This morning I made the coffee and flipped open the lap top to write for the first time in a while. Anne and I spent the last two weeks celebrating our 40th wedding anniversary traveling through France.
Mainly in Paris and Bordeaux.
I promised myself I would stay away from blogging and fell off the wagon only a few times.
Our time together in France was, without exception, wonderful.
The nine hour flight home was not wonderful. The back of the economy section of the decades-old Air France Airbus is like sailing across the Atlantic in the old days in steerage.
Thankfully for nine hours, not days.
As we crossed the shoreline of Lake Michigan at around 6PM I thought it would be cool to see the lights on at Wrigley for the first time ever at this time of year. Neither of us were in a window seat and we were on the wrong side of the plane.
Later last night the Cubs would have no better luck than we did.
We were luckier, however, than the passengers of the American Airlines plane that caught fire on the O’Hare runway a few hours before we landed.
Flying just isn’t what it used to be.
You know what we all do. As soon as your wheels hit the tarmac we reach for our phone to check emails and messages.
“Anthony Weiner’s Dick Explodes All Over Hillary Clinton’s Emails.”
Anne. We’re not in Paris anymore.
The same wind that should have carried at least a couple of Cub home runs onto Waveland Avenue caused our Airbus to slide across the runway upon landing. Captain Monsieur Jolly – that was his name – made no mention of the terrible landing and simply wished us adieu and bon soir.
Anne and I had invested $85 each for Global entry to by-pass the long lines. The good news is that we were in front of the TV ordering pizza from Father and Son at the 7:05 start of the game after having landed at 6PM at O’Hare. That included picking up our two bags in baggage claim.
We don’t do that well coming home on a domestic flight.
The taxi ride on the Kennedy Expressway from O’Hare to Logan Square was at speed limit on a Friday night.
Usually it would be bumper to bumper at that time. Clearly people went home early for the game.
But the guy at Customs and Border protection was a total dick. He was probably pissed he had to work the night the Cubs were playing. Not my fault. He scowled at us, interrogated us, even criticized the photographs of us that are printed on the receipt that comes out of the Global Entry kiosk.
Welcome home to America.
Where everyone is considered a suspect of something by the our government.
Yet in spite of all that, it is good to be back home.
Now on to game four.