barcelona.

The morning of our flight, we walked into Charles de Gaulle with all of our luggage and not a single ticket in hand. Preston was hungover, even more so than Chastity, who had apparently lost herself in the hotel until 5 am in the morning, and as soon as we got in he made a beeline for the nearest bathroom. We, however, were on a mission. Purses adjusted, hair smoothed back, we pasted appeasing smiles on our faces and rolled a few r’s over our tongue for good measure. Calm and calculating, we approached the Air France Customer Service Desk, pacing ourselves so that our helper was the sweet-looking middle-aged woman chatting happily with a friend.

“Bonjour, mademoiselles,” she turned toward us with a benevolent smile, “Comment est que je peux vous aider?” And we were off and running.

Rose, sweet Rose with her Spanish accent that flowed melodically off the tongue, her bright brown eyes wide and endearing, began to recount our tale. On n’a jamais recu les billets. Il y’avait un grand manifestation de la poste. Three charming young American girls, innocent yet not ignorant as most of them were, perhaps with rich fathers who were able to fund these little excursions (they certainly had the look of having been to Europe before, which would explain the passable French accent), from families who were used to getting what they wanted, had been counting on this trip for ages. Who knew the adventures, the beaches, the boys that lay ahead? Wouldn’t it be a shame to have their whole vacation ruined by this simple inconvenience?

And we watched in silent glee as she located our information on the computer, as she whispered in conference with her friend, and from her obtained the code that would allow her to reprint the tickets, an action that was, lest we forget, strictly prohibited by AirFrance.

They were handed to us still hot from the machine, with a demure “Bonne Journee, Mademoiselles”, and a wink as if to say, “This one’s on me.“ We could have easily leaped over that counter and bear-hugged both our savior and her friend, for so deviously yet effortlessly securing us a place on the plane, but instead we returned the formality, let go of our composed act, and, giggling girlishly, pranced back to where Preston was slouched over the luggage cart. It was a bonne journee indeed. We were going to Spain.