It was the morning of Tuesday, the fourth of March, and I was flying out of Paris and leaving my life in France behind. I was tired and stressed and sad, so very sad. I had said goodbye to Gregory the day before and it had already been four days since I had seen Fifty. While I knew I’d see them in a month’s time, I didn’t know when I’d see The Londons, Honey Jr, Honey’s Honey, Child Bride or La Petite again.
I was feeling mighty down and the unknown was waiting for me a couple of long flights away. I was nervous, and exhausted, because come on, we all know how sucky moving is, let alone an international one. I hadn’t slept properly for weeks and all I desperately wanted was to get the flights over with, and get to my mother’s house in Texas (to be completely honest, all I really wanted at that point was to go back in time to decide not to move back to the U.S. and blink and be back in Le Petit Village like none of the whole moving malarky had ever even happened).
So yeah, Sara Louise was not a happy bunny, and most definitely not looking forward to being sad on a long journey. And that’s when it happened; when the most wonderful thing that could happen, happened… I got upgraded. Sure I’d still be sad, but at least I’d be comfy and sad (comfiness makes all the difference really).
This may not be the best picture, but it’s leg room, sweet, glorious leg room, the most valuable commodity at 35,000 feet. I was quite comfortable and very happy… sadness forgotten! All I had to do was sit there and relax while nice ladies brought me wine and food. I watched a Downton Abby marathon and made my own sundae. There was no packing, no important decisions to make or forms to fill out, no somber goodbyes or sadness.
It was pure bliss and I didn’t want it to end. I was on the verge of having my address forwarded to Sara Louise, seat 4c, somewhere over the Atlantic, because as far as I was concerned, I had found my new home. So naturally I was less than pleased when we landed in Washington D.C… time to move again.
I trudged across Dulles, pouty and sullen, dreading the four hour flight to San Antonio on the tiny express jet. Sad, Sara Louise had returned. And that’s when the second miracle occurred. I didn’t make my flight (this was during all of that horrible cold weather stuff that messed up the East Coast airports). That’s right, I didn’t make my flight and I was happy about it!
Normally getting stuck someplace while traveling is a nightmare of epic proportions but on that evening, I looked at it as a blessing, because being stuck in D.C. meant a hotel room, a shower, a bed, and room service. And of course, some more time off of the moving grid. Reality wasn’t real as long as I stayed somewhere between my start and end points.. no pesky and stressful decisions to be made.
I checked into the Marriot, put on my jammies, ordered the most American food I could think of (buffalo tenders and a BLT) and watched The CW. The Originals was on and I wanted to see what that rascal Klaus had been up to. And for the first time in weeks and weeks, I slept. No to-do lists or packing worries running through my brain, just pure sleep. Hallelujah.
And the next day I arrived at the airport bright as a button, hopped on my plane, and made it to San Antonio just in time for lunch. Hello tacos. The end.
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