In which we reluctantly go through Heathrow

The transatlantic flight was full of overexcited French teenagers coming home from their séjours linguistiques in the U.S. They had spent three weeks apiece with American families and it looked as if none of them had been on an airplane before. They were screaming and jumping around, kneeling on the seats to look backward, and one of them was actually sitting on an armrest in the aisle as we were starting up the runway. None of the flight attendants could speak French, but I could see them very upset in their jumpseats and about to get up. So I said, "You have to sit down and put on your seatbelts or they will stop the plane and it won't take off!"

"Oui Madame!" They looked startled and took their places. "Vous êtes française?"

"No, américaine."

"You understand everything we say?"

"Oui!"

"Ah NON! On est démasqué!"

Once the plane was in the air, the boys and girls resumed their wild behavior. There were pillow fights, whistling, shrieking, laughing, loud teasing and joke-telling. They were sitting on each other. The passengers around them made a disgusted exodus to the other end of the plane, but I had a comfortable seat near the window and didn't want to move.

After a particularly ear-splitting episode, the loudest, funniest boy put his head over the seat in front of me, made big eyes, and asked politely,"On vous gêne, madame?" I had to laugh. In spite of the noise, there was something exuberant and charming about them. It reminded me how most adults don't laugh very much. I put on my headphones, earplugs (which one of the flight attendants kindly handed to me without my asking, along with a bottle of wine!), and my eye mask and fell asleep.

I had three flights to get to Paris, and I had missed the first connection because of a delay. The airline put me on a flight to London Heathrow, which I had begged my travel agent to avoid. At the new gate, the ticket agent ruthlessly took away my carry-on bag: "They've changed the sizes of what's allowed; roll-on bags are too big."

Once we got to Heathrow, we stood in line for an hour to go through security again for the connecting flight to Paris. The rules seem to be changing daily, but as of today, when you fly out of Heathrow, you are allowed only one small bag, which is measured to make sure it does not exceed the new, smaller size allowed. No makeup, liquid, gel, paste. As we waited in the long, snaking line, I noticed that the floor was littered with mascara tubes, lipstick, water bottles, toothpaste, hand creams, suntan lotion, and those little bottles of whiskey and wine that you get on planes. People were just leaving them on the floor since there were no garbage cans in sight.

The French boy in front of me held up his just-bought box of Bailey's Irish Cream. "They're going to take it away from me, I know," he said.

But the duty-free stores must have kicked up a fuss. Except for flights to the U.S., you were now allowed to keep things bought at the duty-free stores. The security people were nice about it. They put the box of Bailey's Irish Cream into a gray plastic bin and sent it through the x-ray machine. They asked the boy for his receipt, and as I left, it looked as if he might succeed in keeping his present.

When I got to Paris, I waited in vain for my luggage. "I hope it is still in the United States," said the man at the service counter. "Otherwise it will arrive several days from now."

Comments

[schuey]

sounds like as much fun as a hangover. ;)

[Jennifer]

Out of curiousity and because of all your transatlantic posts, I can't help but wonder what your profession is... Not that that defines who you are of course, it's just simple curiousity.

I don't think I ever want to fly again! How do you do it?