Space-time anomaly
Dec. 13th, 2011 12:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cosmolinguist(an LJ Idol entry)
Apparently the world will end on my birthday next year.
If this is the last birthday I get -- and my 30th as well! -- I think it is not asking too much for me to hope it is better than last year.
If I said "I spent my last birthday in Paris" you'd probably think I was a lucky rich girl, practicing the French phrase my college roommate taught me was most important ("Une baguette s'il vous plaît!"), elegantly drinking coffee in a sidewalk café, walking around the Louvre with joy and wonder...
Perish the thought.
Some folks say that Mayan end-of-the-world happens on December 21 rather than 22, so perhaps it's fitting that this story begins on December 21, the day before my birthday.
Andrew and I were supposed to change planes at Charles de Gaulle. It's easier since the TSA has ensured that connections in the U.S. are a nightmare, especially with checked bags -- and with a husband who always seems to get flagged up as suspicious, probably because of his beard, his lack of an American passport, or his aspie fidgeting). We were meant to be in La France for less than two hours.
But that short layover doomed us; when our flight was delayed leaving Manchester, we landed just about in time to see our plane to Minneapolis take off without us. All because of a couple of inches of snow on the ground. I missed Minnesota even more then: it didn't grind to a halt for a light dusting of snow!
We waited in the longest lines I have ever had the misfortune to stand in -- queue-jumpers just behind us nearly caused a multilingual fistfight -- only to be told there were no more flights to Minneapolis; there were no flights to North America all day that weren't fully booked. The holidays, you know. The weather.
The staff were as helpful as they could be on what must have been a rough day at work, but as I watched them talk on the phone, walk to and fro, and go about their jobs, I resented them mightily. They knew there'd be an end to their shift and they were a métro ride, or whatever, from home. These people knew where their underwear was. They could get themselves to their beds.
I stood in a short line -- about an hour, I think -- to find out what happened to our luggage. By this point Andrew was so tired (our allegedly early-morning flight had meant only a few hours' sleep) he was in tears and I sent him to sit down somewhere. I might as well have sat down myself; we saw one of our suitcases in February, one never again.
We took the wrong bus from the airport, in search of the hotel whose name was printed on our vouchers, so had to stay on the bus until it wound its way around back to the airport again and we could try another one. I never did catch a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower, which as we all know from movies can be seen from any window in Paris. Of course we weren't really in Paris anyway; we were where airports always spring up: miles out, amidst scattered hotels, multi-lane swathes of concrete and industrial parks. They look the same all over the world. All over the universe, probably.
Andrew and I couldn't even brush our teeth, but we showered despite the lack of clothes to change into and slept for something like 14 hours. I woke up in the night to pee, wondering if I the odometer of my life had ticked over to 29 yet. I felt outside of space and time. I didn't know where I was, or when I was. I didn't belong.
This year we're flying on my birthday, and back to Charles de Gaulle rather than the much-preferred Schipol. I'm not a superstitious person, but I'm worried. I don't pray, I don't believe in karma, I don't think the world will end on my thirty-first birthday...
...but if you do, send me a good thought?
Apparently the world will end on my birthday next year.
If this is the last birthday I get -- and my 30th as well! -- I think it is not asking too much for me to hope it is better than last year.
If I said "I spent my last birthday in Paris" you'd probably think I was a lucky rich girl, practicing the French phrase my college roommate taught me was most important ("Une baguette s'il vous plaît!"), elegantly drinking coffee in a sidewalk café, walking around the Louvre with joy and wonder...
Perish the thought.
Some folks say that Mayan end-of-the-world happens on December 21 rather than 22, so perhaps it's fitting that this story begins on December 21, the day before my birthday.
Andrew and I were supposed to change planes at Charles de Gaulle. It's easier since the TSA has ensured that connections in the U.S. are a nightmare, especially with checked bags -- and with a husband who always seems to get flagged up as suspicious, probably because of his beard, his lack of an American passport, or his aspie fidgeting). We were meant to be in La France for less than two hours.
But that short layover doomed us; when our flight was delayed leaving Manchester, we landed just about in time to see our plane to Minneapolis take off without us. All because of a couple of inches of snow on the ground. I missed Minnesota even more then: it didn't grind to a halt for a light dusting of snow!
We waited in the longest lines I have ever had the misfortune to stand in -- queue-jumpers just behind us nearly caused a multilingual fistfight -- only to be told there were no more flights to Minneapolis; there were no flights to North America all day that weren't fully booked. The holidays, you know. The weather.
The staff were as helpful as they could be on what must have been a rough day at work, but as I watched them talk on the phone, walk to and fro, and go about their jobs, I resented them mightily. They knew there'd be an end to their shift and they were a métro ride, or whatever, from home. These people knew where their underwear was. They could get themselves to their beds.
I stood in a short line -- about an hour, I think -- to find out what happened to our luggage. By this point Andrew was so tired (our allegedly early-morning flight had meant only a few hours' sleep) he was in tears and I sent him to sit down somewhere. I might as well have sat down myself; we saw one of our suitcases in February, one never again.
We took the wrong bus from the airport, in search of the hotel whose name was printed on our vouchers, so had to stay on the bus until it wound its way around back to the airport again and we could try another one. I never did catch a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower, which as we all know from movies can be seen from any window in Paris. Of course we weren't really in Paris anyway; we were where airports always spring up: miles out, amidst scattered hotels, multi-lane swathes of concrete and industrial parks. They look the same all over the world. All over the universe, probably.
Andrew and I couldn't even brush our teeth, but we showered despite the lack of clothes to change into and slept for something like 14 hours. I woke up in the night to pee, wondering if I the odometer of my life had ticked over to 29 yet. I felt outside of space and time. I didn't know where I was, or when I was. I didn't belong.
This year we're flying on my birthday, and back to Charles de Gaulle rather than the much-preferred Schipol. I'm not a superstitious person, but I'm worried. I don't pray, I don't believe in karma, I don't think the world will end on my thirty-first birthday...
...but if you do, send me a good thought?
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(no subject)
Date: 2011-12-13 09:32 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-12-14 10:20 am (UTC)