"To see Italy, and to die." These words can be found written all across Paris, a veritable advertising campaign for Italy, paid for by the Musee d'Orsay. Of course what my dear Musee probably wants is for me to die on its premises, but last week I decided to cut out the middle man, and go to meet my challenger directly. If Italy's beauty was indeed the foe to best me, I would prefer to be bested in person, rather than through that cracked mirror which goes by the name of Italian portraiture. But I also admit that I did not expect to be bested, for since I regularly read my own writing, I have quite a high tolerance for beauty.
To consider properly the story of my departure we must begin with a hungover. On Friday I met with my dear friend Michelle, who I have known since we were just gamins a l'ecole. We went to a park on the Northeast side of Paris, which is held by critical consensus to be the best park in all the city. I am not in disagreement. We all had a lovely time in the park, and afterwards at the bizarre exhibition of David LaChappelle.
I will save my excoriating critique of David LaChappelle for my remarks about Milan, wherein I examine the whores of babylon who staff the harem of the socio-politico-economical order we call modern global market capitalism, but suffice it to say that I thought the €8 museum charge unreasonable.
In any event, almost immediately upon entering the exhibition I noticed a throbbing feeling in my head, and indeed felt a headache coming on. This was of course to be expected, since I had been drinking rosé quite steadily throughout the afternoon. But usually I don’t get day hangovers, only during the night, when passion overtakes me, do I go too far beyond the limits set by my formidable Stoic will.
When I arrive home exhaustion overpowers me. I never sleep in the afternoon; since it is done by les faibles it is not done by me. But nevertheless I slept, a dreamful sleep with a wonderous content – but I say no more, lest I strengthen too much the hands of the Freudians.
I awake and it was dark, the migraine had not gone away. I drank more water, and made to do my laundry, suffering for two hours from a terrible headache as I waited for the insufferable drier to finish.
When it did finish, I went to bed, praying that when I awake the headache would be gone. God, who in his infinite wisdom provides conundrums too all who need them or don’t, decides that my migraine should remain with me when I awaken, but that, in case the poor headache was lonely, perhaps it would be best if it had some nausea to keep it company.
After some thought it occurs to me that this is the first real migraine I’ve ever had in my life. Headache, nausea, sensitivity to light, it was all there. But much as I love a new experience, I had trouble fully feeling that love as I wretched on my bathroom floor, clutching my stomach from the fierce pain, tears welling in my eyes. The whole morning I alternate between drinking whole liters of water and puking.
Finally it appears we had arrived at the crossroads. Go now for the airport, and suffer through until the disease passes, or stay in Paris. The funny thing about the disease was that I could feel it wouldn’t last long. In every contest there are competitors, and if one is competitive then one learns something about one’s competition. In dueling, fencing, tennis, or illness, it makes no difference; I could see my opponent for what he was, and I knew I was the better.
I made off for the airport having eaten nothing at all. I quickly buy a Nestea since I’d read on Wikipedia that sugar helps the body absorb water and so non-carbonated soft drinks good for when the dehydrated. The refreshing coolness of Nestea’s Peach Passion buoyed my strength, but also more importantly, my spirits.
I arrive at Paris-Orly airport ridiculously early, over an hour before check in, and have a somewhat frustrating encounter with the man managing the flow of customers in the line. EasyJet, which basically is to Southwest Airlines as Southwest is to United, has a window on when it is acceptable even to enter the check-in line. Why do they do that? Surely we’ve all seen the sight of someone coming late to their plane, running frantically on the way to check out, rehearsing their speech about why they should be let on the plane, or baring that, another plane but without additional charge – and when it goes badly these are the people that bare inordinate responsibility for the long lines we invariably encounter. EasyJet, in order to get away with as little counter staff as is efficiently possible, has decided to counter this problem by having large, bald men, of the “rather stupid” persuasion, standing at the entrance to ask which flight you are on. If you’re not in the window of acceptable entrance – then you have to go to another terminal where the “well-staffed, friendly customer service representatives” will be glad to help you. Thankfully, as I was very early, I was on the other side of the problem: I had to wait to wait in line.
