It's Me, Sara Louise

It’s Me, Sara Louise

Hi! You might know me as C’est Moi, Sara Louise. Before that I was Sara in Le Petit Village. Now, It’s Me, Sara Louise. Hello again.

  • A Load of Bull

    There was a word that I kept hearing over and over again in French conversations, and I had no idea what it meant.

    It sounded like, ‘Connery’.
    So they must be talking about the one and only Sean, right?

    But how many times could conversations The Husband was having with Papa, The Honeys, or Honey Jr revolve around Sean Connery?
    If it was me and a gaggle of girls sure, but did The Husband have some sort of Sean Connery man crush I didn’t know about? Isn’t he a little too old for The Husband? Clooney maybe, but Connery?

    Eat your heart out Clooney, I’m Scottish
    I finally asked what it meant…
    ‘bullsh*t’
    Wait. What? Really?
    In French, Connery (connerie) means bullsh*t?
    That doesn’t seem right.
    Sandler or Farley maybe.
    But not Connery.
    bisou

    P.S. The * has been used because I like to keep Le Petit Village a PG kind of place (in English anyway)
    P.S.S. Also, I did not feel a translation time was necessary for this post. You already got connerie
    ,

  • I'm It

    The adorable Morgane at One + One = A French Way of Life has tagged moi in a game of blogger tag.

    In bloggy blog world, getting tagged and being it, means that you have to answer a few questions before tagging someone else. Seems easy enough.

    In my best ‘Wink Martindale’ voice, let’s play blogger tag…
    1. Who is your style icon?
    I have to go back to American roots on this one and say Summer from The OC, Miss Rachel Bilson.
    This is exactly how I look when I walk Fifty.
    2. What is your favorite Socialite Lit book?
    Honestly, I’m not sure what Socialite Lit is (Morgane, are you sure you tagged the right girl?) so I googled it and didn’t come up with much. No definition and only one example; Bergdorf Blondes by Plum Sykes, and unfortunately, I have yet to read this Pulitzer Prize nominee. (Joking. I’m sure it’s a very entertaining read, and in the interest of full disclosure, I have read all of Candace Bushnell and currently have a Barbara Taylor Bradford in a pile of books waiting to be read so I can’t judge).
    I’m going to go out on a limb and say, The Man With the Dancing Eyes.
    I’m not sure if it meets the Socialite Lit requirements and I may be in danger of disqualification but it was written by Sophie Dahl who I’m guessing is a socialite if being Roald Dahl’s granddaughter and Mick Jagger’s ex makes you one.
    3. Favorite Party Theme?
    Is free booze a theme? Probably not, but if I could throw a party right now I’d go with Texas. And I’ll get more specific, Dallas, the show, not the city; 80’s style, big hair, big shoulders, and big drinks. I’d go as Sue Ellen and spend the whole night hunting down a Pamela just so I could throw my drink in her face.
    4. Go to Halloween costume?
    Since I’m no longer in elementary school, I don’t have one. But, I do have my costume picked out for this year already (maybe I am still in elementary school); French rugby player, Dimitri Szarzewski.
    He’s so pretty and his hair always looks perfect, The Husband and I call him, L’Oréal. Dimitri is the Hooker for the French team. Sounds naughty doesn’t it?
    I had briefly considered going as Chabal, but I don’t want to mess around with the whole beard thing.
    Love me some Chabal
    5. Extravagance you can’t live without?
    I’ve become a tad less high maintenance as I’ve gotten older (I can hear the laughter from all who know me) and the only thing I really need is one great restaurant a month.
    6. Living person you admire?
    Christiane Amanpour.
    She’s a brainy broad
    7. Greatest fear?
    Not being prepared. And this goes for everything; not being prepared for the grocery store, travel, the future…
    8. Trait you deplore in yourself?
    Raging PMS (aka as PMT in Great Britain and Ireland).
    ‘Watch out world I’m going to cry. Now I’m going to yell at you. Now I’m going to cry some more while I nag, nag, and nag some more. I need cuddles. Can someone hug me?’ I’m surprised The Husband and Fifty don’t check into a hotel each month.
    Oh, and I don’t like that I can never live in the moment. Having to feel prepared all the time means I rarely relax and just go with the flow. I’d love to be one of those flowy people.
    9. Which talent would you most like to have?
    It’s not a talent as much as a trait, selflessness. I think more selfless people is a good thing.
    10. Greatest achievement?
    Being good friends with my mother. It’s true. She’s my wine travel buddy.
    Wow. That took forever. Hope everyone is still with me.
    Now I tag…
    (I’m going to be naughty and tag three because I haven’t had enough coffee to make a decision)
    Worthy at Worthy Style
    I’m Out.
    bisou
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  • A Nice Stinky Day

