I simply had to put that title down for posterity (or until WordPress decides to pack up, anyway) because who knows when it will happen again. Because it sounds cool. Because this jet-setting life is always somebody else’s. Because my work trips have involved bussing to the zoo on good days and a dash to the kiddie bathroom on not-so-awesome ones. So yes, I wrapped up my last day of work at 8 pm on a Friday, sent out one more email on Saturday (because I’m obsessive that way), whittled the weekend away and, come Monday, let out a long screech of pre-packing/shopping/getting-shit-together panic.
Never mind. The title should tell you I made it. Here’s how:
After saying goodbye to the Boy like I was sinking with the Titanic, I made it to the bonsai buckets they call plane seats these days. Now granted, I’m chubby, but my legs can’t have grown longer in the past year, no? Virgin Atlantic, it’s a pity real life isn’t Twitter, else you’d have a big #FAIL from me on that front. Nine and a half uncomfortable hours later, that included a stewardess’ generous hips near-smashing my shoulder (No, you cannot ask “How do these things happen to you?” I don’t know.) our plane swooped down onto Heathrow tarmac and my heart took flight.
Ever since my last visit almost two years ago, the Boy has had to put up with a daily buzz in his brain that whines “I want to go to London” in a loop—in my voice. Sometimes people have such problems. Anyhoo, he now reports it missing and I think I detected relief over the telephone line.
Eynsford greeted me with a pretty curtsy. You look as charming as ever, I said, and the sun shone in agreement. Bags dropped off, my uncle, aunt and I were off to the neighboring village of Otford for lunch. (For matters of comparison, and between you and me only, Otford is the pretty sister, while Eynsford is eye-poppingly gorgeous, and I’m sure many childhood complexes still fester ‘tween the two.)
Fish pie at The Bull and poking around in the antiques shop happened in quick succession, and it was home again, home again, jiggetty jig, for I had a train to catch. Mere mortals fly 10 hours and whine about jet lag. People in orange pyjamas go the extra mile and channel, and cross over into neighboring countries. In an episode of OJ meets Eurostar and emerges triumphant, my journey to Paris began.
Coming up next: Paris and its pretty boys.
Stay tuned.
Wisdom Wears Neon Pyjamas 
After Paris, why don’t you hop over to Brussels? I promise you world’s best beer to wash down the earth’s best waffles after eating the universe’s best chocolates.
so glad you’re having fun doll. Also honey, take it from me- cross-continental work trips are never fun- too much jetlag and talking shop, too little museums and culture vulture stuff ( oh and friends who get mad at you because you don’t have time to meet them in overscheduled 16 hour work days). Very excited to see you here soon- heard snippets from one parisian pretty boy, look forward to reading more here…hugs and happus mangoes
You jet setter, you! Nasty seats and stewardesses notwithstanding.
Bonne nuit, chere Madame!
Sneha: Your offer was very tempting. 🙂 Thank you! Perhaps next time.
girlfriend: Bah. More excuses. 😛
dipali: ((Hugs))
I suppose now is as good a time as any to tell you that I’m traveling for the first ten days you’re here:( but promise to make up for it after may 8 with tons of margaritas, mayhem and meandering around- please to stock up on the ncpa dance festival and motley theatre fest in the meantime… hugs xoxox
Appropriately Titanic in April
So the flight wasn’t a thrill
Then pretty Otford
Sister of Eynsford
And who picked up The Bull’s bill?
Girlfriend: I’ve been so tardy with responses to comments that we’ve seen each other twice on two continents since you wrote that!
Aunty G: A pretty table cloth was laid
By a scullery maid
What do you call it
Oh yes, a wallet
That’s how my uncle paid. 😉