The Samsonite Incident

We left New York with many tears. Being a little more seasoned than a few days before,  I ensured I wouldn't be ensnared at security again because of an errant underwire. The boys were relieved that we made our way through rather fiesty security with only the removal of our boots and the retention of our dignities intactus.

The Air France plane was a double-decker, and we quickly sorted out me sitting downstairs whilst the boys were meant to fly solo on the deck above. My superb language skills didn't stretch beyond bonjour but luckily it didn't need to.

That was not until we got into Charles De Gaulle airport ... my French was all bundled into my two travelling companions. Who needs Berlitz? Staff were well dressed, and the queues were spectacular, as we shuffled towards customs. The young man who surveyed our passports had left his smile at home, and didn't appreciate my bonjour or merci.

Finding ourselves on the concourse of a bustling early morning Parisian airport, we were a little flummoxed at what to do next. Here we were, in Paris! Paris-Paris! What a feeling!

So we went in search of a taxi. Sacre bleu! The taxi driver didn't speak English but worse, much worse didn't take credit cards. But alas worse was yet to come ... when I handed the crumpled piece of paper which I scribbled our Parisian address, he shrugged and Jack translated that the driver had not heard of the suburb ... Sevres ... unfortunately he'd read my S as a P ... his Nav-homme was proving to be partiuclarly unhelpful.

That was the first little French bump in our journey. Next was ... ooops ... I'd written the name of our Parisian street address (Waffy's!) down incorrectly. Waffy lived at Rue Léon Bourgeois not Rue Bourgeois ... big, big ooops. Somehow, Jack with his untarnished memory, remembered a Skype conversation of long ago where Waffy mentioned her address. Saved again! This was getting embarrassing.

As we trudged through heavy traffic, on a grey Parisian day, we were delighted by the signs as we pushed through the heavy veil of rain. I was sitting on tenter hooks, worried that Pevres would never eventuate, let alone Nav-homme find us our lovely Waffy. 

Suddenly, we saw the sign for Sevres! My day brightened with relief. After winding up narrow roads, we found ourselves outside the apartment buildings. Square, sturdy buildings which once housed Renault workers for its nearby factory, were framed by a leafless, winter forest.

Paying the taxi driver, Harry and I practically fell out of the car, entangled in his headphone wires. Taking our cases from the driver, as we tried to disentangle ourselves, Harry took his hand from his case, as we continued to endeavour to avoid garroting ourselves. 

Suddenly, Harry's Samsonite took off with missile-like precision, its target a late model Renault, not quite in our sight. As we looked on, at first impressed at the speed of the inadvertent missile, I suddenly realised we might be at the beginning on an international incident. Harry and I were hapless as we struggled with the cords, Jack standing mouth open holding two other potential weapons. 

Faster than a very speedy thing, our middle-aged taxi driver flew after the missile, intercepting it just before it hit the car. 

Trundling the case back up the steep road, we were grateful to have a handle on the now stilled missile. Beads of sweat stood out on the driver's now pink forehead. We thanked him, and I tipped over and above the call of duty, not realising that we'd already been ripped off with the fare costing about twice as much as it should have.  

Standing waving the taxi driver good-bye, Jack noted pragmatically, "I told you Harry shouldn't have a four-wheeled suitcase." 

I think he may have been right.