spring 1999

arrive: i missed seeing paris-roubaix by 3 days and i will always regret that. i do not regret being in love in paris in the spring. everyone should get to, its only right.

departe: it took forever to get to the airport. the national rail transit union was on strike and that event coincided with some sort of threat. the parisien rail union struck as well, but they had no beef. they only did it out of solidarity with their brethren. you know, because the french are all spineless surrender monkeys or whatever tag conservative bumper stickers have labelled them with. the trains were running further behind schedule than usual (go figure - its a strike). and all the stations were under some sort of high security situation, probably akin to a DEFCON 5 (what would that equate to in french? l'evente catastrophe 5?). that same message you hear at every airport or train terminal in the post 9/11 world was blaring everywhere on the announcement systems - "please do not leave baggage unattended. if you see unattended baggage please report it to the nearest security officer. unattended bagge may be seized and destroyed" - only it was in french. i guess it wasn't uncommon for otherwise typically mild mannered french transit workers to turn violent when they were on strike or something. or maybe some digruntled passenger would want to blow something up. whatever.

there were few occupants on the platforms save some fearless (and in no rush, obviously) commuters and the young punks that make up the national security force. i guess some of what they do is put the smack down on things like riots or potentially violent transit strikes. accross the board it looked like the entire lot of them consisted of 19 year old boys serving their compulsive military service. they were decked head to toe in snazzy black or red berets, fatigues that were a bizzare variation of dark woodland camo, and black combat boots. walking around in pairs they spent their time giving people the evil eye and watching the garbage cans in case someone threw a bomb away. i think they all got hard-ons because their fingers were on the triggers of sub-machine guns. they all looked like bad asses - especially the fuckos that had their weapons aggressively strapped over the shoulder and across the chest.

the repition of the public announcements, the extended time between the comings and goings of the trains, and the intimidation factor of punks with guns sidling around all combined to invoke the surreal. i was leaving paris and was already a bit overwhelmed with the prospect of returning to nebraska after spending a couple weeks with the first (definately not the last) love of my life. nothing about the station, which would otherwise be a very entertaining environment, did much for my mood. essentially it came to be that a big old pile of melancholy was the order of the day.

got to de gaulle and surprsingly the whole ticketing thing went quickly. the agent even offered me some sort of credit if i would instead take a flight for 5 hours later on in the day. it was tempting to go back to her apartment for a few hours for sure. looking back that was an interesting decision point. ultimately the thought of making three more trips total back and forth in the alloted amount of time dissuaded me. especially on the day of a transit strike. saying good bye was hard, but not dramatic. that all would come later.

on the plane i sat next to a guy who was reading that weeks 'economist'. i had some shitty french paper. the ink was bleeding all over everthing and i couldn't really make sense of it. i got a little frustrated. i really wanted to read his magazine when he was finsihed but i had two glasses of wine and fell asleep instead.

she had asked me to bring a bag back to the states for her. she would be returning soon herself and wanted to save money on shipping. i obliged her of course but checked the large purple duffle at ticketing because it was heavy and pointy and i didn't want to schlep it all over the effing place. when i got to jfk, it was the only big purple duffle on the baggage claim thingy. incidentally, i'd just like to state for the record that i'm pretty sure i saw a gorrila in the back room as some bags were coming through the divider - you know, those plastc curtains that separate the travelling public from the ugly inner workings of a modern airport. anyway, i swear it was jumping up and down on suitcases. just like in the commercials. i was so stoked when the purple duffle was the third bag out of that divider! i grabbed it and raced to get to customs before all the other people on my flight.

i swear the bailiff from the tv show "night court" was the official at customs. tall, big, shaved head - the whole bit. and super articulate of course. i had my passport out, in front of the line, thinking i was mr. international traveller showing all the amatuers behinid me a thing or two about efficient international travel.

"Do you have anything to declare?"

"No sir."

"May I ask what is in that bag?" - pointing at the purple duffel.

i was screwed. about that time i realised that i really didn't know what was in that bag. i had surmised a book or two, but had no clue as to what else its contents consisted of. i knew that i was no mule, that she wouldn't screw me by packing contraband in there. so any answer i gave was begging for a probing line of inquiry.

this was going to be bad.

"Well sir, I think its some books and things."

"What kind of things."

shit. "Well I don't know exactly."

"Did you pack the bag?".

"No."

"Well who did?"

"My girlfriend."

"And where is she?"

"Paris, sir."

"Are you often in the habit of transporting unknown items across international borders for other persons?"

"Never have before. I won't do it again."

he looked at me cross-eyed and slid the bag over to his side of the table. he then unzipped the openning. he stuck his hands down into the abyss of the big purple bag, and without really looking he fondled the entiire contents in a manner that made me think he had kneaded a lot of dough in his life. he just looked at the ceiling like some sort of clarvoyent running his hads over every edge and dip in the interior. maybe he was very passionate about pastries and this security job at customs was just a side thing that he tolerated and that kept his handstrength up. his attitude would certainly support the assertion.

then he stopped and finally did look in the bag. then he looked at me. then he looked in the bag again and i knew he had more questions.

pulling something out of the bag he startled me "Sir? Who's is this."

he was holding one of her flowery dresses. my heart sank, it was my favorite. she was so beautiful in it. i had forgetten that she told me it was in there because she wasn't going to wear it until we saw eachother again - she was loyal if nothing else. and it hit me rght then that it would be a long time before i would see her in it again.

"Its my girlfriends. Its my favorite."

"I can see why."

after he got his fun out of the situation i got on my way to the next flight. kansas city, then to lincoln. the planes kept getting smaller and smaller throughout the day. and colder too.

riding back from the airport it was a dark, cold, spring rain.

melancholy.