The Tower of Learning

Day Five

2005-06-19T05:01:46Z

Today was much better. I woke up to the sound of birds and the van's wheels crushing the gravel as it made its way down the hill to pick up more kids. I also immediately caught the aroma of the elaborate and hearty breakfasts being cooked in the kitchen across the hall by independent backpackers. Brooke and I, however, weren't so particular, and opted for the free breakfast offered downstairs in the lounge. The lounge I speak of was a large and somehow hidden room that I can only assume used to be the holiest of holy rooms for the monks when the hostel was a fully-functioning monastery (Haha, fully-functioning monastery). Thick, crusty, stale stone walls gave a feeling of protection that is vital when you're living in a hostel on top of a hill. There were 3 computers with internet access to the left and a large, friendly, primary-colored stained glass window on the right side after entering from the stairwell, and under it a buffet of cereals, breads, toasters, teas, coffees, and the like. The softly lit room was filled with ripening morning faces from all over the world, all between the ages of 18 and maybe 30. You could just make out all the different languages through the energetic music from the stereo. So this is what backpacking through Europe is supposed to be like, I thought. I enjoyed the atmosphere as Brooke and I ate our breakfasts of fresh baguette with plenty of butter and blackberry jam, and cereal. Um, have you ever heard of Choco Noisettes? It's like a chocolate chip granola bar made into cereal. And it's the greatest thing ever. Seriously, better than CTC, you guys. Better than HIDDEN TREASURES, Caroline.

We bought our bus tickets, valid for the whole day, and hopped on the bus that went slightly southeast to the Matisse Museum. I was more than thrilled about that - Matisse is one of my favorites. As soon as Caroline and her crew arrived in the park outside where we were to meet, we made our way inside. € 2.50 later, I was face to face with "Seated Blue Nude," among others. Unfortunately, my favorite painting of the goldfish bowl was not in the museum, nor were many of his colorful portraits of women or still lifes. This grande maison was filled instead with several sculptures (didn't know he did that?), several fascinating early sketches, several of his famous découpés, several book and ad illustrations, some furniture, some Pollack-sized color designs, some fabric designs, some pieces of art from his and his wife's personal collection, and, most interestingly, Matisse's plans for a small cathedral in Nice he was ordered to design (whose name I unfortunately don't remember.) He did everything - the altar pieces, the windows, the habits and robes, the architecture. I should like to see the actual church some day, though it's a shame I missed it this time 'round.

Caroline, Simon, and Lauren had never been to Nice in all their time in the Riviera, and having heard that it was rather modern, thought they might find a Starbucks. With this thought in mind they were all foaming at the mouth, and I don't blame them - in Europe, when you order a coffee, you get about 3 tablespoons' worth in a tiny espresso cup, and it ain't good value. (It makes me temporarily reconsider retiring here someday. I can't live without cheap caffeine. And coke isn't cheap, either - expect to drop 2 to 3 euro for a measly can.) Despite all this, though, there actually was no Starbucks in Nice. When we got on the bus from the museum, I asked a woman about it; she'd never heard of Starbucks Coffee and referred us to a cafe near our destination. Oh well. We decided to just go to Vieux Nice, the historic old town and tourist central, and grab a bite and a sip there. I smiled as soon as we stepped onto the cobblestone - finally a truly nice area of Nice. Its quaint and sacred personality, narrow streets, smells and music, and colorful shops reminded me a bit of Montmartre in Paris, so of course I adored it. I was among good friends in an old and reliable, and ADORABLE place...I can't describe how high my spirits were. After taking some pictures, we did lunch. When Samantha Brown was in Vieux Nice, she ordered Socca, a traditional snack of southern France, so of course I ordered some too. Basically it's a crêpe, torn up into pieces and cooked in lots of olive oil. Nothing to it. But it was good enough to function as an entire meal for me, which saved me precious money (I had promised myself I'd save money and calories by eating little while in Europe...but I knew I'd eventually develop a huge appetite for every single unique culinary concoction in the different regions I'd visit, and I'd be broke...)

A funny vignette - the restaurant where the 5 of us ate was at the bottom of a hill in an alley, and mid-conversation we heard the sound of wheels rolling rapidly down the cobblestones, followed by a young voice yelling "ATTENTIOOOOOON!" and a crash into the menu easel outside the restaurant. The kid was okay and so was the sign, though both flat on the ground. The slightly annoyed restaurant owner muttered something to the kids, then complained out loud about how degrading it was to have a restaurant at the bottom of an alley. I couldn't help but chuckle. I left him a big tip.

At that point we were to separate - the J-L-P group would be going shopping while Brooke and I went to the beach, and we would meet up for dinner later that evening. We said our ciao-for-nows and then the two of us went down further, past the reknown Fruit and Flower market of Nice, in the open air and across the Promenade des Anglais and finally to the rocky but unbelievably beautiful beach. It was full of tourists, mostly French and Italian, some nude, all properly leather-skinned and brown. There was a man walking up and down the beach screaming "BIRRA, BIRRA, BIRRA, COCA COCA LIGHT, CIAO CIAO CIAO, BYE BYE BYE BYE,"sounding like one of the Newsies, only rolling his R's like any self-respecting Italian, and even placing bags of ice in peoples' laps randomly to demonstrate the frigidity of the drinks (I speak from experience). Hey, it's a living.

After enjoying the sun and the sea for a good hour and a half, we decided to take a bus to Eze, a village on a hill where there was a genuine perfume factory in which I could get my mom a perfect souvenir. Sam Brown'd been there, too, so I knew it was worth a trip:) We put our clothes back on over our suits and set food back on the Promenade, heading east and looking for a bus stop. We ended up going up and around a bend with a beautiful vista followed by an equally beautiful harbor full of yachts and activity, a big yellow church with a belltower standing guard from the top of the hill in the distance. We strolled enthusiastically until we finally found a bus station that would take us to Eze. Unfortunately, when we got there, a woman told us that it wasn't worth it to go all the way to Eze past 3 o'clock in the afternoon because all the shops would be closed. Bummer, but we already had another place in mind: Cap d'Ail, a beach rumored to have caves you could swim to, as well as cliff diving. Upon asking the woman which bus we could take to get there, I noticed she was having trouble speaking French. She asked me if I spoke Italian. Why yes, I thought, as a matter of fact I do. I was thrilled to have my first chance of the trip to speak Italian, but confused as to why she assumed I spoke Italian. Anyway, she ended up explaining that Cap d'Ail was alright, but that a place called Villefranche sur Mer was much nicer because there was a friendly beach, gardens, and plenty of actvity. Brooke and I trusted her and hopped on the bus to Villefranche.

Ten minutes later, we arrived in a small park and I made a call to Caroline to check on their group. As it turned out, Simon had gotten sick and they had to return to Juan-les-Pins. That meant we probably wouldn't see them for the rest of the trip, and I was terribly disappointed - it seemed so silly to be in the same vicinity as my best friend and not spending every single minute with her. But we didn't have the time or phone money to waste planning a later get-together, so we said our disheartening goodbyes and Brooke and I went on our way down to the town. The Italian dame was right - Villefranche was FABULOUS. Peaceful, peaceful, peaceful, I can't even say how peaceful, especially compared to overly commercial and hectic Nice. The restaurants, ice cream shops, and beach were full of happy families and friends, the boats were all docked safely, and there was sand. We eased down onto it and fell asleep, catching the last rays of the sun as it sunk over the hill. Villefranche is the perfect name for the town, if only for the gentle way it sounds when rolling off the tongue. Indeed, it is one gentle place.

