Almost France

I didn’t expect to be back so soon.

The day I flew to France, I spent the morning in my office with two colleagues, shooting screenshots for a software training video. It was crowded with camera equipment, door shut, lit only by the screen. I was dressed in my traveling clothes, and eagerly anticipating my first trip to Paris. At 3:00pm, I left my colleagues in my office to continue their work and rolled my suitcase out to the waiting car.

I am chronically early to airports. In fact, I’m a bit of a nervous traveler about every part of an airplane trip except the actual flying. I worry the car service won’t pick me up; I worry about traffic to the airport, about missing my connection or losing my luggage, about arriving without local currency and being unable to use my ATM card, about not having hotel reservations. I simply don’t travel well; like a poorly packed suitcase, I usually arrive where I’m headed, albeit a bit rattled and somewhat disheveled.

One of my travel rituals comes from the Marrakesh episode of Absolutely Fabulous. On her way out the door, Edwina’s daughter asks whether Edwina has everything she needs. “Yes… Got everything,” she answers, pulling the door shut behind her.

A beat.

Then she scurries in chanting, “Tickets! Money! Passport! Tickets, money, passport.”

I made “tickets, money, passport” my travel mantra. Before leaving my apartment, I check my briefcase: tickets, money, passport – good to go. In the car on the way to the airport: tickets, money, passport – OK. On the way out of the airline lounge – tickets, money, passport. I do this with the same compulsion that causes me to open my purse and touch my wallet any time a person bumps into me or my bag.

And so you are right to ask: how is it you arrived in Paris without your passport?

I wish I knew. This was 1998, a more innocent time, when checking ID at the gate was not part of the routine of U.S. air travel. I know I had it when I left the lounge. Perhaps it fell out of my bag going through security. More likely I left it at the gate; I ran into a friend and colleague I didn’t realize was on the same flight, and was busy chatting. It’s possible someone stole it from me, either at the airport or on the plane. I was in a bulkhead seat, so my briefcase had to be stowed in an overhead compartment; maybe someone saw that as an opportunity. On the other hand, I was up all night giggling with my friend rather than getting some rest, so you’d think I might have noticed someone rifling through my bag. All I know is it was not in my possession when I got to France, nor was it ever seen again.

The plane arrives at the gate in Paris at about 7:30 am, and I stand, stretch, and fetch my briefcase from the overhead bin: tickets, money, … uh oh.

Again: tickets… money… uh oh. I have a sinking feeling. I report the loss to my colleague. I take everything out of my briefcase and put it back – twice. I clear the seatback pocket of barf bags and airline magazines. I get fresh with the seat cushions and feel up the overhead compartment. I peer behind footrests while the plane empties around us.

A flight attendant asks what the trouble is, and sets about helping. I had NO idea it was possible to fully denude and dismantle an airplane seat. Alas, still no joy. We are joined by one of the airline ground crew as the last of the passengers exit. She is French and intimidatingly fabulous, plus has the advantage of not having been up all night. A flight attendant informs her “elle a perdu son passport.”

She sucks her teeth and rolls her Rs in my direction, “Oh, you must find your passporrrt, or it will be verrry bad.”

Really. Very bad, you say? Not just regular ol’ bad? Well, then stand by while I pluck the passport out of my ass and get on with my business trip…

Nope. Nothing. Let’s proceed with the Very Bad, as I’m fresh out of alternatives.

Very Bad seems to consist of a detour to the airline lounge, while my colleague continues on to Paris to report my misfortune and do what we came to do. I am not allowed to have my suitcase, for it has arrived in France successfully and I have not. I am informed that I must remain in airport limbo while the U.S. embassy and the French government decide my fate. On the plus side, I’m welcome to all the airline pretzels I’d like while I wait.

In the hour or two that follow, rumor has it my recovered passport could be delivered by the next flight from New York – but the document never turns up. There is some talk about my going to a French jail while the embassy gets me a new passport. I reflect on what little I know of the French prison system and consider making a run for it. Ultimately I’m put on the phone with a French official, who informs me that I am being deported on the next plane to New York, “because that is what the American government does to French citizens who arrive without a passport.” She seems eager for me to understand this tit-for-tat; I’m just relieved I’m not going to jail. I promise to give the U.S. the finger on France’s behalf, and they agree to send me home.

In fact, lucky me! The airline sends me home first class, seated on the aisle with an empty seat next to me. As we take off, it is just past 5am in New York, some 11 hours after I left. I have been awake for 22 hours and am nodding off by the time we’re airborne. It’s a midday flight, though, and I seem to be the only person intent on drooling on a pillow for most of the journey. The passengers are chatty and the purser is solicitous. Would I like some warm nuts? Perhaps a beverage? Have I made a selection from the lunch menu? Do I want a personal movie player?

I would not. I have not. I do not. I will not be dining – will not be appreciating first class at all, really – as I am barely conscious. Having explained this, I am left in peace. Not long after, I am awakened by a shower of wee VCR tapes from the overhead bin; I can report that these have sharp corners and a tendency to dig into the scalp, but bounce off the bridge of the nose. The purser is terribly sorry, but wonders, since I’m up, if I’d like dessert from the sundae cart. I give up on sleeping.

We land at JFK shortly after 1pm, and I am nearly delirious. Surprisingly, I skate through immigration despite my documentlessness; someone warned them I was coming. I am joyfully reunited with my luggage. I am tortured by the wait for a cab and, for reasons that pass understanding, direct the driver back to my office, instead of toward home.

At 3pm – exactly 24 hours after I left – I open the door to my office, wearing the same clothes and pulling the same suitcase. My colleagues are inside, filming screen shots in the dark. I ask, “what’d I miss?”