At the airport I discovered that although Orly may be Paris’ budget airport, they aren’t exactly catering to the thrifty with their concessions. Three fifty for a can of soda, six for a coffee, orange juice and croissant. And people actually support these institutions – which is a wonderful way to see how deeply nested is the impulse to have whatever crap is immediately in front of one’s eyes. If you’re in Orly airport, you probably think you’re really screwing somebody with how little you paid for your ticket – and presumably you enjoy that feeling enough to schlep out to a bullshit airport, and fly bullshit airlines, and in general be treated like bullshit to get from place to place. And yet out of this self-selecting pool of cheapskates, we still find people willing to pay absurd amounts for things they absolutely do not need. Besides the food, the best example of this phenomenon to be found in the airport is “airport-only services.” For example, there was a woman in a one piece red mini-suit offering to saran wrap your baggage for 8 Euro. Of course many of the customers I assume were men who were hoping that the purely business interaction would turn somehow sexual. “I love saran wrap? How about you? . . . Oh, you want my phone number – that’s such a coincidence! I was just thinking about how you’re so attractive and that it would be like a fantasy for us to sleep together – boy I’m really glad I came over to have you wrap my junk in plastic – oh whoops, I guess I’m getting ahead of myself!” But actually many other people were getting the wrapping done – “You know, I really should get my bag wrapped in pink plastic. If I don’t do it I’m going to really regret it later”
I pass through these scenes in a daze – an hour turns in a blink of an eye and I reapproach EasyGoon at exactly the hour I was supposed to come. But I was stopped again for a few moments, as the man starts eyeing my bag uneasily. I had partly expected this. Much of the excitement of flying an airline like EasyJet is the give and take between screwing and being screwed. It’s really a game, who’s going to get the other one to spend money that they don’t need to spend. I offer several proofs that this game is really existing, and not just an artifact of my idiosyncratic worldview. First, when you’re on your last screen before buying your ticket –suddenly EasyJet reveals that it’s going to pass along the Airport Tax to you, the consumer, rather than having included it in the listed price. Second, they mention that every customer has “The right to one piece of ‘Hold Baggage’” up to 20kg. But then, it turns out, that you have to pay 11 euros for this right, and that actually you can forfeit the right and be charged 11 euros less. This made me question if I understood what I was even being charged for in the first place. “Hold Baggage” –what is that? Having now investigated, I can say with some certainty that they mean “Checked Baggage” - but the link to explain what is going on uses intentionally obfuscating, excessively British English to confuse Americans and other Europeans who have for the most part studied American English. Finally, at the end when you’re about to buy your ticket – EasyJet gives you the option to help the environment by paying for Carbon Offsetting. Because the people who admit to being big polluters, are really the ones you want to be giving money to in order to fix the environment . On one level ew can say that it’s only a little bit of a cynical ploy on their part – they can say they’re committed to helping the environment, but their commitment is essentially shifting the responsibility onto the consumer, and that they really aren’t doing anything. OR, it’s a really cynical expoitation of guilt over the environment in order to win EasyJet free money.
But back to the matter at hand, which was that the gendarme was staring at my carry-on bag. EasyJet gives unlimited weight for carry-on, assuming one’s bag isn’t too big in terms of volume. I guess they’ve probably done calculations on how dense most baggage is and how much weight is likely to be incurred. In any event, they police the volume restriction like hawks – forcing people with bags to thick to check and pay hefty fines for late-check-in. My problem was that, the day before, I’d realized that it would not be possible to fit my clothes into one bag – so it was either give up on clean underwear or move to a bigger bag, which I didn’t have. So what I decide to do is to cram my two back-packs, filled to the brim with stuff, into my large Orange shopping bag that I use for groceries. Ever the post-modernist, I was in fact taking three bags as carry-on, even though to the untrained eye it looked like one bag.
I don’t know what thoughts went through that mans head as he stares mesmerized at my carry-on – “He’s carrying bags in bags? Can they do that? I wonder what he has in those backpacks? Other bags? Are they like Russian dolls, getting smaller and smaller, and eventually stopping? Or could there be an infinite regress of bags? But why would he need so many bags anyways? Probably a drug transportation thing – let security deal with that.”
“Okay, move along.” And he attached a card saying my bag had been approved. Brian Chateau: 1, Easy Jet: 0.
I go through the check-in no sweat, even succeeding in sneaking my tooth paste through security even though it's completely in violation of the "No Tubes or Gels" policy" - when you're beating security without even trying in the slightest it makes you start to wonder about how secure it is/is it providing any deterrent at all? On the other side of security there is a sandwich place that sells for 3 euros bread and brie. I investigate my stomach, and feel its libido begin to perk. Yes, at last my stomach no longer feels like a witches-brew of churned acid - "J'AI LE FAIM!" I think to myself joyously, which I suppose makes me indelibly on the "haves" side of things as opposed to the "have-nots."
I get on the plane no trouble, and my stomach had returned to sufficient strength that it could suffer whatever turns would be induced by the inane scribbles of that insufferable Algerian cretin, Albert Camus. I admit that the book could scarcely hold my attention, for I was sitting behind a Parisian girl on the plane, who had a bit of that really arrogant bitchy look that drives men wild. A look a bit too smug, her features gone over too many time with excessive care, and finally a bit of a downward curl of her lip, as if she, out of spite for you and the whole world, could not deign to smile. As if she might spit in your general direction at any moment. Of course it is the forbiddenness, and the impossibility, and the disgust, which create the temptation - and the reason d'entre for seduction.
Of course, we said nothing to each other during the flight - probably since I was reading Camus she thought I was too deep for her. I don't doubt it; I often have problems finding women deep enough for the massive girth of my . . . "personality."
But I tried my best to focus on the book, amidst the glorified street merchants called EasyJet attendants hocking their wares. At last, we arrive safe, in Rome.
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