Losing my mind in the Columbus Airport.

Losing my mind in the Columbus Airport.

11.21.02    12pm

Today has been a series of ungraceful lessons in how not to travel.  I woke up at 4:30AM in Andrew’s loft and start a packing job that should have been done a week ago.  Andrew is sponsoring me, in a sense.  He’s agreed to watch over my car and an inventory of possessions contained in a half dozen storage tubs.  Andy is a savior.  Were it not for him, I would surely have realized the impracticality of this foray.  Or rather perhaps he has placed the insanity in perspective; endorsing my idealistic motives.  He has been a quiet partner in many of my pursuits, and without his guidance from afar I may not have made it to this point.

I’m panicking. I leave a virtual library of books and road-worn dirty clothes in every corner of the room.  Of course he will just lock it off, as a time capsule of sorts, for my return.  It has snowed a foot in the past two days and it's windy and blustery out with crystals of snow and ice hitting my face.  We get into his truck and trudge westward.  We somehow have made time despite the weather conditions.  Last minute preparations, and I find myself wandering recklessly through the aisles of a super-mega 24 hour store and I'm buying gummi bears, Immodium and a cheap CD player.  Need I mention that I have no CDs with me.  But I remember how expensive consumer electronics are in France.  Why don’t I also buy a 4-slot toaster or immersion blender?  These are questions I have no time for as I’m collected from the aisle by a responsible Andrew.

We say our goodbyes.  I am wistful and forlorn and fatigued.  I am standing there loaded with two bags waving goodbye to the only person who somewhat understands me.

And in preparation of my relaxing visit / relocation to Paris, I am losing my mind.  I have lost my mind.  These are the death throes of my fat American slob ego disintegrating as I prepare to swan dive into Paris.  Or maybe I’ve just had no sleep and too much coffee and my mind and body refuse to cooperate under these conditions.

So I'm sitting down re-sorting things, deciding to mail my taxes from Europe instead of the states (although before making this decision, I blew $20 for stamps at the airport post office.  The postage is now worthless, as it retains no value in France)...re-sorting stuff and compressing and zippering etc and then I start sweating profusely and I get up to leave and the telescoping pull handle on my main bag breaks off!  So much for a $300 ballistic nylon “let’s pick the right one” Swiss Army suitcase.  I tie a piece of rope into a bowline around the top handle (yes I travel with rope) and tow the luggage to the garbage can where I toss out the broken handle.  I’m starting to get looks from families with small children, I notice.

Well, I figure, best to get all of this out of the way before I leave the States.  I still can not call to confirm my reservation at Hotel Aviatic; we shall see.  At least I'll be arriving in the morning and if there is a problem I should be able to figure something out in the daylight.

I really miss Paris, and France in general.  The people, the land, the food and the goodwill are just such a splendid combination.  I miss the big-small village feel of the narrow cobbled streets winding their way through the Latin Quarter.  I have no idea what type of neighborhood surrounds my hotel.  It’s “South of Montparnasse” which despite my fascination with Hemingway, was simply chosen based on price.  I have no idea, not a clue, of what is about to happen.  I am writing on my Palm Pilot with foldout keyboard because I don’t care what people think anymore.  I could care less.  I’m moving to Paris.