Prepare for me to release you from my European sidewalk-grubbing clutches.
Three hours after I leave city center for the Paris airport, I will learn that the red suitcase I dragged through three countries and numerous metro and RER train stops now weighs 24 kilos. What the hell did I buy during these last three weeks? I won’t even tell you that I mailed one box of stuff back to myself while in southern Spain…
It’s clear that I never should have gotten a pay raise.
My broadened knowledge of the Paris metro system has paid off with me finally heading back to Dakar, a land where any hope of such a fantastic underground innovation is a 100% impossibility. Too bad, because Dakar misses out on ads like this that have been waved in front of my face all week:
I didn’t know what kind of quality movies the Western world had been pumping out until I saw this ad all over Paris. According to my brother-in-law, this is a children’s movie that we call “The Revenge of Pussy Galore” back at home. Or at least it should be.
And while we’re talking about movies….
What the heck is this one really called, and is it a coincidence that I was standing next to the Moulin Rouge when I took the photo? I think not. Morever, shouldn’t Pussy Galore be getting equal exposure in this fantastic Montmartre locale?
So I do get to the airport after dragging my cheap ass through the underground system in lieu of a taxi. Nice French men wordlessly pick my suitcase up and carry it over many metro steps, much to my utter astonishment. So far during this trip I have learned that chivalry is not dead in Fez, Pamplona, or Paris; please make a note that this is probably my favorite thing about men.
Really this doesn’t look like 24 kilograms.
Orly Sud. I’m sitting in the terminal that houses all flights departing to Africa. How can I tell? Well, it’s far more run-down than the terminals containing flights bound for the cities of higher revenue-producing tourists. I could be wrong about this observation, but I doubt it.
As soon as I’m done congratulating myself for arriving at the airport nice and early, I realize that I can do nothing in this duty free shopping paradise but stand vigilant watch over my obnoxious suitcase. That’s because the ghetto-style check in counters show no sign of opening- not even two hours before the flight is to leave. Nice.
[Aside: If you saw the blog entry chronicling my visit to every tourist line (you don’t go to Paris to sightsee- you go to commune with people you would never choose to travel with ever), you already know that I hate listening to others talk about their foreign transportation misadventures. The stories are vapid and unoriginal. Anyways, I just realized that I am doing this very thing to you, which only underscores how self-centered I am. Unlike me, however, you have free will to click away from this posting. I, on the other hand, had to hold my place in line and thus withstood much torture.]
“….and then, after we figured out how to put our little tickets into the machines, we got onto the French subway to go see Sack-ray-Koor Church…exiting the metro there were so many stairs spiraling upwards that I had to stop halfway to make sure my arthritic knee didn’t give out from all the weight of those euro coins lining my fanny pack…and then once we got to the top of the steps, we learned that we were just in the deepest metro station in all of Paris….blah blah blah blah…”
So I’m flying to Casablanca on Royal Air Maroc airlines, ultimately bound for an early morning arrival in Dakar. Ever the bastion of early warning analysis that the Navy pays me to be, I don’t assemble this compendium of facts in my head until I descend up on my gate. There I immediately judge myself as frontrunner in earning the prize as least culturally sensitive Olmsted Scholar ever. I’ll be in two countries that are over 90% Muslim, and I am now sitting at a gate with many good Muslim people and my see-through plastic Duty Free bag containing three bottles of alcohol and pork sausage. Bravo Zulu, Megan.
With faux pas Number One out of the way, I sit down with my new friends and entertain myself by reading the Sports Guy’s Mailbag. I’m kind of laughing out loud and feeling stupid as a result- which only makes me want to laugh more. Is it really that funny, or do I just want to look like a drunken American in front of these other women, all wearing hijabs? You be the judge as I paste in this mailbag question:
“Q: I nominate Jor-El for worst parent of the century. It’s highly irresponsible to put a naked baby in a space ship made of sharp rocks. It’s a good thing there is no child services on Krypton or his ass would be locked up.”
[I’m editing this posting the next day by the way, and I’m still cracking up.]
Flash forward to the Casablanca airport for a two hour layover. My excellent brother-in-law is no longer in my company, but guess what I am able to buy at one AM in the Moroccan morning? You’ve got it, another bottle of duty free alcohol. You would think I was a sailor or something, or that I was traveling to Dakar with the sole purpose of stocking the country’s liquor locker.
Before those of you In The Know correct me, I will point out that alcoholic consumption is not as big a deal in Senegal (or Morocco) as I am making it out to be. And pork is easily had at the supermarkets in Dakar.I just try to be culturally sensitive whenever I remember my manners –which apparently needs to happen with greater frequency.
As I am making my way south on the Earth, the queues for shopping, customs, embarkation and disembarkation are getting more and more harried. I am fairly well accustomed to assume battle stations when forming up in line, and as a reward I am first in line at customs in Dakar. This is an impressive feat. And then my suitcase is almost the last one to come off the plane. WAWA.
My run on the day I left. I found it quite fitting that my turnaround point just happened to be the Léopold Sédar Senghor Bridge along the Seine. Must be Dakar’s way of reminding me that I still don’t have as much autonomy as I’d like to think.
When I finally walk through my front door, not one but two Senegalese men have carried my suitcase within the past hour. One is my night guard, who said that he was worried about me while I was gone and missed me. That’s called gallantry with a Senegalese flavor. They are nice, and they are perpetual opportunists.
The weather forecast for Dakar show days of thunderstorms and 85 degree (but feels like 96) weather. Nice. Ramadan is starting next month too. After everything I have done during this trip, I think I am going to take advantage of showing respect for this holy month by going on a bit of a fast myself. I ate far too well, ate far too much, and enjoyed myself far too immensely during this period. As the Senegalese (and most Muslim people, for that matter) so fittingly say: alhamdoulilah.
Home is where you own bed is.