Flying Flock Style, Part 2

This is part 2 of 2. If you have not read part 1, this will not make a whole lot of sense. It is not - therefore - recommended that you begin reading of this segment without first reading the previous post.



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I learned many things about my new companion. As a young bride, she had lived in Paris. Her husband had worked in many different countries after that, and she had traveled with him. This had provided her with many years and many experiences upon which to base her numerous opinions.

“Why everyone go to Paris?” She asked – at that point – looking around the plane with an expression of mild disgust. “What about Paris? I no like.”

She looked directly at me. “Americans like to fly.” She asserted.

“Oh?” I questioned mildly.

“Yes.” She nodded with emphasis. “Fly too much.”

At this point, the conversation veered back to Paris, or – more specifically – to the “French people.” It appears that my seatmate considered the French people to be incredibly rude and unhelpful. “Not,” she stated with a loud voice, “like Americans.”

“No?” I asked, uncertain of what she meant.

“No. Americans simple. You know?” She looked at me, clearly assuming that I DID know, being an American and all. I wasn’t sure of precisely her meaning, but thought that I would just “go with it.” It didn’t seem like an insult. She said it rather as if it were high praise.

I might have gone on to voice some sort of agreement, but realized that we were already on to a new topic: the grandchildren. I considered this: It did make a sort of sense, since they were first generation Americans. I slowly began to tune in fuzzily to her words, only to snap my attention sharply back to her when I realized exactly what she was saying. Surely she was mistaken??

She was telling a story – laughingly – about how much her grandchildren adore their father. So much, she said, that when they stay with him (he and his wife are divorced) they each insist on sleeping in the same bed with him at night. That alone was odd enough – but then she mentioned that his daughter is SIXTEEN and son is EIGHTEEN! SURELY she could see how strange this was?? But no, she didn’t seem to think much of it at all. Oblivious to my incredulous stare, she continued with her narrative. Now she had launched into a description of how affectionate her 18-year-old grandson is.

“When I leave,” she said, shaking her head and smiling, “he kiss me here, and here, and here, and here…” She pointed to spots all over her face. “He say ‘I love you [insert Lebanese word for Grandma], I love you, I love you. So many kisses.”

She smiled fondly at the memory, and then began to talk about how he has a habit of resting his head on his father’s shoulder and cuddling with him.

Hmmm.

I was feeling a little off-kilter. This seemed SO strange and bizarre to me that I began to wonder if I was the one with the warped view, rather than her. My mind just could not make sense of it.

Luckily, I was given very little time to think about it before we were “off” again – launched into a new conversation.

And so passed the flight, through the night, over the dark ocean and to a foreign continent. The plane landed in Paris, and – as we began the preparations to disembark – I wished my new friend safe travels. She looked at me, and I saw the concern in her eyes. With one hand, she reached for the back of my arm and squeezed it.

“You too,” she declared, in a soft voice. “You too.”

As I walked off the plane, I took a bit of my Lebanese companion with me. I felt – for a moment – sheer gratitude that I had spent those hours with her, that she had been my companion as I launched my solo journey. Stepping off the metal and unto the firm floor of the Paris airport, I sent a silent prayer for her continued well-being into the air around me. I thought for a moment, and then – for good measure – said a prayer for her seatmate on the connecting flight from Paris to Lebanon.