    Easter Monday, Papa’s Wife and I went to the markets in Forcalquier. The Husband wouldn’t be joining us, Papa needed him to help chop down trees in the forest. That sounds very manly, doesn’t it?

    And I think the fact that Papa suddenly had to chop down those trees on Easter Monday and needed The Husband to help is a testament to how they both would do pretty much anything, to avoid a trip to the markets.

    The warm Spring weather has been hiding from us in our little corner of Provence, but the forecast called for sunny blue skies so we had planned a hike and a picnic after the market, where Papa and The Husband would meet us with Fifty and Leo in tow.
    (Notice how they can abandon the forest immediately after we leave the market).
    Papa’s Wife and I toured the stalls, oohing and aahing over the cheeses and produce, dodging shadows to stay in the warm sun.
    Naturally, I brought my camera…
    One of the fruit & veg stand where I scored some jalapenos
    The seafood stand where we picked up fresh sardines
    I picked up some sausage for The Husband and Fifty to share.
    And I didn’t buy any of this cheese. I just liked how it looked.
    It quickly became apparent that the mistral was out to play and even in the sun, it wasn’t warm enough for a picnic. With our straw baskets full, we headed home to prepare lunch there instead.
    I phoned The Husband with the change of plans and surprise… he and Papa had found their way out of the forest but couldn’t quite find their way home. They were at the Cafe Tabac in the village for a little morning Pastis. I briefly considered laying out a path of breadcrumbs for them to follow, but instead realized, more Rosé for me.
    We had some of Papa’s Wife home made sanglier (wild boar) pâté, tapenade and grilled the sardines from the market.
    I’ve never had grilled sardines before. It’s just like the cartoons when a cat would eat a fish and after, would hold up a little fish skeleton. Eating sardines is exactly like that. Stinky fingers and all.

    It had been such a nice day; the beautiful morning at the market, bonding time with Papa’s Wife, and those delicious, stinky, grilled sardines.

    There was only one way to finish it all off; with a digestif and Mesrine on DVD.

    Because every family meal should finish with watching a movie about a sociopath killer.
    bisou
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  • Happy As A Clam

    Never understood what happy as a clam means… does anyone? Are clams happy? Doubt it. I know I’m damn happy when I’ve got clams in a sauce on some linguine but that’s because I can be a little gluttonous at times.

    The point is… I’m happy happy happy!
    Yesterday morning, I sat in the sun (it reached a whole 68 degrees!) at the Cafe Tabac with a cafe au lait and a copy of History magazine. And since The Husband was getting his haircut, I got to enjoy both without any chatter. The Husband is quite the chatter bug. If I have a coffee and magazine or newspaper in front of me, it might as well be a sign that says… ssh… no talking. The Husband hasn’t grasped that yet.
    Heaven. Look at the sun shining on my table! Sun beams mean angels are smiling (I just made that up, because I’m happy!)
    And after my cafe au lait soaked in sun beams, we went and bought something I’ve been dreaming about for awhile. No, not a Chanel 2.55 purse, or a new pair of Christian Louboutins. Something better! Remember a post awhile back where I complained about the useless, stupid little red vacuum that The Husband bought instead of the Dyson as instructed?
    Well check me out…
    That’s me, happy!
    With my new friend that I’ve named Buddy. Buddy the Dyson.
    See, it doesn’t take much to make me happy, just a little sunshine and a €300 vacuum cleaner.
    Gotta go!
    Me and Buddy are off to tackle the world!
    OK, maybe not the world, that’s a little ambitious,
    but we will follow a shedding Fifty,
    and a baguette crumb dropping Husband around.
    bisou

    P.S. Buddy the Dyson is brought to you buy a generous envelope stuffed wedding present from Auntie J and Uncle E.
    Holla!
    You guys really are my favorites.
    It’s true.
    ,

  • I Love Your Blog

    Since the cat is out of the bag and everyone knows what I was really doing on vacation, I’ll tell you about the days leading up to it… which can best be described as a series of unfortunate incidents.

