Husband and I have been discussing where to go on vacation this year, and I said I heard Quebec City was lovely, except for all the French people there who’d pretend they don’t speak English and otherwise act like Americans are one step up from toe jam. Our experience with the French on our honeymoon left a lot to be desired when we flew Air France to Rome for our Mediterranean cruise.
They managed to piss us off right from the start when we checked in at the gate and were asked if we wanted to sit together. We said, yes, we were on our honeymoon. “Oh, so the two of you are mahreed?” the ground attendant inquired. She handed us our tickets and said crisply, “Enjoy your treep.” Once on board, we discovered we were indeed in the same row, but on opposite sides of the aisle, both window seats. Seeing how upset we were, the flight attendants shrugged, like, “C’est la vie,” but some kind American passengers rearranged themselves so we could sit together.
It may strike you as petty that I’m still annoyed nine years later, but consider this: THE SAME THING HAPPENED ON OUR RETURN FLIGHT. Different crew, different plane; same request, same result. Air France. So we’ve decided to wait on Quebec, at least until I simmer down.
When we first got married, Husband mentioned that he loved camping, and was that something I was interested in? He said my response was similar to his father’s whenever Husband asked to go camping as a family during his childhood. His father would say, “I served in World War II. I’ve done all the camping I intend to.” My answer was that I achieved my camping pinnacle back in college when I spent a summer on safari in Africa.
Back in 1970, my favorite teacher in high school taught biology class. Sometimes a group of us would eat our lunch in the lab just to talk to Mr. R some more. He was always saying it was his dream to visit Africa while it was still an unspoiled haven for wildlife. I told him that no matter where I was when he got the trip together, he should write me and I’d be ready. In the spring of my freshman year at college, my mother called me in my dorm room and said I’d received a postcard at home from Mr. R. It had two words on it: GET READY.
There were 23 of us on that chartered flight to Kenya and Tanzania in the summer of 1973. Some were current students of Mr. R, some were teachers, some community members, and a sprinkling were former lab lunchers like me. For over a month we shared tents, campfires, and a thousand miles on dusty East African roads in Land Rovers that could never have outraced a hungry lion if they had to. We decided to let the guides worry about that. After all, they were the ones with the rifles.
But no amount of arms could get us past the Ugandan border, and we were forced to revise our itinerary. More was going on beyond that checkpoint than we could ever have known. By the time it was over several years later, half a million people would be massacred by the monster in charge, Idi Amin. And three summers after we were held at the border, an international incident known as Operation Entebbe took place at Uganda’s airport. An Air France flight carrying 92 Israelis among its passengers was forced to land by terrorists who had taken the plane hostage. Before they were rescued by Israeli commandos, the Air France crew refused to leave the plane when ordered unless all the passengers were released. That alone makes me ashamed of my childish grudge.
Daughter’s Featured Fotos tell about the Inside
art and fashion at 112 Greene Street
looking out at LA
roxy’s diner, seattle
PS 122 gallery
the corner
come on in!