Scene: British Airway’s check in desk.
BA Rep: Good morning. “Where are you traveling to today?” You’ve got our tickets in front of you. You should know.
BA Rep: “I see you’ve changed your seat.”
Us: “Yes.” Seat?
BA Rep: “You’re in 42K and 53J.”
Us: “No!” Huh?
BA Rep: “You’ve only changed one seat.”
Us: “No we didn’t. We changed them both online to 53H and J.”
BA Rep: “Let me see if 53H is available.” It had better be Buster.
Jimmy and I stared at each other no longer with anger, surprise or even exasperation but with resignation. Five long minutes passed. One of us was facing a nine-hour flight jammed up against the window, trapped in our seat by two strangers.
BA Rep: “You’re Lynn?”
BA Rep: Puzzled.
BA Rep: “Oh I see. There’s someone else on board with the same last name sitting in 42K. You’re sitting together in 53H and J.
Me: Standing on tiptoe to peer over the high counter and whispering to Jimmy, “It says that right there on our tickets.”
Jimmy: “I know that. I booked them.”
Me: Standing six inches shorter than himself and back down on my heels, “I wish I had realized that sooner.”
Jimmy had been waiting patiently for the BA Rep to realize his mistake. I’d been imagining an attack of claustrophobia in my seat. Panic was the precursor to another trip.
My reward? After a long haul flight and jet lag followed by two straight days of driving through France – a melt-in-your-mouth croissant, sweet crêpes smaller than a saucer and as thin as your hankie and a perfectly brewed café au lait.
Yes, my friends, we’re in France now looking for somewhere to live, as if 48 United States hadn’t enough to offer.
“I’ll probably die before we find somewhere.”
Don’t worry. that was just a comment on our indecisiveness, not Jimmy’s longevity.