So you board the plane 45 minutes early. You usually fly Delta; Air France is their partner. The flight attendants greet you in French (je pense que c'est normal), but you don't realize you're on a French plane until noticing the electric panel to plug in whatever device you have; it's European (all your adapters are in your checked luggage. Clay texts: "When you step on Air France, you're in France." So you sit in your first class seat for 45 minutes, and are offered nothing to drink. Zero. Rien. Zilch. Seriously? Les Francaise? You assume drinking a few shots before takeoff would be de rigueur . . . ah, mai non. A few minutes before takeoff you are served small glasses of water and orange juice; just what you want instead of a bourbon/ginger.
For dinner, you decide to let D&D be your guide (see above), and order "le suggestion du jour" from the menu: braised quail with red wine sauce and tagliatelle with parsley butter. The smell and taste and savoir faire of precisely prepared French cuisine -- not shitty American airplane "food" -- dance in your mind: frankly you're expecting something good. Well, Shirley-you-jest, because frankly, and with all due respect, il aspiré francais penis. The wine, however and when-ever it came (not soon enough) was good. Apres diner you ask about how to log in to wi-fi. A quizzical look de l'hotesse de 'lair, and, fnally understanding, she says: " il n'y a pas de wifi." Serieusement?!? So you decide to take a Xanax and wake up en Paris. Bonsoir.
p.s. You love the bird in the distance in the opening pic: "wings a mile long."