Merci me

[Sunday in the Paris airport] Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris was not what I thought it might be, especially when I envisioned sitting in a wireless cafe eating a bowl of French onion soup, topped off by a buttery croissant and jam while we had a nearly three-hour layover awaiting our flight to Madagascar. Silly boy. We spent the time perspiring and walking from one gate to another in search of the place to get our seat assignments, being advised by each Air France employee we encountered to go to another gate in another terminal instead. After about five such episodes, we finally figured it out. By then, the two dozen of us were separated into about 5 groups, each trying to either find the other or seek a straight answer from the next friendly but not especially helpful airport employee. We finally found an outpost that led to our gate, but by then we were sweating, literally, about making our next flight with no meal (nor blogging opportunity). The lines for security were long and slow-moving, and many of us were given the third-degree by customs officials, including a thorough frisking by French police who don't appear to have smiled in months, maybe years. Vicki Anderson has a broken wrist and an inflatable cast, which one stern customs official wanted her to remove. "It's broken, I can't remove it," she replied, which bought her an invitation to "go sit over there" for a third-degree inspection. This airport is a crossroads of the world, and it's difficult at times to maneuver the rush of travelers from one gate to another. English is not spoken, or not spoken well, and we are made to feel like the foreigners we now are in Europe. This is a good-natured group to travel with, and everybody is keeping a pleasant attitude even though things are getting more harried by the minute. I'm enjoying using the French words I heard growing up in Detroit, which is separated from Ontario, Canada, by the Detroit River and marked by numerous streets and boulevards with French names derived from the area's historical roots (Fort Pontchartrain du Détroit or Fort Détroit was a fort established by the French officer Antoine de la Mothe Cadillac in 1701 to control the fur trade and keep the British from moving further west). Merci, Excusez-moi and Bonjour (thank you, excuse me and hello) not only feel and sound good rolling off one's tongue, but go a long way to making us and our hosts more comfortable around each other. We are dying for bottled water, but 99 percent of the kiosks and shops in the airport sell nothing but wine and liquour, which wouldn't reflect well on this bunch. We arrive at the Air France gate as our flight is boarding, and have no idea when we'll get fed or watered. It is 10:15 a.m. Sunday.

If it's Sunday, it must be Paris

[Written at 7 a.m. Sunday] The 3 hours of fitful attempts at sleeping are over, and it's a glorious sunrise as we cross the English Channel and France and head toward Paris. The Atlantic Ocean the night before was surreal; the water below seeming to mirror the sky and clouds below. Now that we have solid land beneath us, the view from this altitude reminds me of World War II video footage of bomber pilots looking for targets in Europe in the 1940s; the low clouds scooting by, revealing a quilt of pastures and meadows and farms, only this time in browns and emerald greens, not the black and white and grayscale images from the war. It's hard to imagine this part of the world buried in such conflict with each other, one country storming, occupying and devouring another. As we near Paris, the countryside is stunning as the plane flies low over it, with little hamlets here and there, each with what looks like 50 or so multi-story houses pressed tight against each other on tree-lined streets, with red roofs and a steepled church or cathedral as the tallest structure in town, the community surrounded by miles of meadows and fields, some cultivated. It appears as though everyone could walk to church, if they were so inclined. Not a Wal-Mart or shopping strip in sight. The countryside gives way to Paris itself, and the landscape changes dramatically. Hoped to see the Eiffel Tower as we approached, but no such luck.

My kingdom for a chiropractor

[Written early Sunday morning on the plane, but today, Monday, is the first Internet access we have] Not quite what to call the last 3 or so hours of this 6-hour, 5,900 km flight to Paris, but most people aboard the 767 tried to spend it doing something that looked like sleeping. The seat assignment fairy brought me a glorious grace – an empty place next to my window seat at 35A. There is no dignity in overnight air travel; I saw people contort themselves into positions I cannot … well, words fail me. At 5-10, I do not fit lengthwise across 2 seats in an airplane, but I tried, eventually settling for a modified fetal position that gave me a new appreciation for my late mother, who gave me not much more elbow and knee room for nine months and 48 hours of hard labor in 1956. Some people are having an even harder time, such as Jack Rich, who at about 6-7 (I have always looked up to him, by the way) or so is having a tortuous time. Reminds me of ACU student a few years ago, a fellow about 6-5 and 300 pounds who was reflecting on his Study Abroad experience in Oxford. He hated it. "Europe is a great place, but I didn't fit there," he said, in summary. Anyway, the hard plastic armrest on the aisle seat was not designed to be a head rest, but it had to do, cushioned by a couple of these pillow-wannabes encased in a white dryer sheet and buoyed by this $7 but now priceless neck support thingee I found at Wal-Mart which has become my new best friend. It looks like an overstuffed black velveteen toilet seat and those who are sporting one remind me of that biblical passage about unequally yoked folks. However, appearances mean nothing when you watch the sun set out the left-hand side of your little window on the plane and see it rise on the right, just 3 hours later thanks to the time zones that seem to be clicking by like telephone poles on Interstate 20 back home. I'm trying to get all the sleep I can because the goal is to stay awake for the next flight so that when we get to Antananarivo at bedtime Sunday night, I will be ready for a good night's rest. We'll see how well that plan works. I have a pinched nerve in my neck, acquired before leaving Friday, and sure wish Dr. Lee Summers was along for the ride. Hopefully all these gymnastic sleeping positions won't do me in by Monday.