At dusk we shared a dinner of Salade Niçoise at a restaurant above the beach, and conversed about Europe, the United States, and American Idol, with a lovely British couple from Sussex, for what seemed like hours as the stars started to appear above. They were on stopover for a cruise around the Mediterranean that they were taking, and had plenty of stories. They were both self-proclaimed "British-accented Americans" and raved about our country. "I sometimes feel like I'm a European imprisoned in an American's body," I told them as I slurped up the last drop of ice cream from my crepe aux framboises. They smiled, and the gentleman raised his glass. "Here's to diplomacy." He said. "And to reality television," I replied, with a smirk.

French Riviera vignette #2: guy and son. When we were making our way back up towards the main road, a young man, maybe about 16, was hiding behind a middle aged man, his father, as he approached us.
"Pardonnez, mademoiselles, il a besoin de quelques renseignements," he said (translation: "Excuse me, ladies, my son needs some information.").
"Ah oui? Quels renseignements?" I asked, thinking that they thought we were locals and just needed directions. I noticed that the son was cowering more than ever now, waving his arms frantically but as silently as possible, and whispering something like "non, non, papa, arrete, arrete..." all while maintaining a painfully pained expression on his face. The father raised his eyebrows, looked at us matter-of-factly, and said:
"Vos numéros de téléphone!" (translation: "he wants your digits, fools.")
I blushed and slapped him one of those cute and very American "come on, you're flattering me" slaps as I told him
"Euh, je suis désolée mais franchement nous sommes pas d'ici, nous n'avons pas de téléphones!"
He shrugged his big shoulders."Vous etes d'ou, alors? Grande ville, hein?" (where you from? A big city?)
"Bah oui...moi je suis de.. Paris!"
But his son had already shamefully dragged him away down the hill before he could respond completely. I did hear him say something like
"ah bon, écoute, [son's name], une Parisienne!"
Oui oui, monsieur. A Parisian girl...who happened to live in a small town in Georgia. But a Parisian girl, sans doute. And when that boy grows up to be a bit less awkward and develops only the slightest ego (like his father's) as his poisonous French testosterone kicks in, maybe he can come visit me there. An American girl in Paris can't resist even the strongest of French male egos. Anyway Brooke and I would remember that kid for years to come!

When we got to the bus stop, we sat there and talked giddily about our wonderful day in France for about 30 minutes until we realized that the bus was probably not going to come. Just as we realized this, three French kids, two guys and a girl about our ages, went walking by across the street. They were obviously local, so I hopped over to ask them if they knew if the bus to Nice would be running anymore. They looked at each other and gritted their teeth and told me that they didn't believe it would be anymore. Merde. But immediately after telling me this, they added that there was a train that ran about every hour and that they were going in the direction of the train station right now and that we could follow them. They seemed like great kids, so we decided to do that. Best decision of our lives. These guys took care of us like you wouldn't believe, and treated us like old friends right off the bat. The walk to the train station was actually pretty long, but scenic, and anyway we were having a great time just making conversation with them, even if their youthful French was LADEN with idioms and slang and slurred speech that I didn't understand, and the only one who spoke English was having a hard time understanding Brooke as they conversed. When we got to the tracks, which were pretty abandoned at that point, I had already learned the name of Marie's crush and Carlos' life story. I didn't want to leave, and fortunately we didn't have to, at least for a while. Our train wouldn't arrive for another 45 minutes, and literally just down the stairs from the train station was the birthday party on the beach that the trio had been invited to. So they invited us to tag along and join in on the festivities for a while. And we did! Upon our arrival we were introduced to several people, all of which who greeted us with the charming standard French double-kiss. It was a great party; there was music, hot dogs being grilled, a bonfire, plenty of conversation, and even two boys wrestling in the sand (we got pictures of that). And something I noticed was that, while there was alcohol available, no one seemed to really care, and anyone who was drinking was probably just thirsty - no one was out-of-control drunk, nor did anyone want to be. I'm not all-out bashing college-age Americans and their obsession with excessive inebriation...okay, well maybe I am a little bit. But I appreciate that their youth doesn't revolve around alcohol, even if goin' to da club and gettin' tipsy with e'rbody is still kind of a dope idea to me, the college-age American. I think my idealism of alcohol is short-lived, though, and hey, if the FRENCH don't keep the wine pouring, then why should I? But I digress. The party was lovely, I became like BFF with Marie, I flirted with boys, I laughed, Brooke laughed, Marie and Carlos and Joachim laughed and the birthday boy laughed and as we laughed we twirled our toes in the sand and pebble mixture and took in the ephemeral yet unstoppable heat of the bonfire of youth!!! It was Coke commercial perfection.

When we arrived at the Nice train station, we were able this time to get on the night bus, as it was only midnight. But we had no idea where to find it, since it obviously hadn't been where it was supposed to be the night before. Fortunately, Nice was more bustling tonight, and we had no fear in going up to a stranger to ask for directions. The man we ended up asking actually walked more than 3 blocks with us to make sure we found the right bus because he wasn't sure if he knew the night bus schedule exactly, and not only that, he struck up a lively conversation with me in Italian! He had been a student of Italian himself in college, and beamed when I told him we would be going there tomorrow. "It's a country like no other," he said, though I can't remember if it was in French or Italian. Ah! I loved Italy so much last year, and this year I would be able to explore it more in depth. He got me pumped. And it was SO nice to go out of his way like that to get us to the bus? I'm telling you, people in Nice are NICE.

An Asian boy got off at the same bus stop as us, and I immediately knew that he must be a) staying at our hostel and b) Japanese! Of course this was an absurd cause for joy, but I was on him like a hawk. Any chance I get to speak my broken-ass Japanese in a random place, I grab it. I struck up a standard conversation with him, and standard conversations of course include "where are you from?" so I included it. "Oh," he snickered, "I'm from Japan?" (there's a question mark there because he said it in one of those humble "do you know it?" tones. Psh. Did I know Japan. What the interrogative tone in his voice SHOULD have suggested was "do you often enjoy climactic sensation while thinking about it?" To which I would have replied, yes. Yes i do often enjoy climactic sensation while thinking about Japan.) I beamed with delight: "Watashi wa chotto nihongo o hanasemasu..." He double-blinked at me. "E?! Sugoiii!" We got to code-switching, and he told me that he was actually making a homebase out of the Villa St. Exupery Hostel as he studied music at some sort of conservatory in Villefranche! Hen ne. Oh, to be young and japanese and studying music on the French Riviera. What am I doing with my life?

We made our way back into the Villa through the happening lounge, made a few phone calls to moms, and then Brooke went to bed and I went back down to the lounge to type these last two entries. The heat and the smell of spilled beer all over the floor didn't make for an easy typing environment, but I enjoyed the great music and how it was almost absorbing into the porous monastery walls, and oh, just being among the very-much-living. Really, nothing makes you feel more alive than being a part of a world of strange encounters, toasts to eternal friendship, strong backs, and roads less traveled. And it's only just starting for us...wow. Is all I can say, because I'm out of words.

EDIT - VIGNETTE # 3: As I was closing this entry, one of the resident Brits was closing down the lounge, but he left the music on; it was "Leaving on a Jet Plane," which was playing for the 3rd time since I'd been there, but it never lost its charm. In the meantime, the only other souls remaining in the lounge besides me were two twenty-somethings, a boy and a girl who had been sitting by me and my laptop throughout the evening, whom I knew had only met a few days before (I had drawn this conclusion from their conversation that I heard earlier that evening). They were slow dancing to the music with their eyes closed, maybe dreading an inevitable split to come (I think the music gave me that idea), maybe celebrating their serendipity, maybe just plain drunk; whatever it was, it was awfully pretty, especially with the music and the stained glass window practically framing them, from where I was watching. Once again since my departure from home only days before, a scene fit for a movie, and proof that dreams really do come true.

