Newark Airport and The Flight to Paris Business Class Seat and a glass of Champagne or sparkling wine upon boarding, followed up with another and another and… well one thing led to conversation with my new seat mate, a married man on his way to work. This man, however, was very different than Claus, the American Executive on the previous flight from San Diego to New York was, friendly but not… flirty.
“To ensure the safety of our passengers,” droned on the Stewardess in the bored tones of stewardesses everywhere, and then she switched to FRENCH and it was marvelous smooth sounds and rolling words, soothing to my brain, I sipped my bubbles and thought, “I don’t understand what she’s saying, but I dig it.” I realized that the French language was as promised, better. Sexier.
I don’t remember what he said to me but I am certain that he and not I started our conversation. He asked lots of questions. One or two Bubblies into the flight, I was feeling open enough to answer his many questions and having conducted an informal interview of Claus, in his black running attire, on the first leg of the flight from monstrously bright and ever-sunny Southern California, to the perpetually charming and mysterious OLD WORLD, I felt I owed the universe to subject myself to questioning with the same easy going grace that Claus demonstrated, hours before.
“First trip to France?” he asked me. “No, actually, this is to be my first trip to Paris but, I’ve been to France before. I visited the South, Cote d’ Azure and St. Tropez.” He smiled and said, “It is nice in Nice, but what is truly lovely is Biarritz.” He went on, “It is where the tourists do not go and it is just as fine, the dining is divine!” He looked convinced, certain. I promised myself that I’d look into his statement. I had my notebook on my lap, so I was going to make myself a note, but I wasn’t sure how to spell, “Biarritz,” so I asked him to write in my journal.
He took my pen, looking at it said, “What a nice pen!” Then he wrote in my book, commenting, “What very excellent paper!” “Yes,” I agreed with him. “I bought this diary years ago, and it is a treasure to me. I saved it for this trip. The paper is handmade Japanese rag with threads of gold tossed in for good measure.” At that he laughed and he asked me, “So… what do you do?” “I write.” I said. “Actually, I blog. I’ve got a blog. It is called, “Talkinggrid.” He positively snickered at that one. “What do you write about?” This is, the obvious question, I answer this one a lot, but only recently (thanks to the note worthy contemporary artist Nobel Sounds of San Diego) I have a set answer for this common question. “Well,” I said with a sip and feeling rather important, I was giving an interview, after all, “I write about culture, life… food, art history, art… and spirituality. In other words, I’m a Cultural Commentator!” He looked at me like he did not know what I was talking about, so I said, “I recently wrote about Othello, and the actor Blair Underwood’s smashing performance in the Bard’s best tale,” or something like that. Now, he was impressed.
“OH OTHELLO!” he exclaimed and told me of how much he loved Shakespeare’s most famous play and how well it was put on, in France. He was aglow over the thought of Othello. I know the feeling. I feel much the same about this classic play on race and envy. I watched and enjoyed his pleasure. I commented on what a joy it was to witness the beautiful Underwood strut his manly stuff in the role. His appearance… skin dark and gorgeous, smooth, a father-god kind of perfection brought a lot of value to the production that I enjoyed twice at the Old Globe Theatre in San Diego.
“Did you know that Othello was a real man? His story that of a Moor… of course with some adjustments… it was a warning for black men everywhere!” He laughed, with a very naughty sparkle in his eye. Curious, I asked him of his ethnic background, but I could see that he was like me, a happy child of mad colonialism, a mix of captured Africans and free booting Europeans, perhaps strands of golden everyone… Asian, perhaps… or not… he was like me. We laughed, discussing our respective features and color as only two people of very similar looks can. We talked of his freckles and how very French they were. I’m in some way, clearly Spanish. This is a fact that is redundant to those that know. Between us there was no reason to be guarded since we have a very similar sense of self and history. I’d found another type of instant rapport. This one a little steamy. The bubbles kept coming, the friendly Stewardess having decided that she “LIKED,” me and that I was funny, and that… well… she kept pouring, we kept talking, and that I got sick on the plane is no surprise.
That my seat mate proved friendly when I emerge from my voyage to the W.C. was a good outcome, everybody knows it is a BAD idea to imbibe Champagne on the airplane, I was grateful he didn’t think me an idiot. This interaction, left me feeling optimistic about the pending arrival in Charles de Gaul Airport. He made sure I was, “Ok,” before departing, into the crowds.
(Thank you HM for the editorial support. You are the very best!)