    Let me elaborate… a series of unfortunate incidents are not major life altering catastrophes, nothing tragic happened, nobody died or lost a foot, instead it’s a continuing stream of small pain in the petunia events that chip away at your bank account and inconvenience you leaving you less than chipper and feeling like you are in desperate need of an aura cleanse (never had one of those but they sound fun).
    Six days before we left, the charger for my macbook broke. It died. You have to understand that my macbook is my connection to the world outside of Le Petit Village. Le Petit Village is a teeny tiny non-english speaking place, with old people, feral cats, and one épicerie that’s opened sometimes (why do tourists come here?? oh yes, it’s pretty and charming. whatever). I need my macbook. The internet keeps me sane. Luckily sweet Honey Jr gave me his laptop for the week. I’m not completely sure it was out of kindness rather than fear but either way, it was a fantastic gesture and I was thrilled to have it, backward French keyboard and all.
    The day before the macbook charger died, we had planned on a productive Saturday. Saturday being the one day that The Husband and I can get anything done (most everything on a Sunday is closed). We were going to Avignon to pick up The Husband’s suit for the wedding and our wedding rings.
    First we needed to stop at La Poste in St. Michel (our bank and post office all rolled into one. you think that would make it convenient. it doesn’t) and on the way, we would drop Fifty off at Papa’s house for the day.
    Fifty still has that puppy car sick thing going on so driving is always a bit precarious. We have to stop the car a lot to give him time to compose himself whenever I start to notice his eyes glaze over and his mouth getting extra salivary (I know that’s not a word, just go with it). We were less than a mile from Papa’s house and Fifty had weaseled his way onto my lap, and like an idiot, I let him sit there. And then it started; a huge eruption of puppy vomit, all over me and into that pocket on the door (my passport was in that pocket). Gross. Gross. Gross. We had to go back to the house so I could shower and change. Not a big problem, it was only going to put us an hour behind, we still would have time for Avignon and getting back for The Husband’s hair cut appointment that afternoon.
    The man at La Poste had other ideas.
    Upon our return to St. Michel, we rolled up to La Poste to see all the shutters closed. We checked the time, it was a little past 10am. The man usually opens about 10ish (in the south of France, all time is an ‘ish’). Maybe he was in a pastis induced slumber because those shutters didn’t open until almost 11:30 (he lives above La Poste). Imagine living where you work and still being late? I think someone needs a better alarm clock and an expresso machine. Or maybe an irate American girl can bang pots and pans outside his window every Saturday morning. That would work too.
    Too late for us to go to Avignon.
    Thanks La Poste man.
    It turned out to be a tiny blessing that the La Poste man decided to open later and cancel our Avignon trip because a little while later…BAM… MIGRAINE.
    I spent the rest of the day in my darkened bedroom with a cold cloth over my eyes.
    The Husband stayed next to me (he’s good like that) until it was time for his wedding haircut. Back to St. Michel he went for the third time that day. Only when he got there, the girl said, “Oh yeah, I remember you phoning for the appointment, but I must have forgotten to write it down. Can you come back in an hour or two?” Moron.
    When he did go back for his haircut, she cut the back of his neck. Twice. Moron.

