This morning I seriously thought about drinking at work. I don't know if it's because I just got back from drinking wine all day and night in Paris, or because I really hate my job. The only thing that stopped me was that the only alcohol I had at home was beer and it would be rude to burp at work. I may hate my job and everyone there, but there's no way I would ever let anyone think I had not read Emily Post.
The first day back at work, the first assignment I gave myself was researching the best way to quit while maximizing the drama. There wasn't much info, but I brainstormed and decided I'm just not going to show up one day and make everyone wonder if I got meningitis and suddenly died, or maybe I was fired for sexual harassment. They probably won't even know I left honestly, I'm not exactly a presence in the office and I've worked really hard to keep it that way. I don't plan on sticking around here for long and things will be easier for everyone if they don't get to know how great I really am. I think I read that on t-shirt once. Maybe I'll wear it for my last day, it'll go well with my cute new white boots I got in Paris.
My boyfriend, Ty, and I just got back from Paris this week and I never wanted to leave. The streets of Paris looked exactly the same as I left them, almost as if they waited for me to return. My inflated sense of self assists me in believing that as well. All of my favorite buildings and churches were still there, thank God no one remodeled Sainte-Chapelle while I was gone.
It rained a lot and I caught myself thinking, "Paris is so beautiful in the rain," and would have to slap myself before anyone caught wind that I was imagining taking a photo under a street lamp. I would caption it, "Paris is for lovers," probably in a nice cursive script. It's hard to not be a tourist in Paris, and technically I am no longer a local. I find that I fall into this strange category of being someone who says, "Hey nice to meet you, I used to live here." I know all the small divey spots with the best friend chicken (trust me) and where every happy hour is, but I also want to spend the afternoon at the Louvre and catch a glimpse of the Mona Lisa because "why not, we're not in Paris everyday." I also may have bought a beret, but I swear I won't wear it like the other girls.
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The first weekend on my trip, I went to the Marche aux Puce with the one and only David. David is doing well, and I have some gossip about him, but good gossip. I'm calling it gossip just to get you to bite. David has a girlfriend and she is wonderful. David also has a new phrase "un-grump yourself." Surprise surprise, this phrase was not used on me, not even once. I love to complain but it's usually because I'm just trying to fill the open space, not because I'm actually in a bad mood. I'll usually finish a complaint with a laugh and desperate looks around the room for reassurance. My bad moods can easily be turned around too, just tell me my hair looks nice or that you bought the good cheddar and I'm fine.
But then, out of fucking nowhere, the trip came to an end. And I was heartbroken. Why should I have to leave? Haven't you heard, I'm the special one.
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There was no amount of Bon Marche groceries you could buy me to "un-grump myself" this time. I was full on sour puss and I would rather kill myself than get in the damn car to the damn airport.
So, in the car on the way to the airport... Ty and I realized that our Priority Pass would not grant access into the Air France lounge, but we were only allowed to go to a lounge called "Yotel"???
This didn't sound like a place Grace Kelly would ever step foot in so I didn't want to either. We pulled our bags up to the check in counter and were immediately told that they were too heavy.
"Ze bags are 2 kilograms too heavy. You must remove the extra weight from ze bags or pay a fee." Cruiela de Vile told up while adjusting her neckerchief.
"Well where do you expect me to put my stuff? Either way it's getting on the plane, so why does it matter if it's here or stuffed in my pants? I'm all out of hands here!"
We were able to remove what was about 6 pounds worth of coffee table boots from our two bags and carry them on our heads as if we finally were leaving the water basin. I don't understand why it matters where the weight is in terms of luggage or on my person, but according to her, it is essential for the distribution. She acted like after she checked us in, she would also be flying the plane. How she would be to both steer the plane and take my drink order was something she would have to figure out later.
What came next was something that I had a nightmare of when I was 12. I have very vivid dreams most of the time. The other night in my dream, I kept wiping my mouth and I woke up drooling. This dream I had when I was 12 was realized on the journey to Yotel. First, we had to leave the nice Air France terminal M and trolly our way to terminal L. I had never been to terminal L before mostly because I had never been in the market for a child bride. After pushing our way through a flight that had been part of an emergency landing from Algeria, we entered another dimension.
Imagine the hallway from The Shining, but instead of red and brown, everything was white and purple. It was as if Kelly Wearstler didn't have the funds to complete her "vision" and promptly got out of there. At the end of the tunnel to futuristic hell, was the Yotel. From the name, we thought it was Swedish, but from the crowd it attracted, it was obvious it was just stupid.
Everyone was asleep in this room no larger than a fake living room at an Ikea. Above the morons sleeping with their passports strapped to their Sean Jean tracksuits, were posters that read "NO SLEEPING." This clearly was a reoccurring issue here and wasn't just because we were there at 6am.
I know I'm spoiled, but that obviously is not my fault, no one can spoil themselves. If you do, it's just being irresponsible and probably because you can't find someone that likes you enough to do that for you. When I hear the words "airport lounge" I think a nice leather chair and a free bagel with extra lox, that's not asking too much right? Wrong. Alongside the sleeping patrons, were vending machines, something I never want to see outside of a train station. Inside these vending machines were off brand potato chips, Virginia Slims and a Flying For Dummies book. Ty and I exchanged a look that really cemented that he was the one for me. Just as a tour group of fifty Asian singles were entering, we politely gathered our things, double checked that we still had our passports (because they weren't strapped to our chest) and got the fuck out of Dodge.
