Leaving

Well, the day I left seems like a major blur now. My mom and I had lunch, and we came across a surprise neighborhood festival in Allston Center, with marching bands and everything! It was a pretty cool note to leave on. On the way back, our car got hit by a girl reading a map. Don’t read and drive, folks. Unless it’s a street sign. Then my dad picked me up for the airport and I was off.

The flight was great. I know, right? Who says that, ever? But it really was. Most importantly, the person next to me never showed up. Also, I remembered to pre-request a vegetarian meal. Also also, they had those nifty TV screens on every seat where you can choose between a bunch of movies, music, games, etc. Neat. The music selection really cracked me up because it seemed to have no rhyme or reason whatsoever. It would be something like, Pink Floyd, Hannah Montana, some actual obscure indie band from the UK, an album of folk songs from Syria, and 3LW (that band always confused me—are you trying to make it as an R&B group or as a geometry formula? You can’t have it both ways.) Of course, with all this entertainment (“Crossing Over” was a pretty good movie) I forgot to sleep. I think you’re supposed to sleep on a red-eye. So naturally, when I got to Dublin to switch planes, I was wicked tired. And my abundant goodwill towards Aer Lingus dissolved into general grumpiness towards my fellow man.

Getting off the plane at Charles de Gaulle (I was about to write “in Paris”, but that really seems too charitable to the considerable distances involved), I just wanted to pass out somewhere. But no! First I had to find my way to the RER (commuter rail) station within the airport. Which seemed really damn far away. At that moment I reflected how happy I was to have packed lightly—one big internal frame pack, one day pack, and a guitar case (not that I wouldn’t have sold my guitar for a five-minute nap). Upon arriving at the station, I was really thirsty. If you know me well, you probably know I’m always thirsty. So you’d think I would be able to presage these things. But no; and unfortunately, the first step towards getting a beverage was getting Euros. I wandered around aimlessly with all my crap looking for an ATM—what the heck, do Europeans not use money or what? I’ll spare you the fascinating details of the passionfruit juice transaction; long story short, eventually I was on the train to Paris.