Day One: Difficulty at the Beginning

After 39 years, the writer revisits Paris

to explore memories and discover whether

for him there is still there

3 July 2017 – lundi

I take Muni to BART and am soon on the SFO-bound train. I pull out my New Yorker and flip through the pages …but at 24^th Street station the train stops and we wait to get going again. Alas: problem on the tracks between Balboa Park and Daly City of which I heard mention on the radio a couple hours earlier. Then they announce the train is headed back to Pittsburg in the East Bay. We get off and listen to announcements that say nothing significant except “delay”. Other people with baggage are obviously airport bound and when I see them pushing through the doors of the next train, I do too. The train moves slowly and I cannot relax. Though I close my eyes, my hand is on my bag, ready for the next detour.

The train gains speed and the operator attempts to pass information but I can’t understand a word for the deafening clatter of the rails. It seems a commonplace that announcements on bus or train are hard to hear. Should I feel better knowing there’s information even if I can’t hear it? We arrive about 1130. Flight UA990 departs at 1455.

Despite much thought and effort, my bag’s too heavy to carry around so I check it at the United counter and am pleased at not being charged. Then I eat a burger in the North Food Court of the International Terminal while people-watching. A woman nearby talks on her phone the entire time and I reflect on my decision to leave mine at home. My pay-as-you-go-phone wouldn’t work in Europe, Verizon told me. A mother with two kids parks them at my elevated counter then stands in line for sushi. Continually, she casts long glances our way as the kids amuse themselves.

I pass through TSA without incident, board the jet and find seat 33J on the aisle where a woman asks if I would change seats with her traveling companion. They are a middle-age trio, two women and the man who is sitting by the window in the next row. I explain my need for an aisle seat during the ten-hour trip. She understands and then asks a befuddling question: “Are you a vodka or a whisky guy?” I hesitate before admitting, “Whisky.” She says “Good,” and nothing further as we settle into our seats. The economy section breaks down into rows across of three, three and three bisected by two parallel aisles down which airline attendants march, securing bags in the overhead. Not too long later we are airborne, and I listen to the women beside me speaking Arabic. Some hours later, the woman reaches into her bag and offers me a drink.

Later, four hours to go until arrival at Charles DeGaulle (CDG). The electronic map on the back of the seat shows us over Nuuk (Godthab), which I call Greenland, our jet skirting at starboard a bell curve of darkness. While San Francisco lies in a quadrant of dark, Paris is in light; though outside through the window is frozen violet sky.

We land, deboard, and I collect my bag. I run into the trio again outside the restroom. They wave and wish me “Bonne journee.” They are home. 


Next post in about two weeks.