Farvel, Bonjour

by Sofia Christensen

It was time to say goodbye to Jyllinge. We woke up early to the full sunlight that rested almost permanently in the sky during Danish summers. We had stayed out late at my uncle’s house many of the nights, bathed in the muted light of a sun that refused to hide until midnight, and which stubbornly appeared again at four AM. Groggily we dragged our over-packed suitcases down the plain white hallway of Søfryd’s, the small hotel we’d been staying at, and managed somehow to lift them all the way down the narrow staircase to go get breakfast before our departure. Reaching the food table, I grabbed two slices of the light bread that I would miss immensely in the States. I cut myself two slices of cheese, piled them on the bread, and sat down to eat my typical Danish breakfast.

Most things about me looked characteristically Danish. The platinum blonde hair and blue eyes seemed a dead giveaway. My long hair was the pale shade that everyone had always fawned over as I squirmed uncomfortably in elementary school. I had hated sticking out, being left alone on one side of a playground in the middle of P.E. games when everyone else fit the description: “Okay, now run to the other side if you have dark hair!” Being in Denmark, in comparison, it was the exact opposite. I was shocked to see that I looked like every single other girl that I saw, girls that walked by in clumps with all of their white-blonde friends. Therefore, while exploring Copenhagen, I was constantly asked long—and in my ears, cryptic—questions by sales clerks, who had assumed I was a local, and who all gave me the same strange look when I sputtered a nervous “Umm…Jeg snakke ikke dansk.” When they managed to figure out I’d said I didn’t speak Danish, they raised their eyebrows in confusion, and left me standing there, feeling foolish.

I sat at the table, finishing my breakfast, and pinched the edges of the white tablecloth in between my fingers absentmindedly, and a bit nervously. Even though I was leaving Jyllinge, I was not going home. I would be getting on a plane to Paris, and then another flight to Limoges, to stay in Chamberet for two weeks with one of my best friends. Flying is not my favorite pastime; therefore flying alone was going to be even worse. My dad and brother were to catch their own flight back to San Francisco, and I’d be left alone in an airport where I looked like everyone, but couldn’t speak to anyone.

The airport was sleek, constructed in the metallic modern style that was a signature of Scandinavian architecture. The long hallways were painted with the natural glow coming from the skylights. It was all so familiar, and as we passed tax-free shops filled with the bright colored gummy candies and licorice that were the staples of my childhood, I felt regret that I couldn’t just spend a few more days with my family. To talk with my two great grandmothers who’d sent prompt birthday cards with love every year from thousands of miles away, when my relatives in California probably didn’t even know how old I was anymore. I gave my dad and my brother a hug goodbye, and watched as they walked away towards their gate, leaving me to stand alone in the hallway, uneasily dreading the prospect of having to face the stuffy plane rides by myself.

I’d flown solo once before, the summer before seventh grade. Although at age sixteen I should have been more sure, the knowledge that I’d have to handle the treacherous terrain of three different European airports—each one more full of cigarette smoke and crowds than the next—was terrifying. I found my gate and waited through a short delay, reading my book with intensity, trying to ignore all of the static and foreign sounds around me. Being alone among the crowd in the waiting area was making me antsy, and I stared down at the small lines of print in Angels and Demons, temporarily distracting my nervous stomach with the cheap thrills of car chases, vengeful secret societies, and overly-dramatic mystery that lay between the thin paper back cover resting on my lap.

Once seated on the small plane, my nerves were finally somewhat settled, and I directed my thoughts towards the knowledge that within the day I would be safely settled into a home nestled in the countryside of France, laughing and eating with one of my best friends. Despite the fact that my Danish was embarrassingly minimal, I found solace in the fact that I’d been taking French for the past four years. Being able to aptly fill in a worksheet with correctly conjugated verbs and precise prepositions, I was convinced that it would cross over without effort into the territory of my speaking abilities. I could order a sandwich in a polite fashion, could ask for the time, the weather, and where the swimming pool was. Yes, I thought, glancing out the window at the long runway as we landed without incident. I’m ready. Or rather, je suis prête.

After landing in the Charles de Gaulle airport and collecting my luggage—the great lump of a rolling duffel bag that was large enough to harbor a plump child—I took out the ticket for my connecting flight, sure that I would be able to find my way to the next gate without an issue. To start myself out on the right track, I approached the information booth I saw across the room, and showed the woman my ticket. Just as I opened my mouth to ask a perfectly phrased French question, she interrupted me and pointed out the door, curtly advising me in English that I needed to take a bus to the next terminal. Oh, of course. I was no longer the proud Dane, but the stupid American. It was that obvious. I shrugged it off, sure that I would still get the chance to show off my French. Pushing my way through the glass doors to the sidewalk, I noticed the bus stop sign. Feeling even more confident that this solitary adventure would turn out to be a bump-free ride, I stepped closer to the sign. In confusion and disappointment I realized that it was a tram to Disneyland Paris. There must be another bus stop, I thought to myself, tugging my duffel along behind me, and looking around frantically like the confused visitor I had been so sure I wouldn’t end up being. I walked and walked, feeling increasingly discouraged as the minutes ticked by dauntingly, no bus to be found. Suddenly glimpsing a set of arrow signs, I decided to follow them, trusting my own insticnts more than any random bus I might get onto.

