MAY'S DRAMATIC RETURN FLIGHT FROM PARIS
All Jérôme Dreyfuss's fault
Well, dramatic. That's a bit of an exaggeration, of course. It's not like we made an emergency landing or anything. But let me put it this way: I was in the plane with a heart rate of 180 and a body temperature of 58 degrees. All Jérôme Dreyfuss's fault. Really.
He had way too beautiful bags. I had to touch them. And try them on. And Jérôme wanted to meet us but was stuck in traffic. And it was at that moment, dear friends, that a bell should have rung. But it didn't. Or it did ring, but I didn't hear it. Anyway.
I was feeling the bags. And upon leaving number 31 on Rue Charlot, I bumped into Jérôme. The last time I saw him, I was on a ventilator. Not because of him, but because of Isabel who was walking a nonchalant meter in front of him. I couldn't handle that. Jérôme alone I can manage just fine. He's really nice. You understand that there still had to be some talking at the front door. About life, the bags, and the traffic jam.
Meanwhile, our taxi driver was already waiting for us. It would take him forty minutes to get us to the airport. Forty minutes. ‘Are you sure about that?’ we asked. He was sure. ‘Even with the rain?’ ‘Even with the rain.’ ‘Even in rush hour?’ ‘Even in rush hour.’
Initially, we were still chatting and calling home. Whether the wine was cold and other matters of life and death. We had moved three streets. I checked how long before departure you could drop off your suitcase and could breathe a little easier. Whether the driver could make a new estimate of the arrival time. ‘Beaucoup de traffic parce que il pleut.’ Yes, we could see that too. But it was the same an hour ago. Ten past seven. Then we would be there. At twenty past eight we would board.
We rushed to customs while I thought about which Balenciaga sandals I could have bought for the money I would have to spend on a hopeless hotel and tickets.
At ten to eight, we were still not on the ring road and were getting a bit warm between our toes. Actually, I want to write here under the armpits but that's not very ladylike either. ‘Encore vingt minutes.’ The taxi driver was instructed to run a red light if possible. We had no second to lose.
At 20:09, we rushed into the Transavia hall. In fact, we had exactly one minute left to drop off our suitcase. The hall was empty. Completely empty. We rushed up a staircase to the information desk. With all our suitcases. Was it really necessary to bring those Isabel Marant boots? And those Gucci pumps? And that book by Kluun? All not worn or read. The lady at the desk referred us to the Transavia desk. A man was just taking off his uniform jacket. ‘It's not my fault,’ he mumbled. No, we're not saying that, but maybe you can solve it.
We could forget it. A case of booking a hotel (at the airport, it doesn't get more picturesque) and taking a new flight tomorrow. We rushed to customs while I thought about which Balenciaga sandals I could have bought for the money I would have to spend on a hopeless hotel and tickets.
The woman at customs started laughing. No way we could go in with checked baggage. I felt it was hopeless to pull the children's card. But at another customs entrance, we might find a more empathetic person. We bumped into a bastion of three. ‘Come quickly. Take this entrance and follow path A, the diplomats’ path.'
There was no line (the airport was deserted), but it still felt nice to zip left past all the posts. ‘We only cheer when we're seated,’ we shouted to each other. First through the customs check. Shoes had to come off, Balenciaga purchases (more on that later) were inspected, and that our toiletry bag was just loose in the suitcase was not a problem this one time.
If there were an Olympic medal for running to your plane in no time, we would have it. Panting and puffing, we settled into seats 5E and 5F. ‘Is everything okay?’ the purser asked. 'If you have three liters of diet cola for me, I'll be fine again,' I replied. And anyone who dares to say that the French are not nice and helpful will have to deal with me.
