J’arrive · 30 August 2001
Long airport lines and sad goodbyes notwithstanding, air travel was relatively painless: I lucked into a seat in an empty four-pack on the transatlantic flight, and stretched out in scotch- and Ativan-heavy sleep the whole way.
Herself met me at Heathrow, and we flew Air France to Paris (400 cellphones chirped as the plane touched down), then to Montpellier, landing at 11 pm.
Bombing at midnight across the countryside in her decrepit Ford, grinning like fools, the air hot and rich, the streets narrow.
I’m a little concerned about the sudden admiration I feel for the work of Jerry Lewis and Mickey Rourke.
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