Naomi’s going to Mexico City via New York City. I’m going to Paris. After getting up at 5 am to take the taxi that takes us to the marshrutka that takes us to the shuttle that takes us to the Kiev airport, I’m in that perfect soft, sleepy mood to spend several hours at Borispol International Terminal D waiting for my flight to France. I while away the time reading a crumbling paperback copy of Malcolm Lowry’s Under The Volcano and spying on my fellow passengers all of whom seem to be obsessed with getting their large pieces of luggage wrapped in plastic and/or devouring homemade lunches comprised exclusively of cucumbers (whole), tomatoes (quartered) and hard boiled eggs (whole). There are a lot of tall glamorous ladies in tight dresses and high heels accompanied by short, stocky men with stomachs peeking out of t-shirts advertising sports teams. Bon voyage, everybody!
At Charles de Gaulle, customs takes two seconds, my bag is waiting for me on the carousel, the taxis are lined up at attention and 45-minutes later I’m ringing the buzzer of a building on rue de la Rochefoucauld… home for the next two weeks. C’est magnifique!