    I’m telling ya, we need an aura cleanse.
    And then there was a bunch of other stuff that I’m not going to include because I don’t want to manifest any more wacky bad juju. It’s all about sunshine and rainbows over here now and I intend on keeping it that way.
    Believe it or not, there was a point to all this bad juju drivel.
    While these incidents were happening, the lovely Nancy at Window To My Sol passed this on to me…
    Unfortunately I was too wrapped up in my mini dramas to give thanks properly to lovely Nancy or to do anything about it, but now that my old, tired self is finally back to normal, I’m passing it on to Dash at French Sampler. Dash lives in south-west France and besides having a super cool moniker, writes about trips to Spain for lunch and other such fab things.
    The other day she wrote a post about Lady Emma Hamilton that I loved so much, I spent the morning googling Lady Hamilton when I should have been studying my French, and having my aura cleansed.
    No more bad juju.
    bisou
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  • One Last Thing…

    A funny thing happened on St. Patrick’s Day. I married The Boyfriend.

    Oh, did I forget to mention that we were getting married? Oops, my bad.
    That’s us getting ready to walk into the church (the same church my great grandparents got married in). I’m not too sure what the confused look on my face is all about. At least I still look fabulous in my wedding tunic. Who needs a wedding dress when you can have a wedding tunic? Bonus of the tunic… not needing a bridesmaid to help you go pee. And I know what I’m talking about, I’ve been that bridesmaid.
    Me again. This time wearing my Nana’s fifty plus year old mink cape which turns me into my alter ego… Fabulous Girl. Fabulous Girl doesn’t fight crime or anything. She just hangs out… being fabulous.
    Me and The Husband (that’s weird, not used to that at all) and some pretty nifty wedding presents.
    Having our red velvet wedding cake and eating it too at The Old Inn On The Green with the Best Man Girl (who needs a Best Man when you can have a Best Man Girl) and the Matron of Honor (who by the way was that bride I had to help go pee pee).
    And finally us again, the happy and very tired couple at a bar much later that evening (it was St. Patrick’s Day after all).
    The way all weddings should end; pissed in a bar next to someone wearing a moose hat.
    So from now on I suppose I will be referring to The Boyfriend as The Husband.
    But if I forget, you’ll still know who I’m talking about.
    bisou

    P.S. A final tidbit… at the end of the wedding dinner, The Husband (weird) and I went to pay and the waiter informed us that it had already been taken care of. What?! How?! Huh?! My Amelia Bedelia Mother pulled off the coup of the century, arranging to pay for the whole thing from her little Dublin lair.
    Well played Mother. Well played.
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  • The Rest In Cliff Notes…

