Q: “Can you describe the exact sensation of being a dying and/or delirious fish?”
Normal, respectable, sane human being: “No.”
Me: “OF COURSE!”
So what, you ask, led me to my proud moment of gasping and flopping on a blue plush train seat, watching the air spin giddy circles around my head, feebly moaning with my rubbery fish lips for water?
That would be my husband. See, Dan knows some things that I did not use to know, like money is not essential for a European tour. Neither is common sense. And forty-five minutes is PLENTY of time to disembark from our international flight (provided it lands on time), gather our luggage, go through customs, buy Underground tickets, cross London, and get on the Chunnel train to France which, if missed, would leave us stranded in England with neither money nor common sense (which I did not yet realize were unessential).
Dan assured me we’d make it, and I wondered if “make it” was some European phrase meaning “die penniless, delusional, and certifiably insane when we get lost somewhere in East Upton Worcestershire and fail to mind the gap.” I, you see, am a realist. But wouldn’t you know it, the stars aligned. Our plane landed early. Our luggage came out first. The customs officer waved us through. We caught the Underground just before it left. We successfully minded the gap and donned our brick-laden backpacks and ran, and ran, and died briefly, and ran some more, and flopped onto our train with EIGHT WHOLE MINUTES TO SPARE. Even though I was delirious and a fish and all, gasping for breath on that blue plush seat was one of the most ridiculously exhilarating experiences of my life.
We made it, just like Dan said, and catching the train was just the first of many marvelous European adventures, including but not limited to getting lost in Paris, ordering pâté thinking it was potatoes, getting pregnant, getting lost in Venice, hiking in the Alps, getting lost in Zurich, antagonizing cows, getting lost in Paris again, climbing 16,300 steps (I counted), getting lost in London, and being interrogated in Iceland in Icelandic about the terrorist nature of our bottled water. Also getting lost in Iceland.
In case your head has not yet exploded from the vulgar number of lists in this post, here’s what I learned from that particular trip:
Money really isn’t all that important in the grand scheme of funness.
Neither is common sense.
My husband, in addition to being right, is a fabulous person to get lost in foreign cities with.
And most important of all, “pâté” does not mean potatoes.
My husband travels like that too. Most of the time it works out. Occasionally you end up in some tiny train station in Italy starving and tired, with no lire (we’re old) and HOURS to wait.
Know what, though? Sometimes the best stories come from when it DOESN’T all fall into place, and that’s ok with me.
This was wonderful and I am wonderfully jealous. Thanks for sharing
Hilarious! This is my first visit to your blog. Will be back and do stop by Black-eyed Susan’s.
Is that a stainless steel eggplant in the background? 🙂
Sitting – I don’t know about the best stories, but definitely the ones most likely to make audiences choke… and to make anal-retentive, super-organized, detail-controlling me spontaneously combust at the memories. 🙂
Chris – No need to be jealous; it’s quite easy to buy a plane ticket with the remainder of your life savings and then let the insanity commence!
Susan – Thanks for the comment!
Darius – If stainless steel eggplants hatch claws of DOOM… Iceland scares me in that horribly fascinating way that makes me need to go back, even at the risk of my own mental health.