Paris
Paris is for lovers. Paris is for passionate kisses on top of the Eiffel Tower and on a boat ride down the Seine, right at this moment going under an extravagant bridge, because the rest of the time the sights take your breath away and you cannot take your eyes off of them. It is for sitting by the cobblestones up near Montmartre and unconsciously imitating the pose of the couple on the black-and-white poster in your old dorm room. For lazily sitting in a Café facing the street, sipping espresso and watching other lovers drift by, and for buying cheap postcards with reproductions of sensual paintings to frame when you get back home.As for me, I am in Paris, standing in the middle of a hotel room near the airport, tightly wrapped in a hotel towel and ironing dry my clothes just washed in the sink. Other than the occasional conversations with strangers on the way and two expensive and accordingly short talks on my cell phone, I have not talked to anyone in many hours. Like everybody else, I am trying to make it home for Christmas, but I didn’t plan on missing my connecting flight. Thus the lack of spare clothes in my backpack, but at least I have a good book to help chase away the hours and keep my sanity.
Two days later I was back at the airport at home, which was like the rest of the world taken over by the pre-Christmas travel chaos. I was trying to distinguish my lost suitcases from the gigantic piles of ownerless bags, then dragging them through the thick wide-spreading wall of people who just arrived without their own bags, waiting in an endless line. As I was lugging the heavy suitcases over the feet of the angry and impatient mass, a young Brit pointed me out to the rest of the crowd.
“Look, somebody found their luggage.”
I gave him my most sympathetic smile and said, “But I got here yesterday.”
“Doesn’t matter. You still have to buy beers for everyone here.”
After all, I want to tell him, it turns out that I am a lucky girl.
posted by Dora @ 12:16 PM
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