Hopping the Pond I: Arrival In Paris

**This post will be brief because I am dying of la grippe as they say in France. I do wish, however, that my voice would sound the way it does right now All The Time, since it's hit that super-sexy Lauren Bacall low-pitch. Respiratory health isn't THAT important, is it?? And I want to know why it is that only now, at 10 p.m., do I get energized and start feeling better when I've been moping around feverish and delirious for the rest of the day. If anyone can explain that to me, I'd appreciate it.**

I had debated with my traveling partner, the Dirty Hippie, about the best time to get to the airport. She argued for an hour ahead of the flight; I argued for two. Fortunately we got there somewhere in the middle, because Dulles International was in fine Homeland Security-form. We went through the whole rigamarole that you who fly will know well -- the removal of shoes, the obligatory going off of the metal detectors ever three seconds, the wandings, etc.. I was dumbfounded that DH had been allowed to keep her lighter AND matches (score one for Michael Moore on his Tobacco Industry Theory) in her carry-on luggage. My single suitcase, which was still more than enough for the week's 3-City-Tour, didn't make the cut and had to be checked.

Despite my keenly developed ability to sleep whenever sitting down, I didn't get as much of a doze as I'd hoped. We disembarked at Charles De Gaulle airport at 6:00 a.m., local Paris time. Our plane had disgorged its passengers with one other flight, and while the airport was relatively empty we still managed to get caught up in the swill of jet-lagged and disoriented humanity. The kind of humanity that, at 6 a.m., is befuddled by the concept of revolving doors.

Tobacco Industry theme persists when you walk into the main rooms of the Paris airport. Everyone smokes everywhere. The customs officers, young men with blond crewcuts and long lean French faces, have ashtrays in their little cubicles. They hardly want to be working at that time of the morning, so they can be less than exacting when they check your passport. My own customs officer kept me waiting for two or three minutes while he dangled my passport in his hand, chatting with the young female officer who'd come by to sign out and share her vacation plans with the crew. Almost as an afterthought, he languidly passed the passport back to me and gestured me on my way. Not, however, without that first glance that I'd forgotten all about -- that look that must, I think, be peculiar to Frenchmen ... the one that says "Ah, yes, you there, you woman. Perhaps, this evening, you and I, un bouteille de vin rouge, sous les etoiles ... think about it, cherie. Au revoir ..."

I'm serious. Dear reader, if you have been to France you know the look I'm talking about. It's not overly lascivious, it's simply sensual. It takes some getting used to; but ladies, once you're used to it, it becomes a game to see who'll give you the look and who won't.