    The meeting of Dad and The Boyfriend…

    I wish there was some drama, some tension or interesting tidbit about their meeting that I could write about but there isn’t. They liked each other immediately.
    It was easy, a quick handshake that turned into a hug (The Boyfriend suppressed his inner Frenchness and avoided the double cheek kiss, even though I could tell he was about to lean into it) and you could see they were buddies.
    Maybe they felt an instant connection because they both love me (loving me isn’t always easy, sometimes it’s like cuddling a porcupine), some sort of mutual understanding of the daily strife of being a man in my life bonding them. Or perhaps they were scared of my wrath if they didn’t get along.
    Either way, it was all very easy and stress free. The Boyfriend had bought Dad a French soccer jersey and he seemed to love it. They drank beer and watched college basketball. Woopdidoo.
    And now for the cliff notes of the rest of our trip (It’s Easter and I’ve got chocolate bunnies to eat and a puppy to dye pink – joking… about the bunnies, I’m not really a chocolate person. If it was a cheese bunny, then OK).
    Moving on…
    We borrowed my Step Mom’s mini van and headed to New York for two days to see some friends. I can’t remember why but the mini van (which The Boyfriend drove like he’s a mini van driver, you know what I’m saying? ) was christened ‘the Disco Van’. For the whole week it was only referred to as, Disco Van. And since our return, The Boyfriend walks around dazed at times mumbling, “Have you seen my Disco Van?” He really liked it. So much so that on a sunny afternoon, we cruised down Main St in Great Barrington, windows down, singing ‘Ladies Night’ at the top of our lungs. The Boyfriend loves ‘The Funk’ (for the record, I never say, ‘The Funk’, he does.)
    We drove to New York and the GPS took us off the Taconic Parkway through back country roads passing signs commemorating Revolutionary War skirmishes. This is funny… You know how I’m always going on about how creepy Le Petit Village is being a medieval village built on top of a Roman trading town? Well The Boyfriend who has no problem with this was completely creeped out by the Colonial vibe of western Mass and upstate New York. He kept waiting to see some musket carrying red coat or a tomahawk wielding Daniel Day Lewis jump out behind the trees. I just laughed at him and called him a big girl. Because he is.
    random colonial cemetery
    In New York, we caught up with friends, and visited all my early teen haunts. Where to go for lunch… the Diner.. duh. Many a high school evening was spent passing time in a diner, four girls picking at one plate of disco fries (possibly the inspiration of the Disco Van) with unlimited coffee refills (didn’t do much sleeping in high school).
    Two trips to the diner; disco fries, clam strips, and Bloody Marys. Move over Wheaties, there’s a new champion in town.
    Dunkin Donuts, large ice coffees, bottles and bottles of Fifty Cent’s Vitamin water (he is Fifty’s namesake after all) to rehydrate after too many martini, wine and four hour sleep nights (the stuff works I’m telling ya). And of course, Starbucks. The trip was basically about mass consumption of liquids. Somebody had to pee real bad at all times.
    morning skinny jeans stretch and my vitamin water
    Shopping; buying too many books at Barnes and Nobles (not smart, damn heavy in the luggage), chasing down all the OXO Pop Grip containers at Kohls, a tour de Walmart, and laughing at The Boyfriend being in genuine aw of everything he encountered; low prices, nice shop assistants, smiling people.
    Big Sis is an Acupuncturist so we got to torture The Boyfriend and stick needles in him. This was definitely a trip highlight.
    Check out his face in the first pic. She’s not even sticking a needle in him yet. Such a girl.
    Shameless plug time… if you ever find yourself in Eastern NY or Western Massachusetts, stop into Steady Hands Acupuncture and have some needles stuck into you. Just tell them Sara Louise sent you.
    Discovering one of the greatest candy shops ever, and watching The Boyfriend buy my friend’s little boy everything he pointed at. The Boyfriend’s biological clock is thumping.
    I don’t know where that hat came from. He wasn’t wearing it when we walked into the shop.

    That’s pretty much it. Lots of eating, shopping, and laughing with friends.

    But for some reason, it feels like I’m forgetting something…

    Oh well, If I remember, I’ll be sure to let you know.
    bisou


    P.S. I’m not dying Fifty pink. The Boyfriend would kill me. Even if he is a big girl.
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  • We Made It… Finally

    Seven hours after landing in Boston, and 28 hours after leaving Le Petit Village, we arrived at my Dad’s house.

