March 27, 2011 by Amy
Merci!
Sunday afternoon. NCAA games. Hanging out with the family. Doing some laundry. Debating what to do about dinner. Slowly freaking out in my head about flying to France tomorrow.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m excited about this trip. On many, many different levels. I’m stoked to see my company’s headquarters. I’m happy to meet my international communications counterparts. I’m thrilled to see France, including Friday morning that I have “off” before my flight home, to walk around and photograph Bordeaux.
It’s the whole, “Holy crap, I’m going to be somewhere I don’t speak the language” thing that freaks me out.
Yes, yes. I know in my brain that most of the French speak very good English.
Still.
When I visited Ireland years ago with Dad, they spoke “English” and we still couldn’t understand them.
Sigh.
I was doing pretty well quelling the fear until Friday morning, when Ms. OohLaLa from Air France called to tell me that due to an equipment change I no longer had a flight from the US to France. My JFK-CDG route was no longer available, and what would I like to do? Ummmm, how about you give me some options? She did, and rattled off so much information that I myself became quite rattled in the process. I filled a page on my legal pad with acronyms and times and terminal names.
All the while completely distracted that she ended every word with “ah.” “May-ah I-ah have-ah you’re-ah frequent-ah flyer-ah number-ah?” “Sure. 1-2-3…” “One-ah, two-ah, three-ah” “4-5-6” “Four-ah, five-ah, six-ah…”
It’s hard to concentrate when that’s going on. Felt like I was talking to Coco f*cking Chanel or something. I probably would have enjoyed it more if she hadn’t been talking about whether I wanted my upgraded status-ah. (Yes, dammit. I still want the upgrade. Like you should even ask someone who is gonna be on a flight that long whether they still want first class or would steerage be fine?)
M, good man that he is, has made two calls to Delta and farted around on the site in an attempt to ensure that I do indeed still have the upgrade despite there being no evidence to the contrary (for instance, on my route home I’m listed as business class, but on the way over, I’m “W.” We have no idea what the hell “W” stands for. Winning!! Maybe I’m flying next to Charlie Sheen.)
My freaking out about all this means nothing to M, world traveler that he is. “Chill out, Aim,” he says. “You’ll be fine.” Yes, I know this. But my maternal instincts are berating me for leaving my child while I’m simultaneously wondering what will happen if I mispronounce “bonjour.” Will they just laugh outright and give me the crappy room by the ice machine and the elevators?
I really, really hope this is the first of many trips to France. Because once I get this one under my belt I’ll be able to relax and enjoy future ones. One can only hope.
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