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.

Pair-ee

I can't see a photo of the Avenue des Champs-Élysées in Paris without thinking of my dear friend, the late Dr. John C. Stevens, ACU's eighth president, who died last year. One of the most iconic photos in American history is of 28th Infantry troops during a victory parade in Paris after the city’s liberation from the Germans, with the famous Arc de Triomphe in the background, signifying the city's liberation from Germany's Hitler. Front and center in the image is our own Dr. John. He was a chaplain in World War II during the landing at Normandy and the Battle of the Bulge, and was one of George S. Patton's charges. No one was more proud of his wartime service to his country, and his stories of traveling Europe – he enlisted, saying he saw no reason to miss a good war if they were going to have one – were mesmerizing. He taught history at ACU for 50 years, his classes filling quickly with students who admired his ability to make the past come alive with lectures based in large part on his own personal experience as well as research. Pictured here are the Avenue des Champs-Élysées today, in 1945 as Stevens led the way, and a photo of Dr. John he had made in Luxembourg, just north of France, to send home to his mother. I have a print of the famous liberation scene in my office, signed, "With warmest regards, John C. Stevens," and I treasure it.

Wired, not

I deeply miss my MacBook Pro laptop, which is sitting on the couch wondering when it will be put in the truck for the drive to the airport. Loading the truck with luggage this morning was not my finest hour. Yep, after considerable time and thought and effort to bring every thing I needed to make this blog sing for the next 10 days, I somehow forgot the technology, including the video iPod and all the cool things I was planning to listen and watch the next 2 days on the plane. Because Fed Ex's overnight service to Antananarivo takes, oh, 4 days, I am resigned to becoming a beggar blogger, using any Mac I can find. So, these first few posts are being written in longhand on a legal pad during the flight, then keyboarded at the next airport's wireless neighborhood. Fortunately, I burned a GB or two of photos on a backup DVD; images from our Malagasy students' experiences the past 4 years. So all is not lost. And I remembered to include the photos I collected of Madagascar wildlife (such as this chameleon, which is about the color I turned when I realized my gaffe at the DFW airport) to show you as we travel. I will choose one celebrity traveler in our group to select a Lemur of the Day to post for your educational entertainment, starting Sunday

To sleep or not to sleep, that is the question

I'm not as bad as my late dad, who never heard a sermon he couldn't fall asleep to, but it doesn't take much time in an airplane seat (other other upholstered one) to put me away for at least awhile. Read a little, sleep a little, repeat as needed, and before you know it, you're either nudged by the flight attendant with cold soft drinks or hearing about your initial descent to wherever. But this tag-team trip has 3 flights back-to-back over 26 hours, arriving in Antananarivo at 10:55 p.m. Sunday, when most Malagasy are thinking about hitting the hay. I have set my watch for Madagascar time, so I know it's already 9 p.m. as of this writing. At some point in the next 18 hours, my body will realize it has been tricked, and the inevitable jet lag effects will come knocking. Experienced time-travelers know how to handle this, but I guess I'll learn the hard way when to call it a night … or afternoon. My row-mate this flight, Vicki Anderson, said she brought one of those black eye-masks (maybe there is a more accurate term for it) to wear while trying to sleep on the way to Paris. I do technically the same thing at home when napping during daylight hours, but the eyewear of choice is more often a nearby clean sock. Not wanting to appear uncouth, I'll think of something more dignified for someone representing an esteemed institution of American higher education. The nap-sock tradition was brought to our marriage from my wife, who got a big kick out of me asking one day what all those little black marks were on the middle of my ankle-length white golf socks in the nightstand drawer. It's mascara, you goofus. I love you, too, dear.

Up, up and away

About a dozen of our traveling party left Dallas Saturday at noon on a 3-plus-hour flight to Boston, where we will be joined by the other dozen ACU passengers for a second flight to Paris, France. The layover in Boston is about 2.5 hours, about the length of a baseball game I've always wanted to see at nearby Fenway Park, but that's another trip, I guess. The flight to Paris leaves at 6:45 p.m. Saturday (today) and sashays at 7:35 a.m. Sunday into La Ville-lumièrem, the City of Light, which I assume by then they will have turned off. No matter; we will be confined to Paris Charles de Gaulle International Airport anyway, where I'll be curious to see if the fries at the McDonald's outpost taste, well, more French than those on Judge Ely Boulevart back home. Stay tuned.