The flight home was ok. I sat between a couple, and nope, that's not a typo. She wanted the window seat and he wanted the aisle. First impression: "My, she really likes perfume." My first kindness was to offer aisle guy a mint, of which he was desperately in need. "I have plenty of them, and you can have as many as you want!" I said, enthusiastically.
At one point I went to the bathroom and when I returned "window seat" had taken my pillow and blanket. She was all cozied up and sleeping. I nudged her and whispered "Mmmm, I think you have my pillow and blanket." She was so funny! She thought the flight attendant had kindly left her two pillows and a blanket. I got them back and she cozied up again, in a complete stupor she was soon in 1/2 of my seat (I'd put the armrests up) and I was nudged over to her husband's seat. He looked at me with an expression that clearly said "Move it lady!" To which I nodded toward the seat sharing habits of his wife and shrugged my shoulders.
During the breakfast part of the trip aisle seat nearly sucked the plastic yogurt cup inside out and looked so longingly at my (free) yogurt that I gave it to him. You'd have thought I'd given him gold doubloons. He snatched it out of my hands toute suite!
Note to all men who use the bathroom on an airplane:
PUT THE SEAT DOWN WHEN YOU ARE THROUGH.
Note to the "lady" (I use the term loosely) in the customs line, directly in front of me, at Logan airport:
IF YOU MUST PASS GAS PLEASE FORWORN THOSE BEHIND YOU...OR BETTER YET, KINDLY TOSS OFF TO THE SIDE OF THE ROOM, EXPELL ALL NOXIOUS GASES AND THEN RE-ENTER THE LINE. I WILL GLADLY HOLD YOUR PLACE. I GUARANTEE IT. 100%
Top it off with the lady who, waiting in line for the restroom (back on the plane) let loose with an enormous plerpety, plerp, plerp emission of her own, while dancing and doing what looked to be yoga/exotic hindu ritual movement therapy.
All this while I was harboring criminal intent at the United States of America customs border.
I had hidden (vacuum packed) 4 parcels of French cheese (noxious in their own, lovely, velvety way) in my suitcase. A friend had begged me to bring back cheese. She told me she did it all the time. Her suitcase was "full of cheese when I returned from Denmark!"
I nervously filled out my customs paperwork. I checked "no" to food. I checked "no" to diary. I checked "no" to plant materials and agricultural/farm exposure. I felt the pang of guilt. I imagined hoards of humanity being rushed to emergency rooms with bloated stomachs, looks of agony etched on their grimacing faces.
I watched the video monitors as I snaked through the lines at customs and took special notice of the uniformed men leading beagles on leashes to the suitcase carousel. I flinched at the yapping, excited beagle who pounced on top of a suitcase as it circled around...the uniformed agent grabbing the handle and grunting as he hauled it off the carousel. Unzipping the case he exposes...a cache of fresh oranges in a red-net bag!
I got through customs, got to the carousel area. I didn't see any dogs (they must have had the night off.) I sighed a huge breath of relief. I grabbed my bags, put them on a dolly and got into-yet another-line to go out, once and for all when I noticed a couple of beefy uniformed guys, again! Every so often they signaled a traveler to the side, where they opened a suitcase or two and rummaged through looking for contraband...like cheese.
I felt the heat of guilt rising from my toes to the tip of my head. My face flushed. I tried to play it cool and mumbled something about hot flashes at my age.
Next in line, the officer motioned us through. I nearly peed my pants.
I will never smuggle cheese again. I am not cut out for a life of crime.
Yep, I lost my cell phone. I believe I threw it in the garbage, in the giant community garbage containers in every French city and town. The ones that are sunk, 6-8 feet deep, in the ground. The ones that huge trucks with big cranes lift out of the ground...that rotate on giant arms to empty out in the those huge trucks.