A worried, nervous wreck.... Anxious, frustrated, and deprived of sleep... Death-gripping my passport, a stack of laserjetted bus, plane, and hotel reservations, and heavily encumbered by backpacks, suitcases, and laptop caddies... Seat-dancing on the concrete bench, awaiting the Wisconsin Shuttle with service from General Mitchell International Airport to my 2nd objective of the morning: O'Hare Terminal 2.
For the record, I've never once missed, or been late for a flight in the past 6 or 7 years. Not one. And I don't intend to. I'm adept at handling a moderate variety of stressors, but potential travel mishaps aren't in the cards. I suppose I'm the stereotypical nervous traveler--arriving 4 hours before boarding, printing back-ups of travel documents, strategically executing morning-of outfit decisions to maximize a smooth and grope-free odyssey through the TSA check-point... You name it, I do it. Mind you, the majority of this is internalized, and I tend to think I look calm and collected while sailing through the terminals. Additionally, I'm not this anal when it comes to domestic travel--anymore, at least. Ultimately, there was just no damned way I was going to allow any hiccups to affect the carefully choreographed arrival to France (keeping in mind the SLEW of appointments and activities we had planned).
Arrival at O'Hare was prompt and painless, much to my satisfaction. Terminal 2, however, is a pox, nay, a black hole upon the spirit, carelessly clutching at every fleeting shred of human happiness in a horrific tornado of matter-stretching destruction. Crowded, loud, smelly, bereft of ample seating, lacking working wall outlets, and in possession of no Starbucks. A tragedy. Travesty, even... Without 5 shots of black tar espresso coursing through my veins in the morning, I become very irritable. Honestly, the caffeine probably doesn't help, since I'm just as irritable without it. But back to Terminal 2: for the unfamiliar, this pseudo-international terminal serves a ton of Canadian routes. In the most non-disrespectful form that can be mustered, French Canadians are ornery choads while at airport terminals at 7:00am. You loved laughing at my funny American face, awash in a blank inquisitiveness most certainly induced by my weak grasp of your language... I know I looked like a puppy turning its head to the side when it heard its owner saying something weird. Give me a chance next time! I can't process your evil slur talk as quickly as you'd like. Los rudos. BUT ALAS, it was finally time to board my first flight of the day: ORD-->YUL.
Gaze upon the beauty!
Montreal-Trudeau is mammoth. The walk to customs took close to 10 minutes without the luxury of moving walkways. Additionally, customs was jam-packed with passengers whose final destination was Montreal. This scared the living shit out of me. I was in no way pressed for time, but the thought of having to impatiently wait within the crowded confines of 5 kilometers of velvet rope, loaded with 500 or more restless travelers, necks still aching from the 9 hour trans-Atlantic plane ride, was enough to induce some serious fear. Thankfully, the nondescript, non-Canadian/International customs line only had about 5 or 6 patrons and was moving very quickly. It was just off to the side and almost out of sight. It was also here that I met a nice guy from Chicago on a journey to the DR Congo to adopt a child. Traveling by himself, no less--apparently the wife was at home taking care of the other adopted little ones. His nobility and purpose was pretty commendable, and made me briefly reflect on the excess that my trip undoubtedly had in store. Sure, I was going to dramatically better my wine education and industry exposure, but also going to party like a wild fuckin' chupacabra on a fattened goat farm in Santa Fe. Shit was going to be ill. #Based, even. Anyhow, this fellow and I made a few more pleasantries and went our separate ways for the next terminal wait.
Oh god, oh god...
Flash forward another 4 hours, and I was finally boarding Air Canada #870 to Paris-Charles De Gaulle. Being impatient and all, I'd rudely jumped over half of the economy boarding line, practiced hurried "bonjour's" and "merci beaucoup's" with the gate agent, and finally found my seat--in a 4-person row with only one other passenger on the other end, no less. Once airborne, I'd loaded up Tron: Legacy on the glitched-out entertainment system, enjoyed about 4000 calories worth of appetizers, main courses, desserts, post-desserts, pre-breakfasts, and snacky-poos, guzzled a few mini bottles of La Petite Forge, and pretended to sleep! Save for a plane crash or Lost-style smoke monster event, I knew I'd be in Paris relatively soon!
Quality airplane drinkin'.
Up next: 5 Nights in Paris (or: how to convince yourself that 4 baguettes a day is a healthy alternative to vegetables and rice). Stay tuned...!
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