At the Airport
I do my best to
maintain airport etiquette but sometimes it’s hard to surpass ill-mannered,
apathetic and tired staff. My conversation with a certain gentleman at the
check-in counter quickly reminded of what little desire I have to ever work in
an airport—such pleasant co-workers I would have indeed.
The security
checkpoint at Orly Airport in Paris had no surprises. Still people forgot to
pack their large containers of shampoo in their check-in bags along with their
Swiss Army knives and disposable plastic “shoes” (or bags) are offered as a courtesy for
passengers. I was, however, surprised by an officer’s suspicion of my Lowepro
camera case—which is always a carry-on. For the number travelers and tourists
who pass through the airport I was shocked by his question, “What is this?” I
bit my lip to avoid answering with, “a bag,” and told him it was my camera
case. Stupefied, he then requested I pull out both my cameras. With all that I
stuffed in my backpack I was surprised he didn’t pull me into an interrogation
room. But alas, a few moments of unpleasantries with staff members and several
moments of peace with a book as I waited to board the plane.
In the Plane
What’s worse?
Being in economy class where passengers are at the back of the plane with
crying babies or being two rows behind first class where the benefits of a
couple hundred extra dollars are just within reach? Tough call. Before both of our
flights out of Paris, my sister and I spoke of our temptation to give into
first class and bask in the glory of comfortable seats, and no children
allowed. I don’t mind that first class (or business for the suits) exists but I
don’t want to see it! I prefer ignorance. If I can’t see it, perhaps it’s yet another figment of my imagination.
But no. Instead,
for my return flight to Togo, I saw everything from pre-departure juice
(which could very well be freshly squeezed) to linen napkins to tickets to the
premier of Iron Man 3—which premiers May 3rd but one never
knows. Surely I exaggerated on the benefits of first class—they would never
offer tickets to a premier—but it’s quite luxurious. I experienced first class
once in my 26 years and it was blissful. A complete surprise. The story entails
innumerable details for which I can sum up to Air India fucked up, and my sister
and I benefited. Score.
But not this
time. Royal Air Morac didn’t fuck up, and it was T-Rex style dining with babies
unable to pop their ears and the predictable sick person next to me who
frequently coughed in my direction. The poor woman coughed just enough for me
to wish I was a paranoid hypochondriac with my own white travel mask.
Oh snap! Big
events happened in the air. Passengers of flight AT 771 had the pleasure of
enjoying Dora the Explorer in both first and economy class. If I was in first
class I’d be LIVID. Where’s my Iron Man 3, damn it?! But since I wasn’t
in first class, I just smiled and continued to listen to my iPod. Ha. Suckers.
Even though I
love music, across the aisle, a man hadn’t quite finished one of the original
Star Wars on his iPad. Nice! Clearly people haven’t yet forgotten great films.
Times like those, I wish I had had the courage to ask if movie sharing was
likely or socially unacceptable (aka get your own iPad). But even if courage
wasn’t a variable in this equation, I still had knocking-on-death’s-door French
woman attempting a nap and I’d surely go to Hell if she awoke because the young
American just had to watch Star Wars. Return of the Jedi!! Fuck. Have strength
McCullough!
And I did. Thank
you, Katy Todd, for your iPod!
Overall the
flight from Paris to Lomé was tolerable, nothing out of the ordinary. Except
when I landed. My intention was to take the Post Office bus up to Dapaong the
following morning but it, along with several other services, was full the
entire weekend. Thus 72 hours after I left Paris…I arrived in Dapaong. Home at
last.
Again, I am home
at last, and no doubt ready to tackle these last six months of my Peace Corps
service.
Until next time… J