Day Four

2005-06-15T23:49:46Z

I sat next to an elderly Frenchman on the way to Nice. We toasted our champagne and he called me babyface. The flight attendants constantly came by to make sure we had everything we needed. I thought that if I asked for a piano concerto, it'd be pushing it a bit, even if it would seem appropriate for the situation. So I opted for the in-flight entertainment selections featured on my little tv; I thought it was very ironic that the main feature was "A Series of Unfortunate Events." I laughed out loud - I had HAD it with unfortunate events, and presently I was looking out the window at a promising, expansive sky. Or maybe it was it the ocean - the profondity of that blue was so hypnotizing, I couldn't tell which was which. Either way, it looked divine, and at that point, the wings of the plane might as well have been angel wings.

I should mention that while I was rushing to terminal 2 to get to the Nice gate, I saw the horrid Barcelona gate agent woman. She was sweating and huffing and kept readjusting the shoulder strap on her briefcase as she walked. Our passing was in slow motion. I KNOW she saw me, and recognized me. But she didn't acknowledge me, of course. And even though at the time I thought my spotting her was a really bad sign, I just looked at her and smiled proudly. She didn't smile back. She hiked her shoulder bag up again. I felt sorry for her. Those shoulder straps can be a pain. But then, so can gate agents. Once we'd passed completely, I swallowed thoroughly, which helped soothe the empty, cold feeling i got in my stomach from seeing her. I imagine she probably got in her shitty 80's Honda and got stuck in traffic on the way home to her shitty apartment with her shitty cats. Then I got on a flight to the French Riviera. Oh snap.

Justin had been sitting next to an elderly French woman, and I noticed that she was flirting with him as much as my Frenchman was flirting with me. He talked to her, smiling adorably and charmingly, throughout the entire 8 hour flight. I was temporarily in love - it made me smile so much to see him smile. I was so happy those boys got on. And I couldn't help but think that fate brought us all together by that miracle. I know, I'm lame. But when Justin came back at one point to talk to me and the other boys, I blurted out that Brooke and I had booked two inexpensive appartments in Italy that would have plenty of room for extras, since they didn't have a plan as of yet and might want some cheap places to stay...well, they were all on boards, which made me very happy. They'd be staying the first few nights in Nice with Justin's Frenchwoman. He was that much of a charmer. But they'd given me Justin's cell phone number, which "may or may not work in Europe," as well as an e-mail address to contact them. I hoped hoped hoped that those unstable contacts would be enough to get in touch with them throughout our somewhat unstable Eurotrip. They were just too cute to lose. I rarely meet American boys who are both cute AND kind, let alone THREE OF THEM together. No, I wasn't going to let them go, if it took calling them every day!

We landed. I shot another thumbs up back to Jordan and an "au revoir, merci" to the flight attendants. Based on the spectacular views of the French Riviera I'd seen from the window, I was more than ready to get to the beach. But first I had to get through customs and find Brooke, and I was thrilled to do that. The Nice airport was very modern and open, and it was there that I had my first earful of the southern French accent (more gutteral, with every syllable pronounced ad nauseum) and personality (more expressive?). Dieu, les Francais. I made sure I had the boys' phone number and e-mail addresses correct, said ciao to them and loosely planned to get together in a few days in Italy, then went upstairs to buy a phone card and call my mom, though it was around 3 AM in Atlanta. Good thing, though; she sounded like she was finally exhaling after 8 hours of wait. During the earful she gave me, she told me that she'd been mistaken about Brooke's flight from London and that it actually arrived an hour earlier than she thought. That meant she was just arriving! I gave my mom a telephone kiss kiss and went downstairs again to wait on the other side of customs for Brookie. After only seconds of wait, there she was! We both peed our pants a little bit as we jumped up and down, practically screaming "OMIGAWD WE'RE AMERICANS IN EUROPE THIS IS LIKE SOOO KEWL DO WE LOOK CUTE?!??!!!"

While waiting for the bus into town, Brooke showed me her pictures of MEETING EWAN McGREGOR in London after his performance in Guys and Dolls, and I peed my pants a little more. But the fact that we were in Europe about to start an amazing adventure suppressed my jealousy, and I got on the bus feeling nothing but excitement. Our first stop was the train station to make reservations to go to the Cinque Terre in a few days (even with a Eurail pass, one still has to make reservations on trains to major cities, as they tend to fill up). After that, it was off to Place Saint Maurice, where we'd meet our shuttle up the hill to our hostel. We had to find the bus that went there first, though, which was no easy feat. Downtown Nice was undergoing serious, ridiculous road construction which altered all the bus routes and created several impossible to find makeshift bus stops. Everyone I asked to tell us where to find the 23 bus pointed us in a different direction. I led Brooke on a wild goose chase through the heated streets painted with heat-seeking people, and eventually we found our bus. At Saint Maurice, we made the call, waited way too long, and were finally picked up in a sketchy-ish red van by a 50-something British man. On the way up the hill he told us absolutely everything there was to know about Nice and its surrounding towns and how to get around. Of course this was way too much information and we scarcely remembered any of it. But we were happy to hear that there was plenty to do. We arrived at Villa Saint Exupery, our monastery-turned-hostel, and were checked in by a younger Brit. He took us up to our room, which overlooked the bright salmon-colored rooftops of East Nice, the ocean far in the distance, a coastal breeze cooling the sweat off our necks. We were quite comfortable; so comfortable, in fact, that we decided to take a nap until the evening. It doesn't matter if I've landed in China or in Alabama - jet lag always renders me a dead marionette and drags me to the most all-encompassing R.E.M imaginable. I welcomed it.

We woke up around 7, feeling refreshed and ready to take on the whole Cote d'Azur. We'd start in Juan-les-Pins, Cannes' neighboring town, where we'd meet Caroline, Simon, and Lauren. Of course I was chomping at the bit to see Caroliney in her of-recent natural habitat, even if she had complained to me in many e-mails about her misery there. I thought maybe I could cheer her up. We went down the hill to the bus stop, hopped on a bus which took us to the train station, and promptly hopped on a train en direction to Cannes. The sun was setting along the beaches, and as we went along the sky changed from firey orange to rose to royal purple to finally a twilight silvery blue when we reached J-L-P. It was all stunning.

Even more stunning was when we got off the train and Lauren was immediately there. The trip was only just getting more and more happenstance and bizarre. I gave her a huge hug and asked her where the hell she came from. She had spent the day with a male friend in Monaco and was just returning. It was convenient for us; this way we didn't have to find a phone and use our expensive phone card to call Caroline to come fetch us. Lauren lead us less than a block away to their apartment complex, up the elevator, and - surprise! - into their room. Nonchalant Caroline smiled coyly and shook her head at our random appearance, and Simon continued to type his paper. They looked exhausted; I could immediately tell that they wanted to go the fuck home. But I was as cheerful as I could be and plopped down on a chair to look at Caroline's pictures from the festival. After a while we headed down the street into town for dinner. The nightlife there was fun - bright neon restaurant signs, live jazz and even a Mexican duo performing "La Bamba." You know life is surreal when you're strolling down a tiny street in southern France with some of your best friends and people are singing "La Bamba." Caroline pointed that out.

