30 Days By Train - September 14, 2003

God I was tired this morning. Gina was right. Again. I didn't think I'd live through the day.

Thankfully the drive to Los Angeles Int'l Airport was a breeze. No traffic. A straight shot up the 405. Beautiful. Thanks mom for driving us to the airport. We love you!

The people ahead of us at the metal detector were getting undressed. Shoes. Belt. Jackets. Jewelry. If the folks at Fruit of The Loom or Victoria Secret want to have some fun, they ought to start putting a thin metallic strip in underwear. "Sorry, ma'am, I know you only have your panties on, but the detector is still beeping."

The authorities also ask you to take your laptop out of its case and feed it separately through the scanner. So I did, and put my wedding ring in the same tray. We made it through without having to futher derobe or being asked to take everything out of our carry-ons. Success! I put the laptop in my backpack, took Eva's hand and turned to leave.

"Hey," said a security guard who looked remarkably like Gloria Gaynor. Shit. Was there a thin metallic strip in my underwear? Or did I dance that badly to disco in the 70s?

"Huh?" I said, trying desperately to manifest infinite innocence.

"You forgot something," she said. She was holding my wedding ring, and looking at me like I had just killed someone. "I don't think you want her to find out," she added, pointing at Gina.

I thanked her profusely. Thank God my wife has a good sense of humor.

***

If you're forced to choose between the sappy Bruce Almighty (Jim Carrey, Jennifer Aniston) and the formulaic Bulletproof Monk (Chow Yun-Fat, Seann William Scott) go with the monk. I might have enjoyed it even more if the audio track hadn't been delivered with a French echo.

"Why do hotdogs come in packs of eight but hot dog buns come in packs of ten?"
"Pourquoi les hotdogs s'achete en pacquets de huit, et les buns s'achete en pacquets de dix?"

Yes, the monk delivers hotdog philosphy.

When we touched down at Charles de Gaulle, the pilot thanked us for flying American Airlines. He then asked us to sit in our seats while a couple of heavily armed (or was that heavily underarmed?) French flics arrested a passenger. Evidently some fellow had been drinking too much, began circling in the aisles, and had refused even captain's order to take his seat. It looked like Monsieur Funny was going to spend le weekend in downtown Paris, courtesy of the French Penal System.

We hopped the Air France bus to the Le Meridien hotel in Montparnasse. The bus circled the airport a million times to pick up every passenger from the last 397 flights. On the millionth pass, just as we were ready to trade Charles de Gaulle for a clean hotel bed, Eva said she had to go to the bathroom. Forget it, I said.

"It's at least a 50 minute ride," warned Gina. "Are you sure?"

"Well what am I going to do?" I moaned. "Convince the bus driver to stop while I take my kid to the bathroom? Are you nuts? We're in France!" She just looked at me. Okay. Fine. I'll do it. I picked up Eva, and rushed to the front of the bus.

"Pee pee," I said pointing at Eva. "Ka ka." Fortunately those words are understood by every language, dialect, strain, and mother tongue known to mankind. And if not, then the parental body language cannot be misunderstood. The bus driver was a woman, and clued into my urgency precisely. She smiled, but said, "Vite! Vite!" ("Quick! Quick!"). She's got a schedule to meet. Gotta make sure she circles the airport another million times.

As the James Bond soundtrack played in my head, I raced into the nearest terminal, Eva clutched to my chest. "Papa," she said. "I have to make kaka." Great.

"Bathroom! Toilette! WC!" I screamed at everyone. They all pointed in the same direction. A quick sprint, I was there. The first stall was free. I found out why. It looked like a crowd of football hooligans had just been baptised. The other three stalls were occupied.

"Papa! I have to go badly!" said Eva.

"Okay. Hang on," I said. "We're almost there. Just have to wait until SOMEONE COMES OUT OF ONE OF THESE STALLS SO YOU DON'T POOP IN YOUR PANTS." I hoped the emphasis would not fall on deaf ears. A few moments later we were in and done. Phew. No mess. Now let's see if the bus was still there.

With Eva on my shoulders, I sprinted back to the bus. Gone. Nothing. No bus. Sheeeeee-it. A baggage handler appeared. He pointed further down the terminal. "La bas," he said. ("Over there.") Ah, yes. There it was. Thank God. We got back just in time for the driver to head for Paris.

The girls were doing remarkably well. Real traveling troopers. (And in one case a traveling pooper, too.) But after a quick bite it was more than obvious we all needed to brush our hair with pillows for at least a couple of hours. I arranged a wake up call so we wouldn't miss visiting our friends Sandra and Damien later in the afternoon, and we drifted off to a glorious sleep...

We have no idea how we woke up. I guess the phone rang. It was next to me, so I must have answered it, but I have absolutely no memory of it. We stumbled around incoherently for 20 minutes, while the girls slept. After managing to freshen up and appear only half-dead, we tried to wake up the girls. Hmmm. That wasn't so easy. They didn't budge. We spoke softly in their ears. Nothing. Kissed their foreheads. Nada. Gently shook them. Zip. Shook them. Still nothing. Shook them harder. Like talking to a rock. Slapped them. Okay, I'm kidding. But, really, we finally had to resort to the ultimate strategy: Operation Glucose.

"I brought one of those special cookies for you," Gina whispered in Eva's ear. Sproing! Eva sat up, her face slowly coming together under a mop of hair pointing in a variety of conflicted directions. Her mouth moved and the word "Cookies?" came out and it was pure Pavlov.

We took the metro to Sandra and Damien's apartment on the east side of Paris, and enjoyed a wonderful visit with them and their cute daughter Mathilde. Their cat,Venus, was quite a trip. For hours she sits on the balcony and stares -- transfixed -- at pigeons that gorble just out of claw range. Must be maddening.

We grabbed a taxi back to the hotel, watched the setting sun, and again slipped away to sleepsville. At some God awful hour Inessa woke up. I could tell from the way she was moving what was coming next. She would complain of being bored, and insist on getting up. Quick. I had to think of a reason why that was not a good idea. In mid plan she started to speak. Damn. Too late.

"Papa."

You must act as if you're in deep sleep in these kind of circumstances. Yes, yes, it's just a delay tactic, but at least for a while you can pretend you don't hear them. Then, when they say they want to get up you can further delay your response by pretending not to really register what they're saying because you're so tired. And then, even though you're finally able to compute, you're still too tired to say yes or no, all the while buying more time to come up with a reason why you must stay in bed, other than the fact that papa will become homocidal if he has to trudge around the hotel hallways at four in the morning.

"Papa?" Inessa repeated.

"Hm? Wha- ?" I said.

"Papa?" she whispered again.

My plan was working. I have it down to a science. Now you wait for them to ask again, before you respond.

"Papa?"

"Er - what, what?" Now she'll ask to get up. Then I go to Plan B. Like clockwork.

"How do cats know they're cats?"

Right. I knew she was going to say that. Hmmm. I don't have a frigging clue. But, still, you use the same technique.

"Cats?"

"Yes."

"Uh...cats...know they're cats...because...well, I don't know how they know," I said. "I guess they know they're cats kinda like you know you're a person." I looked at her. She put her head down. It worked. Sometimes the truth is best.

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