A France: Getting there

(Ed. note: Part two of my French trip leaves a little to be desired, most notably France itself. But don't worry, It will all make sense in the end. Some of the mundane details are just things that need to be explained at this point of the story. Plus, I couldn't go any further without then describing Paris, which will make for a monster post in itself.)

It’s not that I’m afraid of flying; it’s just that I’m inexperienced.

After years of seeing me zone out on long car trips by staring out the window, my mom had made sure all my seats were near the window. So when my first flight accelerated on the runway, my head was firmly locked in a crooked tilt toward the window as my shoulders bobbed and wove like a boxer glancing blows so I could see everything: the wing, the ground, the sky above, the clouds the clearing.

But of course, to everyone who doesn’t know I’m in a half-conscious state of observation, I looked like a 5-year-old who is three seconds from asking, "Mommy, why are we leaving the ground? Are we gonna fall?"

The flight was running an hour late, but that was actually a convenience. It cut my layover in Miami from three hours to two, and I wasn’t on this trip to enjoy the exquisite pleasures of Miami International. The rest of the plane, however, let out a collective groan. Apparently, I was the only one connecting to Paris. I had spent half of the 45-minute flight trying to peg who was making the same journey as me, and that groan dashed all mystery. Too bad, that girl three rows up was kind of hot, too.

Once in Miami, it took me most of the two-hour layover to determine where I was boarding next (on the other side of the airport) and how to get there (to get out of terminal A, you have to traverse a narrow corridor that is line with what I imagined were the security booths where they did cavity searches and interrogated "questionable" travelers). Finally comfortable with where I was headed, I power-walked around the horseshoe-shaped terminal, passing signs that said:
Terminal B – 20 Minutes
Terminal D – 51 minutes

Luckily, I had plenty of entertainment by lugging my small blue carry-on. It was a one-strap backpack that completely perplexed me as to how to wear it. On the front? On the back? Over one shoulder or across my chest? Making matters no clearer were the books I had jammed into it. There was no way to carry it without jabbing myself with a Frommer’s guide or AAA EuroBook.

I made it to my terminal about 10 minutes before boarding and I was starving. At 5:30 p.m. in Miami, there is no such thing as a short line anywhere, much less the airport. I saw a gift shop across the terminal and overpaid for a Spanish baguette and a bottled water. It took a little prying to get the right items, as most of my requests were followed by "Que?" Ugh, Miami.

After two hours of being surrounded of Spanglish, I found a clear spot on the wall near my gate, slouched and cracked open "Beyond the Game" by Gary Smith. But something caught my ear. A mother was playing with her children, keeping them amused and happy with simple stories, fibs, jokes that aren’t especially clever but good enough to keep the kids from being cranky – the way parents can do when no toys are in sight. And she was doing it in French.

Suddenly, for no other reason than I could understand less than half of what she was saying to a 4-year-old, the stress and worry of my personal situation faded and the frustration from the half-English of MIA was soothed away from the half-English I was accustomed to. I hadn’t boarded yet, but I was already gone.

The plane was delightfully lacking passengers. Nearly everyone dispersed to a point where they had two or three seats to his or her disposal. Good, I thought, maybe I’ll actually catch a few winks. The extra space didn’t help.

Beers on the flight were pricey as expected ($5 or 5 euro), but I ordered a Budweiser to calm my nerves and help me sleep. The alcohol didn’t help.

I turned on my Walkman (the cassette version, as disposable as I could make my music source) and listening to a circa 2000 mixtape did the trick of tiring me out, but it was too uncomfortable to rest my head with the headphones on.

So I spent the early-morning hours watching "Grease" with the French-dubbed version crackling into the English channel from time to time, and I enjoyed a lovely "second sunrise" watching the morning come over the cloud line long after it had passed the true horizon at sea level.