look for me! We got a ticket to Seattle for the next morning, and I stayed with them at my aunt and uncle’s house. That night we opened my luggage to determine the status of my champagne bottle. Fully intact! Miraculously. They gave me some bubble wrap and we called it good. The next morning I got to eat a bagel!
Now here I sit in LA waiting for my plane home.
The 20th
The plane from LA to Seattle was only a little bit late on time, but once on the plane I knew everything would go swimmingly. I met my parents at baggage claim and we went home (a box of Cheez-Its waiting for me in the car). We spent some time at home, and then I saw Mallary for a bit but had to home and sleep. I went to bed at eight-thirty or nine and got up at the crack of dawn. Jet lag: commence!
Good to be home.
