French Bred - Ch 1 - The Arrival

I don't know who thought that all airline passengers would be under 5 foot 8, but whoever it was should be taken out and shoved into a shoebox. As I boarded Air France for my 12-plus hour flight from San Francisco to Paris, I realized that someone was having a good laugh at my expense. I was flying coach, and seated next to a German man who spoke almost no English. It was close to 3:00 in the afternoon, and I had been up since about 5 in the morning, packing my bags and heading to the second day of a convention at the Cow Palace in Daly City. The convention was to begin at 9:50, and I had to be at the nearby airport by 2:00. Needless to say, by 3 I was exhausted, and was looking forward to sleeping most of the way to Paris. Or not.

The details about the flight are a blur. I know that I was nervous, because I was traveling overseas for the first time and would be greeted by my wife-to-be. I was also nervous because I was going to be spending the next four weeks living with her brother and her sister-in-law. They spoke no English, and I spoke no French. No problems there, right? I was crammed into an airline seat specifically designed for Gary Coleman or Paul Simon. I am 6 feet tall. Trying to sleep in such a seat is like trying to get comfortable being folded in two in a hospital bed. You've seen the cartoons, right? The bed has a little control box and someone pushes the wrong button, causing the bed to fold in such a way that the patient was able to examine his own heels. That's how I felt on the airplane. No way to sleep. No conversation. No desire to remain conscious.

However, despite the constant fear that Air France would go on strike in the middle of my flight and drop me off somewhere near the Bermuda Triangle, we landed safely at Roissy / Charles de Gaulle airport on the outskirts of Paris. As I got off the plane, I wondered how so much pollution could creep in through the air conditioning units of the airport. I didn't know that Paris was so smoggy! Then I realized that what I was experiencing was a wall of cigarette smoke from all of the passengers waiting in the gate area. Instant cancer was a real concern as I carved my way to the baggage claim area.

The first sign that I saw in English woke me up quickly. It said, and I am not making this up, "Unattended baggage will be exploded." There was a little pictogram of a piece of luggage being blown up. Baggage will be exploded. Exploded? Not examined? Not x-rayed? A poor little innocent bag, just sitting there waiting for its owner, would be taken hostage and quickly detonated. What kind of animals were these French?

Well, this wouldn't cause a problem for me. I would just go to the baggage claim area, claim my baggage from the area, and head out to greet the love of my life. So, I waited. And I waited. Everyone else had claimed their bags, but mine had not yet arrived. Minutes passed, and I began to have terrible thoughts. "Oh crud! They've exploded my bag!" I tracked down someone from the airline and asked where my luggage was being held hostage. The employee was actually helpful, and tracked down my bag that was still sitting in the luggage compartment of the airplane. As my heartbeat slowed to something below a rock band drum solo, I took my bag and ventured out into the airport, searching for the customs inspectors, the passport inspectors, and freedom.

As I walked towards the customs inspectors, I noticed quite a number of men dressed in black uniforms, some with dogs, and all with rather scary looking rifles. They looked prepared to attack any piece of luggage that threatened to attack an innocent passenger. They also looked prepared to dispose of any American who dared to eat processed cheese in their presence. I decided that discretion was the better part of not being shot, and quickly moved to the customs line.