Retourner - v. to return

For not traveling by plane at all since my arrival last spring, Nice Airport is an awfully familiar place. But returning to NCE this time was different; instead of dropping someone off, I was the one being dropped off.

Thank God for Tony. I know I’ve said it a million times, but he has been an amazing help to me and a great friend. At 3:30 in the morning we were in the van and driving the empty dark roads to Nice. 5am, he’s got me a trolly and parked the car, pushing the dog and one bag while I drag another. 5:15, he’s telling me that all the people in the airport don’t hate me just because my dog is whining and barking consistently at the top of her lungs. She hated the drugs. 5:30 we’re at the counter, I’m safe, and he’s saying goodbye. “See you in Boston!”

I was thrilled to have such a nice man check me in. He was friendly, laughing, complimenting my French but still willing to speak English when I panicked. “Relax!” he told me; even though Tequila had stopped being noisy, I was still a mess. This is stressful, man. (Not to mention the people checking in beside me had a perfectly well behaved dog curled up in his crate, not making a sound…) My friend behind the counter checked me in and even promised to put all my bags through to Boston. “That would be incredible!” I beamed, so excited I was tempted to jump the counter and kiss him.

“I’ll even put the dog all the way through, too” and he printed out a big green sticker that read the oh-so-familiar & comforting BOS.

“Oh no you won’t,” she said. I looked to my left where an awfully stern looking blond sat down. She went along doing her business, working with an English client, chastising my friend in French. She talked about us – myself and the woman in front of her – like we weren’t even there. Probably assumed we didn’t speak French.

I didn’t love her, but I wasn’t ready to hate her… yet. I could handle having my bags checked through and only dealing with Tequila in Paris. That was, in fact, how I preferred it.

I moved on, sitting with Tequila and giving her lots of loving (and water, and one more drug). “Time to go,” another man told me in French. “You can’t miss your plane!” I looked at my watch. 6:05am; I’d be boarding soon.

I gave her one last kiss goodbye (“No crying!” he said “From either of you!”) and rushed off to scan my bags. It went smoothly; I was so happy to have some burdon lifted that I radiated joy – making all the security guards laugh at my crazy, whimsical antics. I found my gate, sat down, and called Tony to thank him properly.

“I’m so relieved. I only have to deal with Tequila in Paris… and then I’m home!”

No sooner had I hung up the phone, expressing my relief, did the overhead speaker come on. “Could passenger Catherine Michel please come to the AirFrance counter?” I had no idea how bizarre it felt to have you name called over one of those things… especially when it’s in a foreign language.

A very serious woman frowned at me. Turns out the stern lady beside the guy who checked me in had ratted on us (bitch); now I had to run back outside, go to the ticket agency to pay yet ANOTHER 80€ charge, recheck my luggage, and go through security again – all before my plane stopped boarding at 6:30. No f---in way.

I hate Air France. This is the stuff that they make you do. Even though I had called to make sure I didn’t have to do all this stuff.

But alas, I survived – somehow. I was near tears the whole time, chatting in French and begging anyone & everyone for help. I’m not a crier, but something about traveling… it always seems to bring me to tears. Regardless, I am here on a plane heading to Paris. Again.

I’ve never taken off during le reveille du soleil before. To rise with the sun - it’s like being caught in a giant rainbow, a dome of colors. Where the sea of dark gray clouds meets the horizon, molten red melts into bright orange, which quickly fades into a sunflower yellow. Above this, surrounding the airplane in the dome of the sky, is a lime green that disappears into an azure blue, which becomes aqua, which is finally swallowed by the navy hanging above. It’s beautiful. Figures, the first time I don’t have a camera.

Before we breached the clouds, I watched the tiny lights of my beloved Côte d’Azur disappear into the darkness. The lighthouse of Antibes flickered methodically; I thought of all the nights sitting at the view, admiring the skies, seeing that lighthouse. Then a thought struck me: maybe, if I’m so close to Antibes, I can sneak one last glimpse of home – of Chez Michel. I searched the pitch black of early morning for my lighthouse, my beacon of home, the signal I used all summer as a comfort that le Chêne en Croix was never far away… But the plane rose to quickly and we lost ourselves in this beautiful morning.

I’ll tell you the one good thing about Air France, though: the food sure is better. LOVE this petit pain au chocolat…