    That’s nuts isn’t it? Dad’s not a Kiwi, we weren’t traveling to New Zealand. It should only have been a two hour car ride, but we hit a few detours on the way.
    The flight landed a few minutes early. Carry on bags were pulled from the overhead, jackets on and cell phones out. The whole plane was ready to get off of that tin can, when the pilot announced that we would have to wait on board for a few minutes because there was some delay in immigration. Thus negating the whole early landing thing.
    The doors finally opened and we headed into the terminal. Whenever I land back in the US I get a warm, happy, glowy feeling inside, even if I’m still in an airport, it’s an American airport!
    I waited at baggage claim for The Boyfriend to clear immigration. And then he met me and we waited. And waited. And waited. Our bags took 55 minutes to come out. I timed it. 55 minutes. They were literally the last bags out.
    I spent the last few minutes before they came praying to see them. The Boyfriend spent that time going red as Gallic huffing and puffing teetered on the verge of hyperventilation (we’re really quite a pair). And then the huge sighs of relief to see the two bags fall off the little baggage slide and onto the carousel.
    Seeing your bags come has to be one of the best human emotions going. Deep down, you’re always worried that they didn’t make it, that they were lost because some idiot didn’t tag them correctly, or that somehow the zipper busted and your bag will be lying open with your panties and Hello Kitty jammies hanging out for everyone to see. That moment of relief, watching your bags hit the carousel in one piece is so euphoric. If I could bottle that emotion and sell it, I’d be rich. Maybe not Oprah rich, but Gayle rich, and that’s rich enough for me.
    My Big Sis was waiting for us at arrivals (after circling Logan five times she finally gave up, parked and came in. Bless her) and we headed out into the rainy parking lot towards the little Honda Civic that could.
    A few minutes later and we were bombing along the Mass Pike, with heavy rain drops pelting the car. I called Dad, letting him know we made it but were going to stop for some dinner half way. He told us to drive carefully because the roads were icy. Icy? Huh? Nothing but rain outside of Boston.
    Using the incredible Yelp application on the iPhone, we saw that we would pass (with a minor detour) an Outback Steakhouse on the way. To me, Outback Steakhouse means one thing… Bloomin’ Onion. What a perfect way to begin my culinary tour of American cuisine, with an over sized, battered, deep fried onion. It’s a vegetable, sort of. The Boyfriend was very intrigued by this Bloomin’ Onion. I told him he would just have to wait and see…
    He never got to see the Bloomin’ Onion. But, he did get a Bunyon Onion at Bugaboo Creek. You know when you’re headed somewhere to eat, you have a specific destination in mind, but then your hunger takes over and you stop at the first place you see? That’s how we ended up at Bugaboo. Never been to a Bugaboo before (can you tell I like typing the word, Bugaboo?) It’s like some strange, Canadian, Twilight Zone version of Outback.
    Bunyon Onion, appetizer sampler platter (buffalo wings I’ve missed you so) and two bottles of Sam Adams later, I had officially been de-Frenched. And The Boyfriends alter ego, Food Whore, met his nemesis in American portion sizes. Truthfully, I don’t think he’ll ever recover.
    There was just one last stop to make before seeing Dad. After that journey, all I wanted was to take a shower, put my Hello Kitty jammies on, and sit on the couch chatting with a big ol’ glass of one of my favorite American wines, Firesteed. We stopped at a liquor store, grabbed the wine and some Heineken and checked out. Well, tried to check out. I got carded! Welcome back to America! This had The Boyfriend in total shock. I whipped out my Texas drivers license…
    “Sorry, we don’t take out of state licenses.”

    “How about a passport?”

    “Sorry, we can’t accept those either.”

    “But I’m thirty-three.”

    “Sorry.”
    I guess in Massachusetts foreigners won’t be drinking.
    Luckily, he did let Big Sis come in and save the day.
    We got back on the Mass Pike heading westbound in the rain, and the farther we got, the more that rain started to look like sleet, and the road seemed to be covered in thicker and thicker layers of it, followed by the icy sheets. Not good. Big Sis informed us that she had new tires on the little Honda Civic that could. Just not snow tires. No problem, a plow was bound to come along any moment and clear the road. And yep, sure enough, a snow plow! On the other side of the road, followed by another, and another. No snow plows on our westbound portion of the Mass Pike that evening. Maybe they figure if you aren’t heading east towards Boston, it’s really not worth getting to your destination. New Massachusetts slogan… Boston or Death!
    Big Sis drove about 30mph for three hours navigating through freakish March weather. The Boyfriend had slipped into a baby backed rib coma in the back seat, and I did my best to stay awake for her, but failed a bit. Mostly, she just talked to herself.
    At 10:50pm est, (I checked my watch, I’m very time oriented) 04:50am, Le Petit Village time, we arrived at Dad’s house.
    Do you want to know how tired I was?
    So tired that I couldn’t even manage a glass of wine.
    Moi, turning down a glass of wine, now that’s tired.
    bisou
    P.S. The night we arrived at Dad’s was the night the clocks went forward in the US. Last weekend, my first weekend back in Le Petit Village, the clocks went forward in Europe. Which means I lost two hours instead of one. There is something wrong with that. I intend on writing a strongly worded letter. Not sure to whom, probably to whomever I end up sending that ‘Hill at Nice Airport’ letter to. But I’m writing it.
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  • Are We There Yet?

    me and my new Amsterdam airport friend

    “I feel normal here.”


