NYC-Auvers by the seat of my pants
I feel as though I spent the last two weeks on roofies and it’s all a blur. But I’ll try to recollect it for the sake of posterity.
The apartment is still a mess, I look at the clock and realized I’m leaving for the airport in an hour. And I still haven’t taken a shower, among other things.
At this point, my pulse is racing, no pounding. I eject all remaining IQ points and plung blindly, dumbly forward. I imagine it’s something like peaking at Everest.
Somehow, in that final hour I manage to take a shower, get the last block of ice out of the freezer, get dressed, write an informative note to Natalie (the woman subletting my apartment), hate my enemies one last time and get Desdemona and Denzel in their cat carriers before my friend Bob picks me up. Usually it takes three hours more strenuous than an Olympic triathalon to get Denzel in there, but this time it’s relatively easy.
The ride to the airport is a cacophony of yowling and sighing. The kitties, on the other hand, are surprisingly quiet and well behaved.
At the airport, check in takes forever. They charge me a fortune to check the kitties. But in return, they give me two very special plastic closures to reinforce the carrier doors so they can’t escape (Delta is the official airline of the missing whippet).
Once we’re all checked in, I have to schlepp the kitties and luggage to security. In security, they make me remove the extremely expensive plastic thingees and take the kitties out of their carriers so they can check for explosives. Denzel comes out like a potato bug, totally fetal. Desdemona won’t come out, no way, no how. The usually placid friendly kitty explodes into a hissing, teeth baring beast. The security guys are afraid and decide to give her clearance. Thank god she’s not a terrorist. Once the carriers are deemed explosive-free (with the exception of Desdemona), we schlep back to get more of those really expensive plastic thingees. Once that’s all taken care of and the cats and bags are all checked in, I take a xanax and check out.
Basically, I’m out cold until we’re over Ireland.
At Charles DeGaulle, I go through immigration (or something) and on to get the kitties and luggage from the baggage claim. Everything shows up without a hitch and both kitties are alive, a great relief. In fact, Denzel looked absolutely composed. Until his carrier fell off the trolley.
Which is about the time of MY first hissy fit. I couldn’t figure out where Henri would be picking me up…by the taxis, the buses, the limos, was there a place for regular cars? Information sent me to departures and taxi drivers were no help because “un ami je me prends” (bastards!).
Just as I’m about to blow a gasket, a tall, really good looking guy comes running towards me. It’s Henri who I already adore from our phone conversations. Fortunately, I’m incapable of processing information, only registering it. Otherwise, I’m sure my brain would have short-circuited permanently with the complex mathematical equations that would have inevitably ensued (what’s the age difference between Demi and Ashton again?).
He tells me I look great, and for a brief moment I believe him and am energized. Until I remember he’s an actor. Damn.
I’m nothing more than a blob of protoplasm. Henri gets us all into the car (where ever it was).
If I had to retrace the drive from the airport, I’d probably wind up in Poland, but I enjoy the comforting hum of Henri’s voice as he points out sites of interest to me. I look at Desdemona who seems a little sickly.
Martine, Henri’s sister and keeper of the house, greets me and shows me around. In French. I nod, smile blankly and pretend to understand her. We have lunch, I take another nap while Henri hooks up the internet. We go to the grocery store to get cat litter. In what order, I have no idea.
They leave around around 3. I poke around and take another nap.
It’s about 9pm now and it’s still light out. The light really is gorgeous here. In fact, now that I’m starting to feel more normal I can’t help noticing how the light brings out the bruises on my arm that I don’t remember getting. I wonder if it’s leukemia.
Obviously, neurosis travels well.