After our delicious pan-asian supper (the rice cakes were amazing? They tasted like some strange specific food but I can't remember what - Caro?), we opted for ice cream. It was, in fact, a gelateria, which wasn't surprising, I suppose - the Cote d'Azur is so close to Italy that almost all the cuisine has an Italian edge. We enjoyed our gelati all the way down to the ocean, and in the middle of our promenade ran into two groups from the program - some journalism profs (one of which who told me, more or less, that journalism school was futile if you want to work for a magazine...thanks...?) and then some students, including Ben Horner, AKA Eurotrash party king. It was lovely to see him, even if he were unfortunately sober.

We went back to the flat, Caroline straightened my disastrous hair (and burned my neck, the bitch), and we arranged to meet the following morning at the Matisse Museum in Nice. The train ride back was entertaining - we sat among about 6 Arab/French teens who told us joyfully that they enjoyed snorting coke and stealing purses. They didn't speak english and acted like wide-eyed spectators upon hearing Brooke and I speak in code about them. We would have felt safe when we left them, but as it turned out, we had missed the last night bus back to Saint Maurice. After wandering around in what had to be known as Sketchtown, France at 1 AM, we eventually called our British "concierge," who arranged to meet us shortly "in front of the ruins" Uh...whatever the FUCK that meant. Roman ruins? Because there were some in Nice. We somehow found them, though - as it turns out, he was talking about a ruined train station, so why he couldn't have said "in front of the old train station" i don't know. During our 30 minutes more of wait, we got an offer for some weed from some sketchballs and plenty of "follow me into this alley" looks. Finally, our sketchy red van appeared, and we were taken back up to our safe haven for R & R. The day had been good, but I hoped the next would be better.

copiousprize @ 2005-06-02T12:24:00

2005-06-02T10:26:35Z

I hope you're all caught up on the story of my summer vacation since the CHAOS that was my last entry. Now sit tight, because you're about to read what i consider to be nothing short of a miracle. And yes, folks, in typical Kelly fashion, it is an ELABORATE miracle.

I didn't mention this when we left off, but the plane I was waiting to see if I could get on was going to Barcelona. I didn't want to expose where I was going because, well, I wanted it to be a good story, and any good story contains a surprise or two. Barcelona, Spain. I was thrilled at the idea. And the idea looked like it would turn into a reality, because it happened to be the flight that had remained rather open for months - there were twenty seats open the day before. I don't know if you gathered from my last post, but a flight to Europe in the summertime with TWENTY seats open NEVER happens. Now, of course the day of the flight, it was down to 9 seats. But I was still high on the priority list thanks to my dad's decent seniority and my S2 standby status. I waited. I was hopeful because the lady at check - in had told me "you shouldn't have any problems getting on that flight." Thanks a lot, lady. My hopes were high, but I was still apprehensive. I called my parents as boarding started to ask for an update. See, both my parents and apparently Caroline's parents were standing by at their computers as I stood by at the gates, checking the online lists every few seconds. It was helpful and exciting that they were along with me, but all the more nerve-wracking to have my mom and dad calling me every 5 minutes with good news this time, bad news that time. Anyway, it was bad news this time. They said 5 people had showed up, that there were 4 seats left and that I was number 4 on the list. Meaning that as long as no one else showed up...you get the picture. I almost vomited I was so nervous. Everyone was boarding and milling around and I almost couldn't walk, but I somehow made my way over to the computer screen that was showing the standby and cleared lists. My name was number one on standby. Oh my God. I crossed my fingers. I held my breath. It refreshed the cleared list. I could barely see the tiny letters from my position across the mass of people. But I saw it: DOY/K. Oh my God, I was going to Barcelona. I literally leapt into the air with my huge backpack on and called my mom and grandma. BarceLONA?!?!!?! OmgwtfsnakesonfireqaoweufaWERewrwejkds!3!@#$!!! My mom cried. CRIED. She was so relieved and excited for me, I suppose it was natural. It was about damn time I got on a flight. After all, I was only one little person! So I go up to the counter. Beaming, i present my passcard, seat request, and passport to the gate agent to get my boarding pass. The gate agent, a sweaty, large, "scary beyond all reason" woman who looked like the offspring of Grendel's mother and Beowulf himself, pushed my documents back to me and said, without even looking me in the eye,
"You're going to have to wait over there with the rest of the standbys."
"But...my name's on the cleared list, so..."
"Well, not anymore."
I was about to have a heart attack. How could they toy with my emotions - with ANYONE's emotions - like that? I called my mom and told her I wasn't on yet, that for some reason i was back on the standby list. SHE almost had a heart attack.
"What?! I see you here, you're seat 22E!"
"Yeah, so I thought too. I'm sorry, I can't do this. I'll call you back if I get on or not. Just wait."
I waited. I couldn't wait any longer. I went back up to Grendelina.
"I'm sorry, I don't mean to bother you, but I really don't understand what's going on and I wish someone would explain to me why I was removed from the list."
She looked up at me from her dictatorial position at the computer screen with menacing red eyes and a disgusting flush to her pasty skin.
"Are you kidding me? Do you not know how this works?"
Are you kidding me.
"Actually, I know how this works just as well as the next non-rev, it's just that I've never seen anyone be put on the cleared list and immediately revoked at the gate. I would like someone to at least explain to me why I was assigned the seat in the first place if there was a chance of a revenue passenger coming along at the last minute and taking it from me, which I can only assume is what happened here..."
Without looking at me again, she blurted something out that was supposed to be my "explanation." Five minutes later I was still standing there staring at her waiting for some sort of acknowledgement. I got it.
"That's it. You're not on."
She didn't say "I'm sorry ma'am, but this flight is full, I'm afraid you're not going to be able to get on this one." She had to say it in the cattiest, most horrible witch way possible. And she only looked me in the eye so as to intensify her nasty, horrible words. I tried my very hardest not to cry, I really did. But mean people always get me, and for Christ's Sake, I had had a HELL of a past two days and I was TIRED and ready to get on a damn flight to Europe. So yeah, I started crying kind of. At that moment, my mom called, and I had to tell her that I was definitely not on, so that got me even more. I was making a fool out of myself in the airport there. The bitch wouldn't even look at me, she just kept going about her "important business," taking her time and being horrid-looking. She made a lazy announcement to all the poor fools like me that the flight was full. I told my mom I was leaving, I hung up, and i started to gather my bags, when she said with a snap "Stay here! Don't leave!" I know that sounds actually helpful, but it wasn't. It was just more toying with my emotions. Did that mean that it was possible someone was going to all of a sudden get sick on the flight and have to get off, meaning there would be a free seat for me? Well, my name was still number one on the standby list which was still featured on the screen for whatever reason, so I waited. I stood as still as a soldier and I watched that damn screen. I sucked up my tears and stood there, pathetic but determined, if only determined to show this woman that I was not one to give up even if a few tears did fall, and watched the screen for another 10 minutes. And then it was over. Flight dispatched. Big bold letters on the screen. I watched as the airplane backed out for taxi, 30 minutes later than it was supposed to. Bitchatron immediately grabbed her briefcase, said goodnight to her coworker and left the counter, left all the standby passengers in the dust, with nothing to do but cry to their mothers. I actually saw several people crying. That comforted me a bit, but mostly it just made me more depressed. All those poor people.

