Imagine...

Imagine a sudden swirl of colored lights in your rear-view mirror, accompanied by a klaxon of sirens.
Imagine thinking that it was more productive to drive through a second stop sign, without stopping,because you were near your destination and it made more sense to you to get to where you were going and then deal with the problem.
Imagine you are driving a Cadillac Escalade with a large, beaten up, flat-bed trailer bouncing along behind and, by the time you reach your place of business, you are being closely followed by the original black and white police cruiser and two other back-up vehicles who have been called in and come screaming to join the chase.
Imagine your surprise when several angry officers are yelling at you to keep your hands visible on the steering wheel and they won't let you get out of your car, preventing you from opening the gate around the storage area for the person you were late meeting, who had decided to jump the fence and just about wet himself thinking the sirens were coming for him.
Imagine their surprise when you ask, "Parlez vous francais?"

Fake-It "Til you Make-It!

I am relentlessly cheerful. I have discovered that it does me no good to whine, critique and complain. If I can choose my path it is towards positive thoughts, helping others and fixing what is broken. However, my own momentum will carry me only so far. Sometimes I wish I were not so convincing when I proclaim that all is well; that I don't need any help.

I yearn to hear the words "thank you", "well done", "If you hadn't done...? We would be seriously fucked!" I hear those words often from friends and strangers. They are meaningful, not to be denigrated.

I never hear them at home; where the heart should be. I am tired and discouraged; yet a fool who will rise again tomorrow; full of hope.

"Passport Misplaced?"

My husband is an adult. He was an adult before I was born. Then, (I am told), as now, he could not be relied upon to pay attention to important details like where he puts his passports. The plural is deliberate. We are currently re-ordering French and U.S. passports for him!

This is not the first time. A year or two ago, before we attained our citizenship, we had precious documents called green-cards. Not green, these drivers-licence sized laminated "resident alien" cards permitted us to travel to Europe and back. They must be shown to airlines at check-in to prove that we would be granted entry upon arrival in the U.S. No green-cardee, no takee offee!

Mr. Jet-Set arrived at Charles de Gaule airport and entered the line to check in at Air France for the long flight home to San Francisco. An employee verified his ticket, passport and green-card and he took his place with the other shuffling economy travelers, inching towards their destination.

75ft of zig-zagging between the barriers and it was his turn to heave his suitcase onto the scale and plop down his travel documents one more time. "Et votre carte verte, Monsieur?" "And your Green Card, Sir?" "I just gave it to you", he replies. "But I don't see it, Monsieur".

There was much searching. The poor check-in agent truly began to believe it must be her fault. (She doesn't know what I know). Men with tools were called to dismantle the scale and moving belt that takes luggage away. A long lost Mont-Blanc pen was retrieved but no green-card. The agent tried not to be too happy about her good luck in the face of this inconvenienced traveler.

Mr. Jet-Set is faced with a return into the center of Paris to the U.S. Embassy on a Friday before a three day weekend. He retrieves his rental car, so recently returned, and sets off towards the City. He is the only person I know who chooses to drive to get around Paris.

He gets there before noon and takes a number and a seat to await his turn to be helped. Time ticks by and he makes the only decision possible: time for lunch! He exits the Embassy and goes off to find a restaurant. Returning replete and with a small espresso jolt to keep him awake he again sits down to wait.

There are help-windows for mere mortals and there are windows for consular officials. By 4pm he has his eye on a graciously attractive young Mademoiselle at the consular level. He pleads his case, dredging up a charming persona I have not encountered in decades. She takes pity and hurries through the forms for an emergency entry document. At 4:45 she is done. All that remains is to pay a small ransom and he will have a happy ending. But wait...the sole cashier has left early.

Thank goodness for cell phones and the fact that they really wanted to get rid of my husband that day, without the possibility that he would return the next week. The cashier was already on the ring-road headed off for R & R. It takes a while for him to reroute and return. Everyone has left and all is quiet. There remains my Jet-Setting Liability, the Consular-Section charmer and a Marine guard at the door.

Finally all is in order and as my husband leaves the Marine practically genuflects. After all, this man must be someone truly important to have created such drama.

Hubby made it home to me the next day. A day late and several dollars short. 

Forward in time to the present. Today we had to visit our local Police Station to file a missing passport report, without which the French Consulate will not provide a replacement. Neither the U.S. nor French passports have surfaced since hubby's latest overseas foray. He had them when he came through customs, then "poof!" For the last few months we have been somewhat comforted by the fact that both passports must be together somewhere. I am sure they are, but where? Home and office, car and suitcases have been thoroughly searched. We now know to check inside the shoes at the bottom of his closet. A cell phone once hid there until long after we acquired a replacement.

At the Police Department this afternoon there was a Crime Reported: Passport Misplaced.