15 Minutes...

...OK, not EVEN fifteen minutes in Paris and I already got snubbed by a stewardess of all people. I mean the woman is in her late 50s and flying across the Atlantic serving warm nuts … what the hell?

We landed after a delightful flight on AirFrance … I wanted Virgin but was actually pleasantly surprised with the reclining soft leather seats and overall experience. So as we landed at Charles De Gaulle, or as I’m now calling it “A Long Haul,” and were waiting for the ok to open the plane door when said flight attendant approached me staring at my shirt muttering “Ce qui est.”

Anyone from America would have known who makes the shirt right away but I figured, eh, it’s ok and explained, “Abercrombie and Fitch.” A nearby flight attendant of the homosexual persuasion translated “Abercrombie” with the appropriate syllable accents and she “got it.”

“Oh, so sorry. You know, here in France all we do is Chanel and Dior so it is of course my loss,” with a sly grin.

BITCH

The door began to open and I started walking toward her to get off the plane, LV carry-on in tow.

“Do you know Vuitton?” I replied as I approached her.

She repeated my apparently not French enough pronunciation as I rolled my carry-on OVER her Chanel pump.

“OH. VUITTON!” she half screamed wincing in a more convincing articulation of the word. She smiled back at me. Apparently I earned her respect.

Unfortunately leaving at 6 PM from JFK puts you in Paris at 7:15 am which is around midnight back home. So I should be STARTING my day here but unfortunately I’m sure that by the time I get checked into the hotel and post this I’ll be ready to pass out. I refuse to lose a day here but I have no doubt in my mind the beds at the George V will be impossible to get out of once I’m in one.

Reflections on NYC and STL to come. Have the Queens in Queens gotten their power back?