    This was the first thing The Boyfriend said upon arriving in Amsterdam and looking around at all the tall, blonde Dutch people.
    The first thing I said was, “I know there’s a Starbucks here somewhere…”

    sidebar – The Boyfriend is actually only half French, Papa is half Swedish and half Italian. The Boyfriend looks 100% Swedish. This makes him the biggest boy in Le Petit Village, unless a rugby team is about, and one isn’t. The Boyfriend is Le Petit Village’s resident lifter of heavy things, and mover of furniture. He’s handy like that.
    I found the Starbucks, there was a long line but I didn’t care. With my grande vanilla latte in hand (yummy, tastes like America), my vacation had officially begun. We took a walk around, looking in all the shops and comparing the restaurants, deciding where we’d go for brunch. Our flight wasn’t leaving until 2pm so we wanted to eat somewhere we could kick back and kill some time.
    A little after 10 and The Boyfriend’s hunger took control, kicked us out of the shop, and moved us to a bistro with a bar in it. Not too shabby for an airport…
    Sure it was still morning, but we had been awake for over ten hours, nothing wrong with a little of this…
    Did you know that in Amsterdam Airport everyone speaks English? It was great, I kept saying s’il vous plaît and merci and they kept saying please and thank you. I was truly on my way home and it felt great. The Boyfriend was confused as to why they couldn’t speak French instead. My tired brain made up a response that I’m pretty sure ended with, “so there, nanapoopoo!”

    We relaxed for a bit basking in that happy warm glow you always have at the beginning of a vacation, that wonderful feeling of anticipation that ends far too quickly. I was enjoying our just the two of us time and kept waiting for The Boyfriend’s lo-jack to activate and Honey Jr or The Spaniard to show up. I guess the lo-jack doesn’t work outside of France. Fantastic.
    A few hours later with full bellies and new magazines and candy for the flight, we headed towards the gate. It was early but we were tired of milling around. Good thing because two hours before take off and there was a crowd waiting.
    Remember the Christmas Day terrorist incident on board that plane headed to the US from Amsterdam? Well Amsterdam certainly does and they are not messing about with security. Keeping in mind that anyone there has already passed through security at Amsterdam or their originating airport, Amsterdam had decided that on flights to the US, you’re going to do it again.
    First, every one’s passports are examined and questioned as to why they are going to the US. I have an American passport and that didn’t make them any less curious about me.
    Next, your boarding cards are scanned. Because ours were printed at Nice, that flagged us and we were asked to step aside and were interviewed again. This time, they wanted the address of where we were staying in the US and The Boyfriend’s ESTA (visa waiver authorization) number. Once again, my American nationality didn’t seem to matter at all. Not that I’m complaining, I prefer the thoroughness as opposed to being a name in a five minute tragic news segment and Fifty becoming an orphan.
    After our second interview, we had to do the whole security checkpoint stuff again, shoes off the whole kit and kaboodle, but this time, we got to go through that new full body x-ray machine, where they can see you naked. They should really hang a sign on it that says,’Security, brought to you by Osama Bin Laden’. Thanks Osama, you little rascal. Travelling has never been so much fun.
    Finally through the security screening (I’m deliberately leaving out the part where they took the two bottles of wine bought from Duty Free in Nice that were in a sealed bag, that’s right sealed, off of The Boyfriend and his monster huffing and puffing session after) and we found a spot on the floor to sit on. I’m not usually a fan of sitting on dirty airport floors but it was crowded, and I was tired. Plus I’m sure the airplane seat itself isn’t all that hygienic anyway. Never an industrial sized container of Purell when you need one.
    There we were, sitting on the dirty floor, fatigued, robbed of our wine, and violated by the full body x-ray, henceforth known as Osama (Osama should at least by you dinner first) when a loud (I really cannot emphasize the loudness here) piercing noise started screaming from an alarm somewhere. I thought blood was going to start seeping out of my eyeballs. Check this out… people watching as I was, there was a boy, probably about eighteen, and looking rather bored, pacing about. You know those emergency doors that say in red writing, ‘do not enter’, ’emergency only’, ‘not an exit’ all over them? Well boy genius inspired by boredom or the devil, gave the bar that runs across it a little push.
    Pandemonium ensued. The shrieking alarm continued for about five funtastic minutes. The boy, looking exactly like Fifty does when he knows he’s in trouble, was pulled aside by two security officers and questioned for twenty minutes. I know it was about twenty minutes because we all watched. I made a mental note to never touch one of those doors no matter how curious, bored, or devil possessed I’m feeling. And The Boyfriend and I crossed our fingers that the boy would end up sitting next to us on the flight. Someone to heckle for eight hours would help pass the time. Unfortunately, we weren’t that lucky.
    However, we were lucky enough to be sitting in the middle two seats of the row of four seats in the middle of the plane. Best seats on the plane if you ask me. Really gives you time to get to know your neighbors and test the resiliency of your deodorant. But at least we have those little individual televisions to watch. Except they were broken. For the entire eight hours.
    Can you hear the Gallic huffing and puffing?
    Can you?
    “Yes, I would like wine with my peanuts please.

