Forgotten letter on flight to Paris

Reading across various files I found on my computer, I found something I wrote while traveling to Paris this past summer. Interesting read:

Jour Numero Un:

Sitting in this dimly-lit, slightly-musty, cool-but-pierced-with-an-air-of-heaviness space on a A333 jet somewhere over the Atlantic, I have only one thought occupying my thoughts: ugh. The kid in the row in has been crying, but not the normal crying. It’s somehow worse (don’t ask a recently woken, weary traveler how it could get worse than a toddler crying in a confined space while trying to sleep).

My throat’s congested from the mustiness and my nose definitely has limited air intake. My eyes feel bleary and my neck is almost frozen stiff from the discomfort of sleeping while hunched over, a habit developed from years of gleaning my skills at napping on school-desks.

But then, I look out the window and see the sunset. There really are few things as glorious as the breaking of the day seen first-hand at the level of angels themselves.

Ok, this is more like it: I’M ALMOST IN PARIS!

My laptop’s telling me it’s 11:18 p.m. My neighbor’s watch is telling me it’s 12:18 (he’s from the East coast). My itinerary tells me I’m landing at 6:50 a.m.

None of these matter, however.

It’s just as well, as they don’t make sense at the moment. My body’s demand supersedes all of these: SLEEEEEEP. I guess it has reason to complain. I slept not even a minute yesterday due to my usual packing procrastination (1 a.m. the morning before a flight is a new record!) and took random naps at Houston Intercontinental, on the flight to Philly and now managed only some cramped, flustered sleeping, the results of which I already ventured to enlighten you with.

I can’t really tell how I’m feeling, except for groggy. The fact that we’re landing at seven in the morning in Paris time, while my body’s convinced it’s midnight, is going to make this a tricky day. We’ll see how it goes!

I met a few of my peers in the program. Very nice girls! We’re all at such different levels of French, I feel neither behind nor particularly gifted.

At this point, I have only the following expectations: good food, learn French, good company, learn French, see some great places, learn French, see some old friends, learn French, make new friends, and spend innumerable hours surveying the art that for the past six years I have only seen in my textbooks.

In other words, expectations are most certainly high! I have faith they will be expectations fully fulfilled, too.

Here comes sleepiness again. Better go try to take one more nap before landing. Wouldn’t want to look too much like a slovenly American when I meet my host family!

A bientot mes amis!