Lady Luck (that's me)

So I went to Paris, Rome and Florence, and the only part you're going to hear about is the airplane ride. This is due partially to the fact that two of my three sisters have boyfriends and this automatically gave them more computer time on the trip. I tried to argue that my roommates were kind of like boyfriends that you weren't attracted to but that held no water. It is due secondly to the fact that my memory isn't the sharpest, and unfortunately the return trip is the only thing I can recount with details/complete accuracy.

I left my family at the Charles de Gaulle Aeroporte in Paris to board my separate plane to my hometown. I arrived at the gate just a few minutes before boarding and spent that time scanning the crowd that would be my traveling companions for the next nine hours. My scan registered two things immediately:

1. There were a surprising amount of attractive men heading to Philadelphia that day.
2. This flight was going to be a lot more crowded than my trip there, where I had an entire row to stretch out and read (The Help, which you should read too!)

I boarded close to the beginning, so I watched the passengers file through the aisle beside me, imagining who might take the vacant seat to my right. Maybe the tall, tanned blondish guy with the sharp jawline and white button-down. Or perhaps you, Mr. Brown Curly Hair and Blue Eyes. They both glanced down with a quick smile and moved on. That's OK though, because we still had the tall, dark-complected Italian and the good-looking businessman to go.

"Oh really?" they'd say, leaning closer to my armrest. "You teach middle school? Fascinating. I don't want to bother you, but I'm dying to get your insight on the pre-adolescent psyche."

"Gadsden? As in Alabama? What an exciting metropolis to grow up in! Such a hub of culture and art, evoking images of Scott Fitzgerald's opulent settings...Tell me, what was it like coming of age in such a high-brow society? How did that shape your feelings of self-worth?"

My fantasies came to a screeching halt as a middle-aged, fat frenchman politely gestured for me to allow him into his seat.

I type "fat frenchman" with a frown on my face. When we travel abroad, my family often wonders what it is about Americans that screams, well...AMERICA. It takes me longer to recognize myself in a mirror than it does for the locals to pick us out of a crowd. Over the past few trips, we've narrowed down a few key giveaways for the men at least:

1. baggy t-shirts
2. lack of man-purse
3. chunky-soled tennis shoes
4. shorts (unless they are tight and denim)
5. loosely-fitting khakis
6. (and most importantly) OBESITY

Weight is the dead giveaway. Being skinny or average doesn't guarantee you European, but being overweight automatically makes you American. Which is why this French man's obesity caught me off guard.

Sadly, I moved into the aisle so he could claim his seat. MY seat. Businessman's seat. Curly-head's seat. Swallowing my disappointment, I studied him out of the corner of my eye. His hair was cut very short (or buzzed very long?), and he had put enough product in it to make it stick out in thousands of tiny black clumps over his head. They stood stiff like trees dotting a forest floor of pale, shiny flesh. He had on small wire glasses, and though it was freezing in the plane, beads of sweat were already collecting on his forehead and nose. A silver chain dug into his fleshy neck, dressing up a monochromatic outfit of a baggy beige t-shirt and pants that stopped shy of his ankles. The color of his clothes differed only a couple of shades from his skin, making the wispy black hair on his arms contrast startlingly. I watched as he opened his man-purse and pulled out a video camera. He turned it on and began filming the TV screen in front of us. You know, the one that shows the map of where you are and where you're going. Though the little red plane sat motionless in Paris, he filmed for a solid minute before standing up to slowly pan the plane behind him. I crouched down further in my seat, not wanting to make an appearance in his documentary.

"Oh, look," he'd say to his mother upon his return. "That was le skinny Americaine bitch who sat in the seat beside me. The seat reserved for the attractive lady in the blue pantsuit or the hot redhead in pink!"

No sooner had we reached our cruising altitude was the frenchman tapping me on my shoulder. "Ehhm, es-cuse me," he said with a smile. I put my tray up, took my blanket off, marked my spot in my book, unplugged my earphones, unbuckled, moved into the aisle and allowed him to pass by to go to the bathroom. Two minutes later, I repeated the process again to let him back in.

Three and a half hours into the trip, I'd already watched the only two movies on the flight's list that appealed to me, so now I began ranking the remaining films in order of "Which Movie I'd Dislike the Least." My eyes rested on "Dear John." This movie is inspired by a book by one of my least favorite authors ever, Nicholas Sparks (who also wrote The Notebook, which was turned into my least favorite movie ever). "NO." I said silently. "Absolutely not."

Channing Tatum gazed imploringly back at me from the screen. "But why not?"

"Because, Channing. It's a slippery slope. If I choose you, the next thing I know I'll be watching Miley Cyrus murder her role in 'The Last Song.'"

Fast-forward 45 minutes. Channing Tatum and Amanda Seyfried's relationship has advanced to the point in the movie where they're about to do it in a barn. Typical Nicholas-Sparks-style. Rain. Rustic Setting. Carefully-choreographed sex. At this point, Frenchie gets interested. I've managed to forget about him for the past hour, but now I notice him edging closer. "HEY!" I want to scream at him. "This is my screen! You've got yer own screen right in front of you so quit lookin' at mine!" I start to panic a little. These scenes already make me slightly uncomfortable, I don't want to share the experience with a strange man. As Amanda undresses Channing, his arm makes contact with mine and I cringe. COULD THIS GET ANY MORE AWKWARD?? The next 180 seconds creep by agonizingly, then it's over. Frenchie moves back into his space. I let out a breath. Now I'M the one with sweat on my forehead.

Let it be said: I'm not a huge stickler for personal space. I'll sit too close to you on the couch and touch your arm when I talk to you. I'd rather be in a crowded room than an empty room and would have graduated high school still sleeping in my sister's bed had she not kicked me out when I was 14 because I liked to snuggle up beside her. That being clearly stated, THIS MAN KNEW NO LIMITS. When he stood up to adjust his socks, his ass was flush to my face. When he stretched his arms, his fingers dangled in my hair. When he tried to reach down and grab his pillow from the floor, he grabbed my ankle instead. At this point, I wouldn't have been surprised if he had just gone with it and stretched it up to rest his head on.

Several hours and two movies later, I was watching Miley Cyrus chase raccoons across the screen (damn you, Channing Tatum) when I felt frenchman's breasts on my shoulder. I looked up to see him stooping over me, smiling enthusiastically toward the bathroom. "Eh...I hef to-"

"OKAY!!" I interrupted with matched enthusiasm. I did NOT want to know what he hed to do in there. As with the first time, he took his man-purse with him. Quoi? Was he going to film the inside of the bathroom? Or was he afraid I was going to steal it?

Not long before the flight ended, frenchman's son (?) leaned over our seats to converse. "Washgkak aiue ksjhfiuh alkj ueh gye asiufe useb ufiej!"

"Heh. Heh. Heh. Wodijf woijs lkjoei kju wiuv bu diw kjhi aiuhe jbhoasiuhf iuhwekjhbi oeuhs sioeij!!" his father answered from his comfy seat in my lap.

After the plane landed, I gathered my stuff and waited for a break in the line beside me. The blonde guy walked past talking over his shoulder to a pretty brunette. "Well, it was SO nice to meet you! This would have been a long flight without you. I'm serious, call me the next time you're here for the weekend!"