Venga conmigo - May 13, 2009 

*Disclaimer - I wrote this bored on the airplane, so it's quite long.*

This is my little introduction, so I am allowing myself a smidge of time to be maudlin; I ensure it will not be the theme of my journey’s chronology.  Embarking on my trip, I faced some unexpected feelings of anxiety, anticipatory loneliness, and dread.  I didn’t experience any of these emotions before my trip abroad two years ago and would have never expected to feel them now.  I am going on a month of vacation.  What the hell is there to be stressed about? 

My introspection has led me to attribute these emotions to various factors: my older age and my consequent tendency to “settle”, my aloneness on this trip compared to my last trip, and my intense fear of swine flu....

...And so it begins...

Mommy was a champ this morning and got me to the airport.  I arrived to my gate with plenty of time to spare.  As I was sitting there plucking my eyebrows, (I couldn't resist - the lighting was excellent!) I heard someone say my name.  Embarrassedly, I set down my compact and looked up to see Greg, Daddy’s closest friend.   I hadn’t seen him for years.  We spent a great 30 minutes or so chatting and trying desperately to decipher the accent of a group of students sitting near us.  They were, as Greg described them, the type of “beautiful people” one encounters in Switzerland (his final destination of our travel day).  Turns out, they were Danish.  I sat behind one of them on the plane, after Greg took his seat in first class. 

On the way to New York, I had the pleasure of eavesdropping on a conversation between the Danish girl in front of me and a Houstonian mother sitting beside her.  And yes, I am using “pleasure” sarcastically.  This Houstonian woman was the perfect example of why Europeans think Americans are ignorant of other cultures. 

She explains to Danish Chick (whom, incidentally, I think was a lesbian…) that she is escorting her college age-daughter to Spain, where she will be studying for a semester.  Danish Chick then asks, “Where in Spain?” a question which Houston Mom is unable to answer.  “Oh, I don’t know the name….some big city that starts with an ‘m,’ I think.” 

Strike One.  Know where the Hell your kid’s going.

Then, Houston Mom proceeds to enquire about the large group of foreigners of which Danish Chick is clearly a member. 

“Why were yall in America?”

“We were in Mexico for 3 months and we’re now returning home.  We’re from Denmark.”

“Oh, I know.” Houston Mom responds. 

Danish Chick is clearly surprised that Houston Mom seems so sure of her nationality.  I am too.  Not only is Houston Mom unaware of the city to which she is traveling, but she certainly does not look or act like a woman with an expert linguistic ability to decipher Scandinavian languages.  Then, of course, it becomes clear that she isn’t…

“My dad tried to teach me German when I was young.  I wouldn’t have it.”

Strike two.

There were no more strikes that I know of, because I had to put on my headphones to watch "Bride Wars."   I don't think that I am much less ignorant than most Americans about foreign cultures.  I certainly couldn’t distinguish the Danish accent, and I accidentally said “Denmarkian” when I was talking to Greg about the girls.   I am very frustrated, though, when people are so ignorant that they don’t even have insight as to how ignorant they are.

Anyway, enough bitching.  When I de-boarded Greg was kindly waiting at the gate to hook me up with an all access VIP Pass to the Continental President’s Club.  Score!  And it gets better.  The club was stocked with Nutella.  Greg and I chatted some more, but he spent most of his 2 hour layover on the phone with tech support, attempting to connect his prehistoric computer to the wireless internet.  He told me his company isn’t enthusiastic about buying him the new $10,000.00 laptop he wants.  When I suggested that a less extravagant choice might sweeten the appeal to the boss, he didn’t even consider it.  It was as if he was picking at the last morsels of his leftover Fillet Mignon from Morton’s, but would rather starve and hold out for another gourmet meal than take some shit from Applebee’s.

So, three glasses of wine, a peppercorn cheese, bag of lays, a mini Nutella container, and an apple later, I’m tipsily gabbing on the phone with Schuyler, when he asks, “doesn’t your plane board soon?”  And I realize that my clock is still on Houston time, not New York time.  So, I run out of the lounge (but not too fast to grab a stash of Nutellas) and make it to my gate.  Thanks, man.

View From Neward Prez Club

Now we’re about 1 hour from landing in Frankfurt.  I didn’t sleep at all this flight.  Maybe I’ll crash and burn in Frankfurt, just like the bombs that destroyed it in WWII.