Howdy. I touched down in Paris a couple of hours ago, after a great flight. Tip of the month (I ought to charge for this, really): If you ever fly tourist, in a wide body plane, go for seat 17-J (I'll try to find out the exact model of airplane and post it tomorrow; I left the itinerary back at the apartment this morning).
This is a seat you can’t book on-line, and even the ticket counter agents stonewall inquiries and try to keep it unsold. Row J is a lot like having your own little room (the only thing missing is the Menudo poster!). It's alongside the forward galley, with just two seats – both of which recline and even have flip-out footrests in addition to tons of leg room.
I knew I hit paydirt when the stewardess gave me a sour look and barked, “Is that your assigned seat, sir?”
“You bet,” I replied, recalling how the treasonous ticket agent who very kindly gave me the seat had whispered, “The flight attendants hate it when these seats get assigned. They think it’s their turf.”
See, some days you do eat the bear!
So I land in Paris (Charles de Gaulle), and what a mess. The baggage conveyor is against a wall, and everybody on four different flights is right up against the conveyor, so you can’t even see your bags unless you're right up there, elbowing kindly senior citizens and shoving little kids out of your way.
Got my bag, though, then drifted into the terminal, a zoo crowded with car service guys waving cardboard signs. Went to find a men’s room. That took half-an-hour; apparently, bathing isn’t the only thing the French don’t do! I finally made my way to the taxi rank, where it was sheer mayhem: private vehicles and cabs dropping off departing passengers, empty cabs picking up arrivals, a bunch of people in airport services unis running around doing not much of anything. . . And, of course, the obligatory contingent of French military in spiffy berets and Woodland Camo (so yesterday!).
My favorite was this chick with a dirty blond pony tail who looked like she just woke up, and with an attitute. She was wearing scuffed and dirty boots and toting an AK-47 type firearm in matte black, with a cute skeleton stock of, I think, graphite. See, Federites, who says I don’t care about fashion, or style?
Anyway, I think France has a big secret, and it becomes more evident to me every year. This is really a third-world nation with great museums, architecture, and restaurants. Drawing a measly hundred bucks against your Mastercard at a bank here is a real trip. Two clerks. Triplicate forms. Multiple copies to file, and the incessant, chi-clang of this big, stainless steel document stamper. Man, they get a kick out of putting a big ink stamp on everything here!
Last year, Jon Wertheim tried to rent a cell phone; they wouldn’t give it to him, because his application was “incomplete” – he neglected to provide a telephone number. He said, “Yeah. Well, why do you think I’m trying to rent a phone????”
It’s great to be here, though. I’ve already had my first “sandwich jambon" and asked my first pouty French starlet to stop staring at me. And,I just saw Dinara Safina polish off Maria Sharapova like she was dessert (that being something Dinara doesn’t appear to miss too often).
Unfortunately, I couldn't watch those last few games too closely. Lisa Dillman and I had to run to get a doctor as one of our colleagues appeared to be having a stroke or seizure of some sort. Thankfully, it turned out that his blood sugar had bottomed out (none of us realized he’s a diabetic) and they carted him out of here on a stretcher. I’ve got to hand it to these folks, their medical folks and facilities here at Roland Garros are first-rate.
As soon as I fired up the Dell I checked the Comments at my last post. Now I’m feeling kind of intimidated; there’s just so much good stuff there, nowadays. How am I supposed to be, oh, as astute as Matt or Hank? As droll as Lucy or Juan Jose? As deliciously sardonic as M+T=T, as peripatetic as Miguel or as terse as Bob. . . In fact, sometimes I think the only one I'm smarter than here is Todd and in Charge.
Anyway, I’m going out to watch Blake-Monfils. More later. . . Feel free to post thoughts, I probably won’t post again for a few hours.