Aug 03

On Re-Entry . . . Back in the USA

by in All Travels, Europe, Road School

I made coffee this morning. A whole friggin’ pot.
It’s hot; it’s strong, and I’m completely caffeinated.
I’m not sitting in a Parisian cafe with a tiny little espresso cup.
I didn’t make it in that crazy gravity-defying-espresso-pot that required YouTube tutorials to use.
I’m not stirring it with a tiny little spoon reminiscent of tiny little spoons from Florida parties in the 1980s.
I’m drinking it black from a huge mug that says Bald Head Island, plucked from a cabinet of mugs from other uniquely American destinations.
I just refilled the mug. For the third time.

It’s loud. Everything and everybody is loud.
The Jetson-bus that transports passengers from the plane to the terminal at Washington Dulles was loud. (And for the love of god, can they not dig a tunnel and connect the airport like every other airport and get rid of those ridiculous buses that last seemed cool in 1983?)
The immigration line was loud. And long and slow, but I was tired, so maybe it was just like every other immigration line.

People are oddly friendly. Well, maybe.
The line at Hertz Gold was long (and loud) but not as long as the regular line at Hertz. Those poor souls are still there.
The woman smiled as she assumed I wanted all their extra insurance and rolled her eyes when I declined, then smiled again as she assumed I wanted to get a larger car for $7/day more and rolled her eyes and sighed when I didn’t.
The woman who let us through the gate after confirming I was, in fact, licensed to drive a car in the USA asked “How you doin’ today?” and Emmi was reminded immediately of our Versailles host, who’d opined that the question always seemed nosey to her. We laughed, answered her — our official American Welcome Wagon — and told her to have a great weekend.

The highways are huge and loud and the cars are huge and loud and for a moment I thought I’d forgotten how to drive on these roads. But like riding a bike, for better or worse, I remembered.

Our iphones work without roaming and we can pull email and use the apps and text and call and check Facebook without incurring a national debt.

Netflix works. Enough said.

There’s a washer and dryer that make sense to us, and a refrigerator larger than some Parisian apartments, and ice in every glass.

We speak exactly one language between the three of us. Everyone here speaks that exact same language.

It’s our flag flying around the monuments and on top of buildings and in the parks.

We are home.

And with my mug refilled (for the 4th time, now), I’m looking at fares and options and miles and figuring out how early in June we should return next year so we can actually see and do all the things we want to see and do in Paris before my writing month begins and we do it all over again.

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