I didn’t have a row to myself like my husband just behind me. At the last minute before our flight, the overhead compartment already clicked closed, an African woman in a batik print dress settled opposite me; two empty seats between us. No complaints, though. As we taxied down the LA runway, she covered herself with a blanket, including her braided and coiled updo, and didn’t reappear until touchdown at Charles De Gaulle.
Water bottle, comfy jersey slacks, fleece poncho, pillow, silicone earplugs, and an eye mask; I flew as self-contained as a turtle, prepared to withdraw into a nested self as best I could, taking up two seats. Markus stretched out across his row and covered himself with a blanket.
I drank water but fasted, the eleven hours passing with no need to deflect manspreading—someone shoving his feet into my leg space or jabbing me with his elbows—and no screaming babies. The empty seat in front of me even stayed upright. With ease, I slipped into the aisle to visit the bathroom, which I allowed myself to do at least twice. Relative bliss.
When we fly Air France, something always goes wrong: strike-caused delays; lost baggage; an excessively overcrowded terminal during the pandemic. On this trip, our hop between Charles de Gaulle and Zurich was canceled. Our two-hour layover—just enough time, barring no strikes, to hustle through French customs and security—became a six-hour layover. Of course, on a trip with all the time in the world to get through the gauntlet of hassles, the arrival hall was practically empty and the officers practically quick and courteous. As if we were farmyard beasts, dull and slow, we transited through the endless corridors from one terminal to another.
We used the facilities, brushed our teeth, and washed our faces. Five and a half hours to go and not feeling too sleep deprived.
The outside pressed gray and dismal against the terminal’s large windows; we didn’t regret the near chance to pop into Paris. Five hours to go.
We windowshopped. Four and a half hours to go.
We ate quiche and shared a green salad. Four hours.
Markus bought macaroons for his sister, who’d be picking us up in Zurich despite our late arrival. Three hours and ticking.
We discovered a comfy little workstation. A table for two. Perfect. Just perfect.
A young man wearing a black kippah with a border of Hebrew embroidered in gold thread fiddled with his smartphone next to us—beneath his table, a backpack and a circular hat box. We worked for about an hour, when the young man asked us in French if we’d watch his things. He needed to use the restroom. We smiled. “Oui, pas problème !” we said.
I wondered if the young man was heading to Israel—with the savage war there growing more and more savage.
Phone in hand, he slipped through a throng of travelers to stairs that Markus and I had already taken, the restrooms and passages to other terminals being one floor down. I hadn’t realized there were underground passages as we’d made our way between terminals, but didn’t regret the aboveground walk past bright shops full of luxury, overpriced wares.
Bright stores surrounded the workstation, too—chocolates, wine, souvenirs, and cigars. The scent of warm bread came from somewhere. Travelers bustled by. Men in business suits, women carrying wide-eyed infants or those asleep, their mouths hanging open. A German family of five clad top-to-toe in Disney apparel—sneakers, tutus, magic wands, T-shirts, onesies, and mouse ears—laughed. Tanned backpackers chewed on baguette sandwiches. A wailing toddler threw himself to the floor. An explosive temper tantrum his parents didn’t bother stopping. I recalled our travels with toddlers, back and forth between Switzerland and the US. Some trips bad. Others worse.
I looked at my hands. Age spots and wrinkles; my skin gone grandmotherly.
An announcement came over the loudspeakers. A woman’s voice, yadda, yadda, yadda, asking all passengers, in French and in French-accented British English, to report any unattended bags or packages. The young man’s box and backpack caught my eye, and the whole terminal seemed to go silent.
I leaned across the table and whispered to Markus, “You know, we’ve just done something you’re never supposed to do.”
“What’s that?”
I gestured to the young man’s things with a flick of my eyes. “These bags.”
He understood immediately and closed his laptop. Its click brought the terminal sounds back to life. Murmurs of conversations. Broken wheels of suitcases clattering. Laughter, shouts, babies crying.
“Let’s just leave,” Markus said.
I hesitated in closing my laptop. “Can we run away? Leaving everyone else to some horrific fate?”
A man with a boy asleep in his arms walked by, followed by a woman in a Shayla. She cradled an infant. At the gate closest to our workstation, two boys wearing kippot and sidelocks tucked behind their ears stood at the terminal windows watching a plane dock. A young man chased after a giggling toddler, scooping her up and swinging her into the air, her blonde ponytail aswirl.
“Should we report the bags?” Markus asked.
Where? And what would then happen? Massive disruption, for sure. Everyone’s flights—canceled. The young man taken into custody.
Passenger names announced. A flight’s last call. A woman carrying a lapdog sprinted past a retirement-aged foursome exchanging hugs. And there we were, our hearts beating.
I got out my phone. I could text a possible last message.
I love my family, I wrote.
If the bags at my feet blew, our kids would learn that we didn’t suffer. Think, They had no idea. The moment I pressed the send icon, the young man appeared, rising smoothly up the escalator that companioned the stairs. He slipped back through the pedestrian throng and took his seat. “Merci,” he said.
We smiled—no words.
He tapped his smartphone, activating a screen of text bubbles. Wishes for a safe journey amongst them, undoubtably.
Here’s to safe journeys in 2024.
Meredith Writes 