What makes gate agents particularly despise non-revs so much? Rarely do I EVER encounter a sympathetic or even remotely friendly one. I suppose it's because non-revs like me get upset when they can't get on flights, even though they're not paying a damn dime. But you know what, gate agents of the world? Plane tickets are fucking expensive and we get to fly for free for a good reason, if you ask me. And WE, the non-revs, have to hold our breath until we get on flights, unlike revs, who usually have guaranteed seats. If we hold our breath for too long, we obviously don't receive oxygen, and then our vital organs get severely distresed. And they start to turn black and blue and they are like screaming because it sucks. And then we might die. Do YOU like feeling like you're dying from getting your hopes up for a flight? No, je pensais pas. It fucking SMARTS to fly for free. I hate you.

Okay, so that was half sarcastic.

Next stop was gate 12 for Brussels. It looked bad, of course. But I made my way over there. I'm sure I looked a sight thanks to my recent bout of near-hysteria and pure exhaustion. But you know what? A cute boy smiled at me. A cute boy standing with two other - hey, they're cute too, i thought, raising an eyebrow, and they're making eyes at me. I should talk to them.. I did. We were all standing in line to talk to the gate agent about the prospect of the flight. I asked them what they were doing. Backpacking around Europe. No plan. Just trying to get there. I told them I was basically trying to do the same but that it was just about impossible. The particularly cute one took pity on me and patted me on the shoulder after I told them about the Barcelona mishap. We got to talking, and as it turned out, two of them were trying to get to Europe on a buddy pass. I'm certain I made a "oh my, I'm so terribly sorry for you" face, which I immediately regretted, but they knew what they were getting into. They said this was their second day trying, that they'd been to Atlanta before, flew to JFK, camped out, and that if they didn't get on any flights tonight that they'd be camping out again and trying again tomorrow. Wow. These were determined guys. They'd already spent over a hundred dollars transferring destinations on the buddy pass and said they'd spend up to 250 more to try to get over there. Anyway, we ended up becoming buddies and talking for a long time. They were high school friends from Orlando and all rising juniors like me. The cutest one introduced himself as Justin; the cute Billy Zane lookalike as Jordan, and the other cutie as Sean. I introduced myself as Kelly. After we'd exchanged our airport stories, they invited me to camp out with them at gate 8 that night if none of us got on the flight. I have to admit, this did excite me terribly. But I still didn't know what I was doing at this point. Just moments after the invitation, the Brussels flight was announced as full. Shit. Next try was Milan. We all had to go all the way back to international check-in, which had moved to the domestic flight side of the terminal, courtesy of the champions of reason and simplicity at JFK airport. There was chaos, but we all stuck together. I kept accidentally touching Justin and it was always a thrill. Finally, we had to go allll the way back through security again (every time for me this means taking off my damn shoes and bracelets, as well as unloading my laptop - it sux0rz), we chatted and waited for about an hour and then found out that we of course didn't get on it. A Belgian man who had been sort of listening in on and occasionally interjecting himself into our conversation was there when we found this out; he promptly gave us an "awww" and told me "Brussels will always have you." I love Europeans. I told him "someday." We didn't get on the Milan flight. "Someday" never sounded sadder.

Here's why I'm an optimist: even after a disappointment such as the Barcelona flight, I always get myself excited about whatever city I'm trying for next. I was REALLY excited about going to Barcelona, what with the beach and the youth and the color and the paella...but I somehow was able to switch gears and get excited about Brussels, a city of...well, for me, hazy mystery, because I don't know anything about it except that peeing boy and Jean-Claude Van Damme. I do get my heart set on things, but I suppose when you're dealing with Europe, it's not hard to get your heart set on anything.

I had to get excited about Rome next. The Brussels flight was the last try for the day for the boys, but I still had one shot: an Allitalia (codeshare) flight to Rome at 9pm. This meant switching terminals completely, a task I didn't want to take on at that God-forsaken city of an airport, not to mention that would require that i purchase an ID90 from Delta for Allitalia. Gayyyy. But whatever. I hugged the boys goodbye and told them I'd only be back to camp out with them if I didn't get on the flight to Rome and if I could somehow flirt with the security guys in terminal 3 enough to get them to let me back in (which was entirely possible, and that makes me deathly afraid for the sake of the airport...and really the world...), and that if not I'd probably see them tomorrow at the airport. I was then on my way to terminal 1. I would have to take the "Air Train," apparently, to get there. This required I go outside in the cold, wet streets, turn a corner, walk down a hill, around a corner, up a hill, across the street, up an elevator, into a building, up an escalator, and then to the airtrain tracks. It took longer than 20 minutes just to get to the place that would TAKE me to terminal 1. And it wasn't even marked anywhere which direction the trains were going in. They came in from two sides after the ride up the escalator, and you just had to figure it out for yourself. One of them was out of order. Thank GOD it wasn't the one I needed. Anyway, after almost barfing on everyone just to spite JFK airport, I finally arrived in the much different Terminal 1. The Allitalia station was just about to close, and neither of the ticket agents even spoke english (funny. My dad had actually warned me about how half of the employees at JFK didn't speak English and how I might get to practice my languages). So I asked them in "Italian" how to buy an ID90. They directed me to a man at the Delta counter around the corner. This man made me follow him all the way across the check-in area to Air France so he could use their printer. A chinese woman told him in broken english that we would have to go back to Delta and use the "special" printer. I had no idea what was going on this whole time; I simply followed him all around the entire terminal, annoyed to the point of amusement at the disorganization of the whole place and its system. The man helping me was very nice - an handsome Italian pushing 60 maybe - and he actually walked with me to the Rome gate after selling and printing me my ID90. When we got there, he told me that Allitalia used a different system which prioritized Allitalia non-revs over Delta non-revs. There were seats left on the flight, but there were 20 people standing by, and of course, most of them were Allitalians. Nonostante, he gave my ticket to the gate agent, who told him that there was no way I would get on, and waited with me until we found out that indeed there WAS no way I would get on. I think i probably laughed out loud with frustration/exhaustion. In Italian, of course. I didn't want to insult them, you know.

Next step was finding ground transportation information and calling the Connecticut Shuttle to go to my Aunt Paulette's house in Oxford to stay for the night. I was so drained from the day's catastrophes that it almost didn't even faze me that I would probably not be going to Europe this summer, and probably not even going to the airport to try the next day. All I wanted to do was go back to Terminal 3 to play cards all night with the Orlando boys, but I didn't want to deal with figuring out which line on the metro to take me all the way from the Brooklyn to Greenwich damn Village, if you catch my metaphor. My mom had given me 55 dollars to pay for the shuttle anyway. So I called for one, bought a stale donut, and sat at the food and magazine stand next to the phones and read Esquire and French Vogue while I waited.

Not 3 minutes before the arrival of the driver for the shuttle, I looked up from my spot on the floor for no reason whatsoever. My face stuffed with Krispy Kreme, I almost choked when I saw who I saw. Walking towards the phones was Ayshe, Jen Harris's Turkish friend and former roommate from Yale, with whom I met up with Jen and practically spent my entire trip in Paris. I yelled out her name and when she saw me she had to do a double take. She made her way over to me as quickly as she could with her two huge suitcases and we both asked each other what the other was doing there. She had only minutes before arrived from Istanbul; she'd spent 2 weeks visiting her family in Turkey and was now returning to Yale for a summer counseling position and a Spanish class. So of course she had to get to New Haven, which is obviously in Connecticut. When I made the connection that she was probably going to be using the Connecticut Shuttle, I almost choked again. Indeed we did end up taking the same shuttle, but not only that; after she called several friends in New Haven to ask if they could offer her a place for the night (her residence hall wouldn't open until the next day) and found out that they were all out of town, I called Aunt Paulette to ask if she could stay at her house as well. I was slightly apprehensive about this because a) I hadn't seen Aunt Paulette (or "Pobby," as all my cousins call her) since I was 14 and b) we would be staying in her new house which she and Uncle George hadn't nearly finished furnishing or even building, really. But Paulette is the type of person that you just know would not only let a dirty bum off the street stay in her house, but also feed him Lobster, ask him who he thinks should win American Idol, and call him "honeypie." So of course she was more than completely fine with it. I was on my way with a Turkish girl I'd met once in my life in Paris to meet up with a woman I hadn't seen in 6 years.

The "cretin" of a driver, as Paulette later described him, let Ayshe and I off 2 hours later (an hour later than expected) at the Fairfield Train Station, where we would be meeting her. However, we were let off on the departure side, which was completely abandoned. Before we realized where we were and what was going on, the shuttle took off. There was no sign of Paulette. We tried calling her but always got the operator. It was midnight, the station was closed, and there were certainly no more trains that would be departing from the station that evening, so I wondered why the Connecticut "expert" had let us off on that side. Eventually I called my mom and asked if she knew where Paulette was, and of course she told me that she was on the arrival side. My mom was freaking out, Paulette was probably freaking out, it was FREEZING, windy, and drizzling, and Ayshe and I were alone in the dark, both dressed for summer sun. It was no simple task getting from the departure side to the arrival side. There was a bridge, but it was entirely too steep for us to carry up our huge suitcases. That left us with only one option: to cross the parking lot running parallel to the tracks, which was for some reason about a quarter of a mile long, to turn onto the connecting road and go under a sketchy bridge, and head towards the arrival side, which was another quarter mile or so down the road. Fairfield is not a place where two girls should be walking alone at night. Especially not in 0 degree windchill, and ESPECIALLY not lugging extremely heavy suitcases and bags. Ayshe had practically brought her entire life's belongings home from Turkey, so the poor girl had to stop every 2 minutes to rest, and she insisted that I didn't help her because "I was only just beginning my journey." I wondered if that statement was some sort of a sign. We rolled along, my mom calling about every 30 seconds to check if we'd made it without getting raped, robbed, killed, and left to freeze. Along the way I ALMOST stepped on a huge smashed rat whose entrails were being soaked in the disgusting rainwater on the street. Ayshe and I saw it at the same time and both screamed and jumped in the air. At that point I was about to cry. It was all pretty funny, actually, so I laughed instead. I had to laugh, you know.

When we reached Paulette it was one AM. She had assumed that the shuttle was just taking a particularly long time and since her phone wasn't working she had to wait. Nonetheless, she was quite literally the light at the end of the tunnel, and a very bright one at that. I love that woman. "Sugar," she said "what on earth took the cretins so long?" When i told her about our adventure across the tracks, she said she wanted to go down to the Shuttle station and chew them out. Instead, she took us to a hamburger place and bought us sandwiches and juice. Warm bread and chicken salad has never tasted so perfect. The car ride home was a relief as well, since she had the heat on full blast. However, it was probably the most surreal car ride of my life. The weather was completely nutty - a storm had just passed and another was coming, apparently, because there were tree branches all over the road, the sky was greenish black, and there were so many leaves and pieces of trash blowing around that we almost couldn't see. Of course adding to this atmosphere were the roads, which were all narrow, and windy, with not another automobile in sight. The whole ride from the station to her new, huge, BEAUTIFUL haven of a home took about an hour. It really was out of her way for Paulette to do what she did for us. I wanted to stay up all night helping her paint walls or unpacking boxes, but I'm not going to lie, I went straight up to the room where Ayshe and I would crash for the night and didn't look back.

Just before bed Ayshe and I made a call to Jen. We called from Ayshe's phone, but I talked. Jen's reaction was priceless - an endless, airy "what the fuck" laugh - and made me realize JUST HOW "what the fuck" the entire DAY had been, not just the Ayshe meetup. I went to sleep wondering if tomorrow I'd meet Tammy Faye Baker on a flight to Minsk. It wouldn't surprise me.

I woke up in the hotel Saint-Pierre to the sound of the Notre Dame bells. No, wait. I woke up in Paulette's new post-will inheritance from Aunt Mibbie mansion/castle to the sound of Aunt Paulette's miniature Schipperke, Skiparina, barking her head off for no reason. In Connecticut. Oh yeah, I remembered, I'm in Connecticut. Sleeping next to Ayshe from Paris. With a schipperke barking in my ear.Who even HAS schipperkes? I got myself up and brushed my teeth and went downstairs to call my mom. I didn't shower. I was going on a 3 day record of not showering. I was hotttt. On the phone, Mom told me my options for the day out of JFK, and that they all looked way worse than yesterday even and that I'd probably just have to camp out at the airport and take the 5 AM flight to Atlanta the next day and then forget about all of Europe. Of course this was very discouraging, but I'd made it all the way up to New York, so I thought I might as well try one more day to get to the original destination. After a lovely and leisurely breakfast of Portuguese baguettes, blueberry muffins, and coffee provided by Paulette and George, a history lesson about Hungarian-Turkish relations (uncle George is Hungarian) and eventually a general review of the world straight from their huge, castle-like kitchen, we were off in Pobby's car- me back to the Fairfield train station to catch a train to New York and Ayshe all the way to New Haven (Paulette is the SHIT). We gave so many thanks to Paulette that by the time I opened the door to get out of the car they spilled out onto the railroad tracks. Quick goodbyes were had - my train to Grand Central Station came not 2 minutes after we pulled up and purchased my ticket on the machine by the tracks (this time we were on the CORRECT side of them). I hopped on and rode off looking back at two people I only see if I'm lucky and looking forward at a city I only see if I'm lucky. The situation was just too happenstance, too meaningful, for something equally unbelievable not to happen once I got to the airport. Plus, I was wearing a necklace Kendra gave me for my birthday a few years ago for good luck. The train ride there was quick and easy. I was excited to be going to New York even if I would only be there for a second. Rightfully so - when I walked into the huge main area of Grand Central, I was immediately consumed with the New York state of mind and almost wanted to just stay instead of attempting to go to silly Europe. Arriving in Grand Central is the only way to arrive in New York, now that I've done it; all the other times I've been driven in from one of the airports in a taxi. Grand Central immediately empowers you with exquisite architecture, important-looking time tables, an impossibly high and expansive teal and gold ceiling resembling the constellations, and Americans walking hastily, purposefully under their enormous national flag that hangs from it. This is my America, I thought, and filled my lungs to the brim with air in a rare moment of national pride.

Just as I barely made the train to New York, I barely made the shuttle to JFK. It was a chilly and gray day in the city, but I was nonetheless thrilled to see it again so unexpectedly. The last time I'd been to New York - my 3rd (or 4th?) time - was over two years ago, far too long for a city I have such an enormous crush on. Going to Paris was like fulfilling a part of me that was missing, but I did feel like I'd cheated on New York, my first love. It's not so much the sights, though it does have its own unique look, as it is the smells, the feeling, the intangible. Simply standing on 42nd Street waiting to board the bus, experiencing the taxis whizz by at my feet and smelling the coffee, the deli meat, the haggles in China Town, the naive dreams (including my own), and of course the new leather purses from every direction, I felt the entire city of New York, all its neighborhoods and people. And that was enough happiness to allow me to pay the 15 dollar shuttle fee and get on that bus to try and go to Europe.

