Packing for Paris
Greetings from Istanbul’s Ataturk Airport, where the rich diversity of human culture is always on display.
We have played the ‘packing for Paris’ word game with Tallulah about 9 million times. It drives her crazy when I say I am packing “a Tallulah.” She says, “I’m a person, DAD! You are supposed to be packing things, DAD!” It is difficult to capture in written form the mix of exasperation, humour, and polite indulgence (as if for a not-very-bright puppy) that Tallulah expresses with the word “DAD!” The mix may shift toward exasperation over time.
So yesterday we were packing for Paris for real. India, Tallulah and I all felt woefully dowdy and un-hip, in our Cape Town duds. It’s a paradox: South Africa has great design and housewares, but ugly clothes and shoes. Not sure why. Zola was oblivious. India and Tallulah have made clear that they will be packing a lot more on the trip back from Paris than on the way there. The woman at the check-in counter even remarked, “You are traveling light.” Ha ha. Wait until she sees what we come back with.
On paper, Turkish Airlines is a convenient way to get to Europe. Direct flight from Cape Town to Istanbul, with an hour stop in Johannesburg. Easy connection to anywhere. The planes are brand new, and the in-flight entertainment is great (important for traveling with kids). It is also much less out of the way than changing planes in Dubai or Abu Dhabi.
So in theory, this should have been easy and pleasant. Back in our travel-round-the-world days, I think it would have been fine. We are out of practice, though. No one slept well on the flight. External factors played a role. The screamingest baby in the history of air travel was seated one row in front of us. Even the flight attendants, who are used to this kind of thing, realized it was a hazard to flight safety: someone might pull the emergency exit to get away. They seated the mother and baby in the galley for most of the flight. Seriously.
Even though the flight was not very bumpy, a half dozen passengers around us got airsick and barfed. Zola was awakened when the woman sitting behind him spattered projectile vomit on his hand and arm. Nice.
About an hour after the vomiting, the cabin was filled with a horrible smell of rotting meat and pumpkins. Zola had gotten his unintended revenge by taking off his shoes. I double bagged the shoes in plastic, and put them in the overhead compartment. His socks were still pretty offensive, but at least we didn’t get moved to the galley with the screaming baby.
Finally, my fingers swelled a lot during the flight (sympathetic reaction to watching ‘127 Hours’ on the awesome in-flight entertainment system). I switched my wedding band to my pinky, which wasn’t quite swollen enough to hold it on. Somehow the ring dropped deep into the mechanical bowels of Zola’s seat, clanking as it fell. When we landed, after all of the other passengers had disembarked, they sent an engineering team to disassemble the seat. 15 minutes later, we all applauded as a flight attendant slipped the ring back on my sausage-like finger.
We straggled down the steps to an airport bus, jammed with our fellow passengers, who had been waiting for all of this time. If looks could kill, all four of us (even sweet little Tallulah) would be lying dead on the tarmac. I felt badly for a few passengers who must have had tight connections, and shoved us out of the way as they sprinted out of the bus at the terminal.
So, we are slouching around the airport in Istanbul for a few hours. Tired, ratty with each other, and generally off of our peak travelling form. When we get to France in 5 hours, we can rest a little, unpack for Paris, and start enjoying our holiday. Adventure awaits.