The Adventure Awaits

Goodbyes are always hard.

            After a heartfelt, completely-manly-not-at-all-emotional goodbye with my father at home, and wiping the tear as I said goodbye to my mother at security, I headed down an escalator and towards my destiny. After making it through security and riding the Dulles airport Star Wars tram, I arrived at the concourse of my flight. Anxiously awaiting the arrival of my cohort, Scott Mcpeek, I went to the closest restaurant and celebrated the departure of my country the true, patriotic way.

With two slices of pepperoni and a Bud Light. ‘merica.

After answering a call while in the bathroom, I stumble outside with damp hands to see my favorite ginger standing near our gate. As we sheepishly ask the beautiful French desk clerk if we can sit together (no.) and me double checking there wouldn’t be peanuts on the flight (spoiler: there were) we headed down to sit in the handicapped seating before BFDC caught us and told us to go to gen pop.  As we sat down reminiscing with stories of pumping human waste out of boats, our (priority-oolala!) boarding was called and we headed on to the plane. While taking our seats, Scott inquired of the little old lady sitting next to me if they could swap their aisle seats.  Her husband was across the aisle, so those plans were nipped in the bud. Using his keen detective insights, Scott realized that we had nifty computer thingys on our seatbacks. After turning it to the camera on the tail of the plane, we witnessed our ascent from the land of fried chicken and liberty.

            Shortly after we became airborne, I realized that I needed to use the restroom. However, as soon as I turned to my left to speak with the old woman, she had completely passed out. So, steeling my bladder and booting up The Great Gatsby, the next two and a half hours went by in a blur. With only three and a half remaining, Scott and I’s means of communication were left to the plane’s computer chairback thingy remote textamajigger (real name, look it up.)

It was terrible.

            Upon our arrival at the City of Lights, I glanced down during our ascent and finally realized how it got that name. After our grossly long taxi down the runway, the wardens finally released the shackles and we were allowed to leave the plane. Overhearing a conversation about the design of these planes from the old woman who sat with me (who complained the ENTIRE way) and her husband, I found out that Delta had a similar type of aircraft that could hold up to 800 people. The old woman asked if they were catering to Asian markets. Hiding my laughter behind half-hearted coughs, young Scooter and I escaped the plane after a curt “Au Revoir” with the flight attendant.

She totally said it back to me too. So there.

Walking off the plane, and heading up the escalator, I realized that I as ACTUALLY in another country. Scotty and I were fine, we realized that we were going to be okay and that there was nothing to worry about, we could figure this travel stuff out no problem.

We were lost for half an hour.

Working our way around the airport (and going through security again, because why the hell not?) we arrived at exactly the same place we started. After half an hour of barking “2G?” to anyone near us, we finally happened upon a bus going there! A man walked over to the door and asked me a question in French, to which I looked him dead in the eye and said “Yep. 2G.” Then Scobron James and I scampered onto the bus, amid tired conversations of things I don’t remember because sleep deprivation, we happened upon our terminal.

Fun fact: airports in Paris don’t show what gate you are supposed to be at until 20 minutes before departure, so that screwed Scooper’s time as were trying to find it. After snapping some quick pics with a real French sunrise, we bought bottles of water using actual Euros and sat down, waiting for lil Scoo’s flight.

After Martin Scottsese got on his flight, I realized all the food ingredients here were in French, so now I must subsist on homemade chocolate chip cookies and slim jims.

So almost 5 hours in to my 6 hour layover, I anxiously await my flight as I write this. Spain is only an hour and a half away, But as my sanity and blood sugar slip, so too does my ability to stay awake.

Paris-Degaulle airport: 1, Connor: 0