At check in at JFK, I was asked by the agent why I was trying so hard to go to Europe. I'm serious - he even turned his computer screen to me so I could see the lists. When I told him that I simply had to give it a shot, he raised his eyebrows, shook his head, and printed my seat request. I wasn't depressed from that because hell, I'd been through it before and at this point I was prepared for the worst. And at the moment, the worst case scenario would be that I would actually have a seat on the flight to Nice, my first of two options for the day but would miss it - the flight started boarding in 5 minutes. I thought I'd be able to make it from Grand Central in time, but the shuttle took over an hour. An airport employee saw the frazzled look on my face when I looked at the clock and actually let me go to the front of the security line. See, you have to know how to play the game. Fortunately today I had thought to just wear tennis shoes and jeans to run in, so security was even quicker. As soon as i got through i booked it to gate 28, which was actually in TERMINAL DAMN TWO. At least I didn't have to wait for a goddamn Airtrain. I just ran and ran until I got there. I was disappointed that I probably wouldn't get to see the boys again, they hadn't mentioned anything about Nice the day before. But when I got to the gate, there they were, looking happy to see me. Boarding had started, and we only had minutes to find out if any of the poor souls standing by would get on. I felt bad because I was number one on the list, and if only one person would get on, it would be me, and I'd be leaving them behind. But I knew none of us would get on. We watched the list. We held hands and looked at the screen until the last revenue passenger had boarded.

My name was number one on the cleared list. There were three more names listed below me. It was them. They started beaming. I went to the gate agent to make sure someone wasn't playing a cruel joke on us like yesterday. She smiled and handed us our boarding passes and told us to hurry and get on. Three of us had fucking business (first) class seats. Oh my God, what fortune.

EUROTRIP WAS GOING TO HAPPEN

And by some MIRACLE, the boys were going too!!! An S3 and two boys on buddy passes? Absolutely unheard of. We all shared a huge group hug and lots of screams and headed together towards the gate. It was then that I realized that I was wearing jeans and tennis shoes...such a thing is completely unacceptable for non-revs, especially when they've been assigned business class seats. I asked the gate agent what to do. She told me there was a bathroom down the hall and around the corner and to RUN. I grabbed my black dress and heels from the top of my backpack (i was prepared) and Justin took my bags on with him. "Go, go, go!" I goed. I goed and goed back within 2 minutes. I was flushed pink. I handed my pass to the gate agent and danced all the way down the ramp. Once I was seated, I took what was probably the biggest breath I'd ever taken. I looked back at Jordan a couple seats down and he gave me a thumbs up. I held my breath even after the doors closed and the plane started to taxi. When we took off, I exhaled, and gave a thumbs up back.

(ps - I have typed a lot more, as it has been almost a week since I've been in Europe! But I don't have time to unload all of it from my stupid floppy disk onto these crazy foreign computers. But at least you have SOMETHING of an update! More adventurous literature coming soon!)

Intermission

2005-05-29T01:13:12Z

Greetings from Oxford, Connecticut.

...

I'll explain later. Off to the airport. Again.

Day Two

2005-05-29T01:11:31Z

As it turns out, I sure DIDN'T get on that flight to Paris. And the Hemingway didn't help. I ended up turning to Maupassant. Maybe that was bad luck. Anyway, it's now Wednesday, and I'm at the airport again. But not the Atlanta airport, oh no - I was there this morning, but only to get where I am now: New York's John F. Kennedy international airport. THIS PLACE IS INSANE. Seriously, it is its own metropolis, I've never seen anything like it. I actually flew into LaGuardia - I got up at 4:30 this morning to shower and head out with mom to the airport - again. I could have taken MARTA, but she insisted on taking me. I love her. Anyway, we got to the airport at 7:50 - only 40 minutes before my flight. I kissed mom goodbye, took a deep breath, and made my way back into airport check in. The check-in process went very quickly, and in fact it would have been feasible to get on the flight had the security line not been ASTRONOMICALLY long, stretching all the way PAST the food court. At 8:20, I was only just getting through security. At 8:25, I reached the T-Gate concourse and of course had to sprint alllll the way down the terminal to T1. (In the meantime, Caroline called!!! Caro, if you're reading this, sorry I didn't ask you about how you were, I was slightly frantic...hopefully I'll be having a substantial conversation with you soon enough...) The plane was still there, but it was too late to board. Hella lame. Thankfully, there was a flight only an hour later that had seats available. So I got on that. The reason I had to fly into LaGuardia instead of directly into Kennedy was because there weren't as many wide-open flights there. So after my flight, which went very smoothly (I listened to the Arcade Fire on Delta Radio with Nic Harcourt), I went down to ground control and hopped on a convenient but slightly pricey ($13) shuttle to JFK. It's a cold and overcast day here in New York City, and I couldn't see much of the city in the distance from the shuttle because of the fog. I'm pretty sure I did see St. Patrick's Cathedral from the sky, though. Oh, my New York, my New York, you're not such a bad place to get stuck in if worst comes to worst. And I do mean worst. Because not getting on any flights yesterday was bad enough...

I knew that last flight to Paris yesterday wasn't going to work when i overheard a French man telling his family: "C'est impossible, aujourd hui. Non, jeudi marche pas. Vendredi non plus." and then noticed his Air France bag. He was telling his family that they weren't going to board any time this week, and they were Air France employees, who get priority over Delta employees, even on Delta flights. Damn Air France. I was screwed. The Marta ride home was depressing, because I kept looking out the window at shitty Atlanta and realizing that I could be sitting on an actual train looking out at wonderful France. And that if I didn't get on a flight tomorrow, I was pretty much out of luck for the entire trip, not to mention Brooke was screwed. I was absolutely exhausted when I got home, but I looked at my options for the next day and since New York looked much better than Atlanta, that's what I decided to do. My parents helped me plan very quickly too, and offered me many sympathetic pats on the back. I was passed out by 9.

Fast forward to where we are now. I'm plugged in and looking out the window at a 747 China Air that is passing by. It's a gray day. All I can do now is wait...I have 2 and a half hours until my first (and really only) flight option, and I'm a nervous wreck. And I've already been here 2 hours in this jalopy that is JFK (i mean that in the friendliest way possible, because I love any airport, and this one certainly is exciting, despite its poorly-planned structure and other shortcomings). There's a stupid girl, about my age, sitting next to me who was reading this book called "Sapphire's Wish" - it had a picture of a wedding ring and a flower on the cover. About 3 minutes ago she put it down, sighed loudly, and whined to her friend "I can't read!" I think I snickered. No, you can't read, girl. You don't know how to, if you picked out trash like that. People are dumb. Anyway. There's a Burger King and an arcade with Ms. Pac-Man right next to what has to be JFK's ONLY ELECTRICAL OUTLET which I somehow found after far too much searching and am posted at now. I might hit them up later. I wish I could find a wireless zone so I could post this (and yesterday's) instead of posting both of them together as well as the update from the next place I arrive at, wherever it may be. I guess it won't be as exciting when posted as a typical KDM tome in 3 parts. But let's hope that it will be exciting, because it won't be if I don't actually post it from somewhere in Europe.

Time for a veggie burger. And a valium.

Day One

2005-05-29T00:47:23Z

Ah, Atlanta's Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport. Your wit! Your come-hither smile, that mysterious, charming twinkle in your eyes! Your relentless dedication to expedition and efficiency! How do you do it, handling thousands of globe-trekkers daily and still keeping your figure? And how, pray tell, do you manage to simultaneously bring endless joy to AND ruin my life? I'll tell you, you must have one hell of a sense of humor to deal with all your dick employees. I know that airport employees HAVE to be dicks because they deal with assholes, but I'M not an asshole, so why should I have to deal with this SHIT? I know it's hilarious to see fools like me rushing in and out of terminals and check-in counters, but come on, i was throwing up out of nervousness this morning, i'm just now getting over a cold, and two days ago i pinched my sciatic nerve. What the fuck, i know. So just...go easy on me. (Queen of languages.)

