I love museums and shops and clubs and fountains. I love listening to different languages, seeing strange people, and eating ice cream at an ice cream bar at a quarter past midnight. Luckily for me, my husband loves all those things, too. We love to travel together. But we both hate, I mean really HATE Charles de Gaulle Airport. When my husband is coming over to see me, he has to go through Paris, as there are no direct flights between USA and Sweden. And when we travel together, I must also go through Paris. Like the time when I had to change planes in Paris to get to Rome, and I was afraid that I would miss the plane to Rome because I spent 2 hours running around in the giant maze that is Charles de Gaulle, the Parisian airport. Whoever constructed that thing ought to be hanged by the hairs of his own nostrils! I did make it in time, though, not so much because I figured out how that multi-dimensional map of the airport worked, but because I stumbled upon the correct gate. I got. I’d settled on a guy whose picture had abs to die for. He was able to string more than two sentences together in his emails, he was around my age, and he seemed more or less normal. I was on a high for the rest of the day. My mind was buzzing with things like what he would really look like, what we would do together, and my mind always wonders if I’ll be walking into some kind of trap. I think I enjoy the buildup just as much if not more than the actual act itself. The anticipation is kind of like the feeling you get with Christmas or your birthday. You never know if you are going to like your presents until you open them up and see what is inside. Sometimes you are horribly disappointed and other times your mind is completely blown. We had agreed to meet at his place at eight that night. I knew I didn’t want to do it in a car again. I also knew that I didn’t want this guy to know where I lived. So that left his place. Dangerous but risk is part of the game. I took a long hot bath.
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