The following is an account of third-year College student Hannah Woolf's journey from her home in Maryland to Nantes, France, where she is studying abroad this semester. The trip involved several legs: a flight from Maryland to London; a flight from London to Paris; a train ride from Paris to Le Mans, France; and a train ride from Le Mans to Nantes.
Monday, January 9.
Woolf residence. Gaithersburg, Maryland. 8:45 a.m.
It's too bad no one really uses the alarm clock anymore. It was quite the motivation device. The more horrific the sound, the more clearly you knew you'd better get up because you had a real day ahead of you.
But I'm rising and shining to the friendly-reminder jingle of my cell phone -- the phone menu doesn't even call it an alarm, it's a "wake-up call" -- and I don't feel the urgency I think I should feel this morning. In a few hours, I'll be on a plane en route to France for the semester. And I'm not finished packing.
Baltimore-Washington International Airport. Baltimore, Maryland. 6:30 p.m.
Luggage check-in always awakens some excitement in me. Like any chronic over-packer, I've studied my airline's luggage restrictions in and out. Yet I have no way of preemptively weighing a suitcase that could be home to a pack of small dogs -- bathroom scales just don't deliver. I've estimated its compliance in other ways (e.g., can I drag it down the stairs without being crushed under its ruthless mass?), but I'm anxious nonetheless. I'd rather not pay $200 for oversized luggage like my last trip abroad.
So it's at the luggage counter that the thrill arrives: Have I exceeded the maximum weight or not? It's a bad sign that three people are needed to lift the suitcase onto the scale, but I brighten when the scale declares an excess of only .20 kilos. What joy! I simply remove one of the many unnecessary belongings I've packed and watch the number fall just under the allotted 32 kilos.
Then the woman behind the counter casually adds that soon -- prior to my return flight -- the airline will be shifting its limit to 24 kilos.
Inside a Boeing 757, seat 22K. Baltimore, Maryland. 8:29 p.m.
Success already: I'm in a window seat. All I need now is an acceptable seat-neighbor. Please, please, please let this person not have body odor or the plague.
8:31 p.m.
Luck strikes again. A charming, non-smelly young fellow approaches the seat and deposits his belongings, after which he offers to help me place my bag in the overhead compartment. And when I realize I've forgotten to take something out, he cheerfully brings the bag down and puts it back up again. How delightful!
8:36 p.m.
Have not yet spoken with neighbor since luggage-based interaction. This may pose a problem.
There is, after all, a whole separate airplane social etiquette. The cardinal rule is that without securing a morsel of contact before takeoff -- eye contact and a polite smile will do -- striking up conversation later is strange and uncalled for. In my case, I've secured this contact, but I may soon violate the converse rule: Once you've established contact, you must initiate conversation after a modest passage of time.
If too much time passes, the initial contact is negated and rule No. 1 is back in action: Since you haven't said anything in a while, it will surely be awkward to leap into a conversation a few hours into the flight.
8:37 p.m.
"So, is this your first time going to Europe?" the seatmate finally asks me. Excellent, just the initiation I've been waiting for/avoiding doing myself. "No," I reply, and proceed to tell him my life story.
8:45 p.m.
3 ... 2 ... 1 ... takeoff. Do they say that in planes,or is it just a rocket thing?
Somewhere above the Atlantic ocean. 11:12 p.m.
Conversation is progressing swimmingly. I haven't even noticed the time pass by. This is great!
Tuesday, January 10.
Still cruising over the Atlantic. 12:32 a.m.
Oh. My. God. I can't stand hearing the sound of my own voice anymore. What is proper airplane etiquette for excusing yourself from talking to someone when you aren't going anywhere anytime soon? If I use the ol' "Oh, I have to go find my friend" party excuse, will that be too obvious?
12:36 a.m.
Saved by segueing into the thought-provoking film selection on channel seven. "Wedding Crashers."
Heathrow International Airport. London, UK. 8:55 a.m., London time.
I've just parted ways with my seat buddy, with whom I salvaged relations at the end of the flight, and now have located my connecting flight on the schedule board. It turns out busy-bee Heathrow only announces your flight's departure gate a few minutes prior to boarding time, so I plop myself onto a metal chair amidst other nomads in an undefined area of the terminal and prepare to wait. I scribble in my as-of-yet naked travel journal, feeling very worldly. Fueled by an unknown energy source, I pull out my iPod and begin tapping my feet and nodding my head vigorously to the music as if to make a statement to all the lazy sleepers around me.
9:47 a.m.
Fuel supply has expired. Fall asleep instantly.
10:44 a.m.
Wake up to find myself sprawled out on approximately eight chairs. Have I been slobbering on myself in public? This is so embarrassing.
Airports are strange, I think, as I gaze at the sights in my dazed state. The stubborn fluorescent shop lights seem an inappropriate backdrop for so many tired, disoriented, disheveled travelers. I wouldn't mind tearing down a Longchamps store to make room for some complimentary rejuvenation stations. Who doesn't love communal showers?
Train station. Nantes, France. 7:31 p.m.
I've fast-forwarded to my final destination because, quite frankly, spending the last eight hours mostly asleep has left me with few observations. Highlights of my waking moments included the following: (1) Waking up, by an act of God, precisely 30 seconds before I was due to disembark the train at my transfer station. (2) Hauling a purse, a large carry-on and two suitcases (one of which weighs 32 kilos, lest the reader forget) up a flight of stairs. (3) Being helpfully informed by a French woman after the hauling that the elevator had been to my left.
Now I've just called my host mother after some head-butting with the pay phone (What kind of a pay phone doesn't accept coins?), and she's on her way.
7:42 p.m.
One of the fine young gentlemen (in the United States we might call them "hoodlums") who assisted me with my phone predicament approaches me. "I love you," he confesses, and I respond in kind with "Je t'aime aussi." Next, things get a little intimate when he proposes to marry me. I politely decline with the excuse that he is too young, but, not to leave me lonely in this strange country, he introduces me to his 29-year-old friend as an alternative suitor. Others, including the station security guard, gather to ask me more questions.
7:58 p.m.
My host mother arrives at the train station as I'm still in the midst of speaking with these members of the upstanding citizens' brigade. She spots me and shoots me a slightly concerned look. But seconds later I get up, we greet and hug each other, and so begins the semester.
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