But then, don't. You know what? I absolutely LOVE this, as much as i hate it. I love the fact that i have to be hardcore, put on my big girl panties, carry around a huge and heavy backpack with a laptop in it and lug a suitcase with 2 weeks worth of clothes, having my passport and Delta employees passcard handy at all times, powerwalking and sometimes sprinting from one gate to another on the complete other side of the terminal, never looking back. If I were accompanied, and if I were lugging anything besides a suitcase, i would probably whine and ache like any self-respecting country club girl. But as frustrating as traveling is, it is becoming more and more essential to me, especially independent travel. I love it because it is a trip. No, this isn't a trip in the sense that it should be, yet - that being a damn TRIP TO EUROPE - but it's a mind trip - no, a mind roller-coaster - and it's thrilling. Maybe i'm sick in that in some very small, almost impossible-to-find corner in my body i actually somewhat enjoy getting rejected and referred to the next flight; I guess it's the challenge-seeker in me (though if i don't get on a flight at least by tomorrow I will be physically sick, as in vomiting, or possibly dying...so i guess that pleasure only goes so far). But as for now, anyway, I am sitting at gate E4 in the international terminal hoping to get on the 6:50 flight to Paris-CDG. This is the third gate of the day for me, the first two being an earlier Paris flight and a Brussels flight. Round and round and round she goes, where she stops? Nobody...oh wait...does she stop at all?

I'll elaborate, of course. This afternoon, after an all-morning bout with nausea and heat flashes, I finished packing, exchanged a rather tender goodbye with Dad ("don't ever let anyone, even me, stop you from doing what you love doing."), and hopped in the car with Mom and Dammy to go to the airport. The ride down i was only slightly mal à l'aise, thanks in part to my mother and grandmother's entertainingly nutty tales of their many experiences together in Europe. Who knew that they met Bob Hope, James Garner, and Gerald Ford in London all in the same day, and all while drunk? Anyway, we get to the airport, Mom cries, i almost have a panic attack, i part from them and make my way across the street to the Delta check-in stations, i have a brief moment of peace and wonderfully refreshing mid-May air rushing through me, and then i get inside to International check-in. Then i almost have a panic attack again. I have NEVER seen such insanity in the airport before. I almost couldn't move. Miraculously, as i was blindly making my way to the end of the had-to-be-3-hour-long line for check-in, i saw a small counter with an even smaller line hidden away that read "no bag check in." Thank God. I wasn't checking any bags. So i hopped in line , and after a short but sweet exchange with a beautiful girl from northern England about our accents (hers was beautiful - certainly not a standard British accent, but not harsh enough to be Scottish or Welsh or anything - and she asked me where i was from because she said my accent was "very gentle." It took me aback, but come to think of it, foreign people have told me that before. Dmytro and the eastern european crew used to tell me that my english was the most understandable they had ever heard, and i guess it's a compliment? Why am i talking about this?), i found myself face to face with a terribly intimidating woman who was only mean until she realized that she couldn't mess with me because i knew as much about the biz as she did; in fact, she turned out to be as helpful and friendly as possible. Unfortunately, she was the one that told me that the 4:10 Paris flight I was trying to get on that had looked somewhat promising a few hours before was not only filling up rapidly, but also that it was a codeshare flight (Air France), and because of MAJOR internal changes that have taken place with Delta within the last damn month, I would have to purchase an ID96 (a ticket that can be issued to codeshare partner non-revs 96% off the ticketed fair to get on codeshare flights.) Apparently, though, that remaining 4 percent would amount to 125 dollars, which i SERIOUSLY didn't want to shell out, even if it was 100% refundable should i not get on the flight. But i was about to, especially when Alicia (the ticket agent) told me that the Air France counter where i would have to purchase the ID96 was going to be cutting off the listing line for the 4:10 flight in 7 minutes. So I HAULED ass, pushing through the masses of frustrated people, to the Air France side of the tracks, I grabbed the attention of a wandering Air France agent and told her that "Alicia sent me over here to purcha-" and she cut me off rudely, directing me to the line for the check-in counter that Alicia had told me to try and avoid. I went around the corner and took one look at it - it stretched all the way into the food court - and looked at the time - i had 5 minutes - screw that. So i went back to the lady and made her listen to me and she said "oh, non-rev? No non-rev." Apparently the flight was completely full, especially for non-revs. Whatever the fuck that meant. So all i could do was go back to Alicia and list for the 5:10 flight, which was thankfully a delta flight, but not thankfully oversold and not at all promising. I made my way over there anyway. You always have to try.

On the train to terminal E i met a smarmy but somewhat comforting forty-something man, also a non-rev, who was trying to go to Corsica to celebrate his birthday with his girlfriend. He was trying for the 5:10 Paris flight as well. Competition, damn. We chatted a little bit, he was far too friendly, and when we got to our gate and found that all we could do was wait for an hour, he offered to take me down to Paschal's and buy me a drink. NO thanks, pal. I made up some excuse about having to "take care of some business" on the phone and on my laptop, so he left me alone. I keep seeing him, though, and man, he sure is smarmy.

Once i realized i wasn't getting on the Paris flight, I decided to try my luck listing for the Brussels flight that was leaving in less than an hour. Fortunately there was a ticketing counter right in concourse E, so all I had to do was stand patiently in its rather long line. While there, i had some priceless people-watching time, which helped me to relax a bit. The woman standing behind me, dreadlocked, pushing her son in a baby stroller, and wearing a cool vintage "are we there yet?" shirt, was speaking a dialect of German so strong i thought it was Dutch. Turns out she was Austrian. Cool. The two young hispanic dudes in front of me were speaking a dialect of Spanish so strange I almost thought it was Portuguese. Turns out they were Bolivian. Way cool. Looking and listening around, i noticed that there were as many if not more foreigners than Americans. Not surprising, I mean, it's the international section of the airport. But all of a sudden, I swear, there was a sonic boom of life, everything around me seeming to be moving in fast forward while i was paused and peaceful in that line. People of every kind were weaving everywhere in a chaotic but somehow formulaic fashion, it was like some bizarre Olympic opening ceremonies display. I know i sound totally fruitty describing it this way, but I can't think of any other way to put it. And it struck me then that the airport is the only place in the world where EVERYONE is out of their element. As soon as an American steps into an American airport, he is no longer native. The language displayed on every sign might be english, but the english speaker can become just as bewildered as the non-english speakers, simply based on the setup of the airport and the attitudes of the few actual natives at the airport: the airport employees. I stand beside my opinion that they are a different kind, bred to be matter-of-fact and uber confident, which can translate into dick-ism. They're all the same, though. I swear they all have the same accent, even. But even their rock-hard standing can't stop the dance-like flow of the traveler. It's terribly fascinating. A million things are fascinating to me about airports. How monopolistic they are. How all-encompassing they can be. How all-at-once predictable and unpredictable. But most notably, the way they allow humans to share this world; the internet and the media may be able to project images and describe everything in the world in excruciating detail, but damn them - this shit's physical. And the REALLY amazing and beautiful thing is that when you're on an airplane, you're sharing the world by soaring above it.

I have 30 minutes before I find out whether or not I'm going to get on this flight to Paris. I'm gonna go read Hemmingway.