Coming home Thu, Mar 05, 2009

Last night the 2 young girls who checked in were terribly noisy. Their suitcases outweighed them and they kept zipping and unzipping them, alternated with rattling plastic. And the constant talking. One could not possibly be listening to the other as they talked simultaneously. At midnight I reminded them that I was getting up at 4am and that I intended to be just as noisy as they were. And it worked! But I still woke up before the alarm--which means they didn't have to hear it. And that I got less than 4 hours sleep. Because I was already packed, it took me 15 minutes to dress, brush my teeth and hair and throw down a quick cup of coffee. I find that I am usually able to get somewhere--in fact I put lost of energy into planning how to arrive for an adventure. And no thought for how to get back until a day before. My flight was7:15am and the airport was better than an hour from my hostel by public transportation. I've had uneven luck with taxis. When it has gone well, they are expensive. When it's gone badly, it is more expensive. Either they take the scenic route or they cannot make change, forcing you to leave them with a large tip. The most frightened I've ever been in a car was a taxi ride from JFK to Manhattan. (I suspect I've had more dangerous rides, but never so very sober ones) The trams were running, but I walked to Metro station Mustek, which was locked tight. It opened, eventually the train came and then 4 stops and the rush up the stairs to catch the 119bus transport to the airport. I knew if it ran on schedule, it would arrive at 5:08 and I had an entire minute to spare. I had forgotten how very long the bus ride was. Did I only arrive a week ago? Had to ask which of the three terminals I needed to get off at (terminal 2). The perfect English voice over the bus intercom said that terminal 1 was for private planes, Terminal 3 was for the (unintelligible Asian sounding word) and Switzerland. Terminal 2 was for outside the (unintelligible Asian sounding word). Well, I felt like an outsider, so Terminal 3 it was. Plus it's where everyone else with luggage got off. On the plane to Paris, I sat near a man in his mid-60s from Lebanon. I find it very interesting what people tell you about themselves. He offered that he was visiting ex-wives number 1 and 2, plus his godsons, who were in their 30s, the sons of ex-wife #1, after their divorce. He had been married three times total, but had also lived with women. "But this you cannot do so freely in Lebanon as in Paris". He was leaving a woman behind in Lebanon, though I didn't get the impression that he was married to her. It pained him, I could almost see a tear in his eye and with that I think I may have begun to see the secret of his attraction: passion. It wasn't looks. He was not ugly, but I would call his face "interesting and worn" rather than handsome. He was portly, no longer young. But he spoke with enthusiasm. He had left Paris to help the refugees in Lebanon resettle after the "civil war". He said it was hard and frustrating work. Only 11% of those displaced had been able to go home, and those were the ones who had not left the country. He was on his way to Paris also for a conference on which he was to speak and also to, along with others from around the world, determine the definition of Terrorism. "But this will cut the hands of many". Terrorism can only be "the killing of the innocent" and this will mean that states, countries are terrorists too. He lamented the expected war with Israel; he did not see how it could be avoided. He was on the side of Lebanon, clearly. But he wasn't against Israel. He actually gave me hope, though he claimed to have none himself. If a passionate man, clearly on one side of the debate could speak kindly of the other side, well that is how peace starts, no? My wait in Paris is just long enough to be tedious, but not long enough to give me time to take a quick taxi to see the city. This would be one time I'd risk a taxi too. But my typing and sitting at the gate has drawn attention. A security guard walked up to me and spoke in French. Two others were several steps behind her but paying close attention. When I identified myself as American, she asked for my boarding pass. I know I look like a bag lady, but I've always been identified as harmless. My rumpled trousers which have lost a button, messy hair and lack of make up probably are frightening to the French. "Ah, you must wait," she said. Then she looked at me with a sad expression, "I am sorry." But it was clear she wasn't sorry about my time wasted she was sorry that my appearance was messing up their lovely lobby. I was lowering the standards for all women. I realized after she left that I had crumbs on my shirt. I bet they have sensors that can detect the two chin hairs I seriously need to pucks. Women simply don't go around looking frumpy. Make up must be perfect, complete with eyeliner. No backpacks, perfectly coiffed hair and an Hermes scarf are de rigueur. And that's just for the grocery. So to them I am a terrorist, though I only slay the image of fashion. Well, if you can't set a good example, be a horrible warning!