CBMused

The over-inflated suitcases are weighed at Charles-de-Gaulle airport. The ground crew personnel shakes his head. “Trente six (36) kilos! Is too much.” I gulp at the thought of paying for excess luggage. He gives me a look laced with Gallic charm and says, “Take some thing out and put in your hand luggage.”

I rummage through the suitcase and remove weighty objects. Magazines, brochures, paper stuff. Done. Why do I collect so many memories? Cosmetic pouches. Done. Shampoo. Conditioner. No. Winter coat. Yes. I conceal the lingerie I purchased in Paris. The suitcase is reweighed. “Voila!” It gets his nod of approval.

In the departure lounge, I distribute the items into two pieces of hand luggage, the laptop bag and the small carry on case with wheels. I open one of the cosmetics bag and stifle a curse. I have accidentally picked up the one with my collection of nail polish. Including nail polish remover.

Acetone. On a flight that prohibits any liquids.

I decide to toss the acetone in the poubelle (bin) but my French manicure nail polish set is not for airport bins. I’m going to take my chance. I distribute some other items in the laptop bag and squeeze the long and thin fuchsia pouch in the wheelie case.

The invitation to board is announced. Two security personnel are conducting hand searches ahead. Mr Gemini and I line up in an Indian file patiently awaiting our turn. My heart races as both ground crew call us over simultaneously. We approach together. I’m carrying the laptop case, Mr G is carrying the wheelie case.

I lay the laptop bag on the table and unlatch the clip. Security Man 1 picks up a small bottle of decongestant nasal drops and asks, “Prescription?” I shake my head. “I have a blocked nose.” He snickers and puts it back.

I glance to my right. His colleague, Security Man 2, is searching the wheelie case and checking every cosmetic pouch. He raises an amused eyebrow, nudges the other and lets out a loud, “Oh la la… regarde-moi ça! (What do we have ‘ere?)”. He then holds up the bottle of red nail polish to eye level, gives Mr G a curious look and says, “Verrry nice…” with a heavy French accent.

Mr G retorts, “No, no… it’s not mine!”

The security personnel cross their arms in synchrony, shake their heads and smile facetiously.

I intervene, trying not to laugh. “C’est à moi! We’re together…”

But they play their part well. And I feel as if I’m standing in the midst of a popular French comedy.

The passengers who have witnessed the show give Mr G curious looks and laugh. The bottles of nail polish are passed with a shrug that could only mean, We’ll let them deal with it at the other end.

As I board the plane with my belongings intact, I smile at the French attitude and wonder if their British counterparts could match their sense of humour.

My eyelids flutter open as an unfamiliar tinkle disturbs my deep slumber. I stare at the ceiling, my mind a complete void. The annoying jingle tickles my awareness. The bedside phone is ringing. It’s the wake up call. No… it’s the hotel reception desk. The taxi to Charles-de-Gaulle airport is waiting downstairs.

I shake him awake and he slowly turns away and grumbles as if that was a nudge for having had too many red wines the night before.

“It’s 6.30 am! Missed the wake up call!”

“Er… what wake up call?”

Merde! The one he forgot to set. We bolt out of bed. There are showers to be had, final packing to do, squeezing last minute purchases into over-inflated suitcases and never mind the obligatory morning brew.

Frantically, I hop in the shower trampling over semi-open luggage. My mind is ablaze with the possibility of missing the flight, what is one to do? As I dry off, my thoughts are peppered with the “what-ifs” of the night before.

Had we not leisurely meandered through the left bank towards boulevard-st-germain after dinner, taking in the sights of nocturnal Paris, encore une fois, one more time. Had we not sat down at Les Deux Magots, and watched the night life in a city that inspires. Had we not ordered Bas Armagnac, and were served a double for the price of a single by a gracious waiter. Had we not recounted the highlights of the trip and with the last amber swill toasted a worthy end to the sojourn abroad. Had we not returned to our hotel late, very late…

I smile as I take one last look around the dishevelled room. Checking out is swift, as one would expect from an establishment that upgraded us to a suite during our entire stay. A taxi is hollered. We squeeze into the back seat of a Peugeot 307 as comfortably as our oversized luggage is laid in the boot. Le Figaro, L’Express and Paris Match magazines peep through the back pocket of the front seat.

It is still early morning. Paris se lève…Paris awakes and the city is enveloped in a dense and static haze. The taxi pierces through the fog at lightening speed, traversing the yawning Seine. Notre-Dame de Paris cathedral stands to my left. I bid my respects to the grande dame just as the sun floats languidly over the low horizon ahead. I glance towards the city one more time.

Au revoir, Paris.

A la prochaine…

Until next time.