It is the morning of my departure for another continent, my final hurrah in this Parisian capital, my final petit dejeuner of café and granola and that yummy Madgascar vanilla organic yogurt from the MonoPrix with my cousin Céline, and I am sad.
But, there is no time for melancholy for I must stuff an ungodly amount of belongings into a cardboard box I fashion out of the grocery store donation, itself entirely too big for anything to arrive safely and securely to Miami, so here I am, punching my fleece hoodie into a cylinder too small for its own good, fisting it in place as I wrap three layers of tape around this sucker, laminating it into shape for the trans-Atlantic voyage.
A mere €40 later, and this 5.3 kilo baby is off, destined for a door front arrival to my pop’s place in under a week.
This is their slow service, a far cry from the days when mailing an international letter took a minimum of two weeks.
What a relief to be rid of the excess winter weight, for now, I check in at Roissy-Charles de Gaulle with only 15 kg to my name, the lightest my pack baby weighs all trip long, and seeing as how the €10 bus from the Opéra took less than its allotted hour and that checking in took less than its allotted hour, I find myself with more time to twiddle my thumbs and contemplate my departure from the Old Continent to the New Continent.
Specifically, I contemplate the fact that tomorrow, after almost six months of being apart, I reconnect with my man and that sends me into a flurry of butterflies and anxious anticipation, something not even a chai latte at my pit stop in Heathrow calms.
Instead, it almost sends me into total panic, for they call my gate but by the time I pay and pee and do the other things I like to do before boarding a long-haul flight, I see my gate closed and plane pushing back, and I think to myself —
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
I did not come this far to miss my plane to see my love by a mere minute, and before total panic sets in, I read the gate and realize that, ha, my mistake, temporary dyslexia sends me to the wrong pair of numbers, and this time, I run like hell hath no furry for the British Airways hostess to scan my ticket so that I can claim my seat on this eleven-hour connection south.
And, to my amusement, Anna Karenina features on tonight’s movie premiere, a nod to the eBook I long ago pause mid-way, barely into Anna’s amorous affair, unable to reconnect with Tolstoy’s drama outside the Asian continent, specifically, the Thai beach, so tonight, I watch Keira Knightly and Jude Law tell me how the story ends and promptly delete the eBook from my repertoire, for, who am I kidding–
I have my own happy ending to make, starting tomorrow.