I finally found myself at a train station, surrounded by families speeding by, and the static sound of announcements over the speakers. Phrases in French so fast and guttural I could barely make out any of the words. I somehow found myself down an escalator at the railway for some train. Turning to a French Canadian family to ask for help, I immediately felt an unexplainable drop in my stomach, and could feel all of my Francophone knowledge drifting off without warning. I muttered, “Quel direction pour…uh…ce...terminal?” while stupidly poking at my ticket, desperately hoping to find answers as I knew the time was passing slowly but irreversibly against my favor. I blushed and smiled in humiliation at my poorly executed question. But the portly father grunted an answer and pointed to the train I needed to get onto. As I looked at the moving print on the screen, I noticed sheepishly that the answer I was looking for was right in front of me. I managed an embarrassed, “merci,” and stepped onto the train, to be whisked off to some other fantastically crowded section of the airport. My breathing finally slowed as I calmed down, thinking of how happy I was to finally be moving towards my destination, free of any further confusion.

As I reached my terminal, I was greeted by the endless expanse of a glass entrance, the geometric windows crawling across the ceiling, supported by immense white beams. I found my check-in counter easily, despite having to use my elbows to get by all of the crowds. Hearing French being spoken around me, I realized just how shameful my abilities of the language were. I then vowed to speak as little French as possible during my adventure in the airport. I stepped up to the Air France counter, assuredly handing the woman across the counter my ticket. She smiled, but shook her head, pointing down the long collection of counters, and telling me I was not allowed to check in there, but had to go to check-in counter number 14. I felt my head slump dejectedly, and I thanked her quietly and walked away. I counted each station as I passed it, and reached the last. Number 13. No number 14. Just a blank wall. This could not be happening. I was sure I’d heard the right number, and yet there was nothing here to be found. Exasperation took over. I stood there dumbly, wanting things to be made suddenly easy for me. But as much as I wished I could simply grab my luggage and somehow run through the wall to the other side to reach Check-in Counter 14 with no more confusion to be had, I knew that this was not England, a train station, or a fantastic world dominated by wizardry. I couldn’t handle it. I wanted to curl up into a ball weeping with scorn, never to eat a real French croissant while laughing gaily at a table on a quaint cobblestone street. Or whatever it was that French people did in their leisure time. After wallowing in my own self-pity for a few moments, I finally decided to fully give up my dignity and ask for help once more. This time, I was brusquely directed to an elevator, and told to take it downstairs. I was utterly skeptical, thinking I was once more destined to end up in another poorly labeled section of the airport where, with my luck, everyone would only speak African dialects, creating a language barrier so impenetrable as to make my head explode in absolute frustration. Nonetheless, I entered the elevator and descended.

Upon the opening of the two doors, I found myself in a long empty corridor that, lo and behold, led directly to a single counter: 14. It is possible I threw down my bag in rage, or that I bitterly shrieked a particularly rude, “Are you kidding me?!,” and more possibly I may have done neither. But without doubt, I wanted to wring someone’s neck. All this trouble was for a single room, one grim hallway that some cruel architect had created to make my trip seemingly impossible. Fuming, I approached the counter, internally vowing to myself that if this was not the correct place, I would throw a temper tantrum, one that put to shame the little brats that kick and scream daily on the shiny floors of shopping malls. I handed the attendant my ticket, waiting for the bad news, but she only smiled at me, took my luggage, and thanked me for using Air France. I exhaled, with bitter relief tension suddenly released from my body. I was going to make it through the day. I would get on that plane, and spend the next two weeks blissfully enraptured by my experience in the French countryside. I made my way to a small security checkpoint, and slipped my black backpack onto the thick rubber conveyor belt. A large woman in uniform was viewing the screen and glared at me as my bag passed through the machine. I was confused. There was nothing in my bag that went against protocol; I had a book, my passport, snacks, and my iPod, and a few other commonplace items. I reached for my backpack, but the woman grabbed it suspiciously, insisting that she needed to open it up and look inside. My sense of disbelief came creeping back. I would never make it to Limoges. Images of me being held in a small office for hours as they questioned me about the contents of my bag, missing my flight, missing out on the rest of my trip, all flashed through my mind. What had I done wrong this time? She unzipped it and reached in aggressively, pulling out, with rancorous conviction, my hairbrush. I wanted to laugh at the complete ridiculousness of her suspicion, but the brooding grimace of this woman reminded me to control myself, and as I held back my smile, I told her calmly it was a brush, and took back my bag.

Never in my life had I ever thought that sitting at a gate waiting to board a plane could be satisfying to me. But as I settled into the uncomfortable seat of cracked gray leather, the fulfillment was overpowering. True, my French had been abominable; I could just hear the dry jokes of my French teacher as she mocked my poor performance. My sense of direction and comprehension had failed me completely, and I’d allowed my frustration to take over completely. But I was the same girl I’d been that morning: one utterly out of place in her own country of origin, and still out of place after leaving. Yet I was satisfied. Once more I took out Angels and Demons, crossed my legs, and waited for the final leg of my trip.