I am currently typing this on my brother’s Mac. I could’ve sworn I packed my laptop’s charger but when I got over here, it wasn’t in my luggage. And laptop chargers at the stores in Paris cost 49-69 Euros. No thanks. So I’ll try to make do and use my brother’s computer when he’s not using it. I know you’re all dying for me to overshare my adventures, but the lack of my laptop will mean I won’t write or upload photos that much.
Anyway, this entry won’t be that funny either. I blame it on jetlag.
Well, so begins my least favorite part of any international trip: the plane ride. I was on a Norwegian Airlines flight, which meant blond, blond, and more blond, as far as the eye can see:
The lady collecting the tickets said “tak” (thank you in Norwegian/Danish) to everyone but when she got to me, she was hesitant and paused not knowing what to say. I said “tak.”
I was not looking forward to a 10-hour first leg. But…we got the Dreamliner! The Boeing 787. It was amazing. Power outlets. Nice air conditioning. Leg room. Techy bathrooms. A hundred movies and music albums to choose from. Yes, there is the slight fear of our plane battery catching on fire, but I allayed those fears by listening to Katy Perry’s new album on repeat:
I also played solitaire and watched “Frozen.” There were regular movies too, but I can’t watch a grownup movie thinking that I might have missed a scene due to the overzealous editing/censoring in airplane movies.
At first I was cursing myself because I forgot my iPod and headphones at home (but for some reason I brought my iPod charger. This is truly a case of the Gift of the Magi-type). But luckily I could just turn on my TV screen and order headphones among other things from this helpful menu:
I selected “headphones”, ran my credit card through, and immediately a stewardess arrived with the headphones. It was like room service, even for us plebes in the economy section.
Oh and I had the whole middle row to myself so I did this:
Don’t worry, I wasn’t a total douche about it. I know others were suffering in their seats, so I mostly only did this during the night so I wouldn’t make other people jealous and fly into a rage.
Then we arrived at Oslo Airport to take the next leg to Paris. The plane was tiny, but I passed the time by reading “The Fault in Our Stars.” FYI: I think the movie is a lot better than the book. I keep reading and thinking, “No teenager talks like that! All three main teens just happen to be extra smart, with deep souls, and have the vocabulary/vernacular of a tenured college professor.”
Then we arrived at the Paris-Orly airport, which is the smaller, snaggle-toothed (but fully capable) sister to the Paris-Charles de Gaulle airport that the fancier airlines at. The baggage carousel hummed and moved ever so slowly, and had harsh reddish purple lighting so that everyone could have fun guessing which bag was theirs. Oh Orly, you’re so silly.
When we got outside, it was raining. After all the California drought we’ve been having, I forgot what it was like to rain:
When we got there, we were picked up by my uncle, who is a taxi driver there. Good thing too, because the taxi situation there looked crowded and crazy. And I’ve watched enough “Taken” movies to know that if a stranger offers to share a cab with you in Paris, you’ll probably end up being sold to human traffickers. Even the male, non-pretty ones like me.
Then we went a too expensive, unremarkable Chinese restaurant where the only thing I really liked is this ice cream in a coconut: