Week 7: Paris, the first time…
Since our whirlwind trip across Europe recently came to an end, I am reminiscent of the feelings of flying to Europe the first time when I fell in love with Paris, and the stranger who helped me find that…
The raindrops converged and meandered down the window as I sleepily watched the planes enter and exit. I glanced down at my overfilled bags and comfortable clothes I’d chosen to wear for the flight. It had been a stressful couple of weeks leading up to this day. I had slept so little, trying to squeeze as many agenda items as I could into each minute until we left, clearing up things needing done, planning for those needing attention in our absence. Sitting, waiting, the tiredness caught up with me. My drowsiness was compounded by our five-hour drive to the airport and the big lunch and glass of wine I’d just consumed upon our arrival. I turned my attention to the other people lingering around our gate. There was another tired couple snuggling in their chairs, the bleach-blond woman chatting with a bleach-blond older version of herself about family and shopping, the overwrought businessman rapidly flipping through the contents of his briefcase, chirping on his phone irritatingly. A name was called at the airline desk and an older woman stepped up in what appeared to be a stewardess uniform with her navy pencil skirt, mauve pillbox hat, pressed white button down and a navy jacket, carefully folded over her forearm. I glanced up and thought of Pan-Am, there was something out of place or time about her. She stood straight as a ruler and every movement was full of grace and intention. It felt dreamlike observing her in front of the misty backdrop of windows.
My husband turned to me and asked if I wanted to walk around and my attention snapped back to the present. We walked the small circle of O’Hare several times, observing the gleaming shops with their tightly-packed, overpriced, “in case you forgot or are just bored in an airport” products. We stopped for a drink at a bar near our gate. We chatted with the bartender over whatever sporting event was playing on the television under the yellow glow of lights reflecting off the polished wood bar. We let the last of the warming drinks slide down our throats and walked back to our gate. It was time to board. I’d lost sight of most of the other passengers I’d been observing. I was getting anxious to go now. We boarded quickly and smoothly. I didn’t see the Pan Am stewardess and contemplated the possibility that I’d had a daydream. We waited in our seats, preparing for a long flight, organizing items and settling in. Soon, we were taxying down the runway. As the plane began to lift, so did my wakefulness. My sleepiness had been replaced by eagerness. Once in the air, I worked on editing photos. I stared over the expanse of soft clouds as the light transformed them from the rainbows of late day to darkness. We watched the in flight movie and tried hard to capture a little of the fleeting moments of sleep we knew we desperately needed, but the excitement in our bellies wouldn’t settle enough to allow our heads and eyes to rest much. So we planned our days for our short week abroad. I brushed up on my art history and made a list of the pieces I wanted to see. We scoured the itineraries friends had provided, checking their most loved attractions against each other. We read the guidebooks we had checked out from the library for recommendations. We studied maps, metro stations, and the proximity of preferred sights. We shaped a loose plan for the days ahead. It was hard to imagine this outline was about to be a reality.
It was still dark when I glimpsed the lights of France out my window. It should have looked like any other lights to me, but it didn’t. Maybe it was the whisper in my ear, “that’s a whole new continent for you.” Or maybe it was the years and years of waiting. Or maybe it was the stress of the days and weeks and months leading up lifting, but those lights looked like glowing, golden, timeless beauty.
We landed in Paris early in the morning. Coming off the flight, I was jittery. I get nervous in situations I haven’t experienced before and this was amplified by my lack of sleep. Standing in line at customs, my emotions undulated from excitement to tired and back again. I began observing the other passengers again and wondered where all the sulking twenty year olds came from. I hadn’t noticed them before with their dark jeans and darker expressions as if this experience was nothing, tiresome even. In sharp contrast, I found the Pan Am stewardess. I discovered now she was another passenger and noted her gloves, dangling earrings and the most sublime smile. I remembered being twenty and playing it cool with a Holden Caulfield attitude and a Kurt Cobain wardrobe, but staring at this woman I aspired to be her and I smiled. I had landed in Paris. I was here. Finally. My fatigue fell away and I stood a little straighter, probably looking crazed with that expressive grin spread across my face. Nervous and elated, I made my way to the window. “Bonjour,” I smiled and slid my passport under the window shakily. “Bonjour” the dark-haired Frenchman, slight in his navy uniform, said from the other side of the glass. He raised his eyebrows suggestively and winked at me and I laughed. How very stereotypical. I loved it. I was not even in this country two minutes and it was already proving to be exactly what I wanted it to be. I looked down at my passport and could feel the emotions surfacing. I was so proud the day it had arrived in the mail. Travel was something I wanted to take precedence and life so far had been full of the unexpected twists that didn’t lend itself to such luxuries. France, was a dream. And suddenly, my passport was stamped. I turned the corner and caught my breath. There she was. The Pan Am stewardess. She looked up toward the ceiling and I could see the range of emotions playing across her face. She was smiling and weeping. She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief held in her gloved hand. She was light and beauty and happiness. She was in Paris. I could feel it emanating from her. There could have been a million reasons, but in my mind, this was it. After all these years, the plane had landed. Her passport was stamped. Those were tears of joy. I felt my throat constrict and my eyes begin to well up. I ran to the bathroom. As I cleaned myself up a little in the colorful stalls of the Charles de Gaulle airport bathroom under strange flashing lights, I let it all go. I cried tears of gratification. I cried for the years of dreaming, the months of preparing, the lack of sleep that I would have endured again and again. And I cried for the woman who wore a pillbox hat and sparkly, dangling earrings for her flight to Paris. The woman who let herself feel this, and reminded me, so should I. I was finally here. I had gotten my passport stamped after all these years.