    No no, not a glass, the whole bottle is fine.”

    bisou

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  • Midnight, Time To Wake Up

    It started at 12am. Actually, 11:59pm. Don’t ask me why, but setting the alarm for 00:00 freaked me out, so 23:59 it was.

    The Boyfriend was nervous about the drive to Nice Airport. Marseille Airport is much closer to us, but our flight was out of Nice, two and a half hours away. Normally, not a problem, but I’m guessing he was a little worried about his first big trip. Since we needed to be at the airport at 3:45 (three hours ahead of flight time, playing by the bajiggty rules of international travel) and had to stop to get petrol first, The Boyfriend wanted to make sure we were on the road by 12:45.
    Fun.
    We pulled into the long term car park a little after 3am. Everything was quiet and empty. It felt like we were miles away from the terminals and since shuttle buses don’t run at 3am, we set off for a long walk dragging our 30kg of luggage. Don’t you just love the sound of luggage wheels rolling on asphalt cutting threw the night air? It’s very soothing.
    This is when The Boyfriend asked which terminal. Huh, don’t know. I checked the itinerary print out and it said nothing about the terminal. Since it was in French I decided to have The Boyfriend double check. Nope, nothing about the terminal. Guess time. Let’s see, Air France, it’s the main airline here, so it must be Terminal 1. Yes, yes, Terminal 1. Logical right?
    Off we went, walking F-O-R-E-V-E-R. I’m not exaggerating when I say that it was a little over a mile to get to Terminal 1. At least all that fresh night air and the grating sound of the luggage wheels had us feeling much more lively.
    When we got to the terminal, the doors were locked. What?
    “It’s normal”, according to The Boyfriend.
    Hmmm, interesting. Never come across that before.
    By the time we walked around to the other set of doors they were being unlocked. I guess 3:20am is opening hour at Nice Airport.
    Took a quick look at the departure board. Why isn’t our flight here? Why aren’t any Air France flights here? Because you guessed the wrong terminal you idiot. Cue Gallic huffing and puffing from you know who.
    Back into the night air, dragging that damn luggage, up that freaking hill again (oh, did I not mention there is some strange hill at Nice airport. Why is there a big hill at an airport? I don’t know but I’m thinking about writing a letter. Not sure to who but I’m writing one).
    But check this out, after close to a two mile, 30kg dragging, 3am walk, we arrived at Terminal 2 at 3:45am, right on time. Am I good or what? You know who’s not good? The ticket agents who don’t think they need to start work at 3:45am even though the passenger’s itinerary clearly states to be at the airport for check in three hours ahead of schedule for their 6:45am flight.
    I guess I could have set my alarm for 1am instead. Thanks Air France.
    After sitting around for an hour, and listening to lots of huffing and puffing, we finally got checked in and headed to security. We were the first ones there. And the doors were locked. The security checkpoint was being setup for the day. Isn’t that weird? At least I got to dazzle them with my security checkpoint skills. It seemed like such a waste. There isn’t much motivation to hurry when you’re the only people there. But I’m sure I set the gold standard for the day.
    Such a tough act to follow.
    bisou

    P.S. Next up… Amsterdam and beyond…
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