Okay, so, I sorta skipped over the whole plane ride and beginning of le voyage.

Let’s start there before getting too ahead of ourselves.

Now I know Delta and Air France {and KLM} are all partners. The whole “Delta Air France” thing is alive and well. But let me just tell you, and this is definitely on the record — that Air France and Delta are nothing alike.

Delta Air France, should be and for future purposes here, will be referred to as simply “Air France” — these are two totally separate entities.

Note : I was on a Delta flight. No Air France in that. Because Delta is the only carrier that flies out of Cincinnati {I’m still trying to get over that it’s the only international flight out of CVG}.

Delta doesn’t come anywhere near Air France in terms of quality and just that certain style and oh, je ne sais quoi. Air France knows how to do it, and do it well.

It’s that whole presentation thing that the French have down so damn well. Not only are the seats more roomy, and comfortable and come with foot rests and your own personal screens, you even get a freaking dinner menu. That’s right, a menu! And this isn’t even First Class.

Just imagine poor little ‘ol me, whose only flown Air France 12 times, on my Delta flight, totally clueless. Still hoping that the Delta wasn’t standing alone and that the Air France was going to join in at some point.

The first sign of trouble started on the opening beverage cart run. No champagne or wine was being offered. Any alcoholic drinks had to be paid for. Come again?

Air France does not do this. All alcool is included. Yep, it’s all you can drink. Which on a night time flight, as Maman says, is quite helpful to relax and put one to sleep. Isn’t she so wise?

So that totally threw me. Then my seat, the one I upgraded for $39, was a big bust. Big.

It wasn’t an upgrade at all. It was supposed to be a bulkhead/Exit row seat. Um. Not even close. The two rows directly infront of me were, but mine wasn’t. There was not one damn thing different or “special” about my seat that warranted $39, which I confirmed with the charming flight crew, who was actually more outraged than me. All I could do was picture the look on TC’s face had he been there.

Technically my seat was taken when I went to sit down, but my seatmate was so cute and so darn nice, that I didn’t have it in me to be an asshole about my window seat, so I let her stay. Plus, I like the aisle and getting up to move

We totally hit off right away. It might have helped that the first thing she asked was what year in college I was, since she is going to be starting Stanford in the fall {on a running scholarship — girl had her some amazing legs}. Flattery gets everyone everywhere. Me, in college? I’ll take it.

She asked me if I speak French, so naturally feeling a tad bit superior, because how many people speak French in Ohio, responded with oui and was completely schooled when she answered me back in absolute flawless French. Turns out her mom is French, and she might as well be a Native speaker. By the end of our flight, I felt so fond of her, like she was my little sister. In fact, I’m willing to bet she was in my petit soeur in another life.

Back to the ghett-O flight.

So it was already thumbs down on my crappy seat {upgrade my ass!} and double thumbs down on no complimentary alcoholic bevs, which I’m not sure why that bothered me, since we all know I’m not a big drinker. At all. It just did.

Then. I was completely mystified that the only screens, were really shitty ones, spaced way in front of me. What happened to personal screens, where you can choose from like 10 movies and 15 mini series’ to watch? I know it probably sounds silly, but, this is one of the things I look forward to the most on long, international flights — catching up on my movies.

Not happening. Literally. Because guess what. Lucky right side of the plane – the entire sound and lights were not working. By the time dinner came around, and I was given a glare for asking what happened to the menus, I became 88838483 times more in love and thankful for Air France.

On the positive side, as mentioned, I had my cutie seatmate and did get some adorable mini reading made in China lights. And one of the flight attendants, who had been particualry enraged about my bogus “upgrade”, started bringing me Champagne and strawberries from first class. After two and a half glasses, I was feeling it and could hear Maman’s words as my eyes started close. Damn right it’s helpful to fall asleep.

Sleep came for precisely 33 minutes. At which point I just felt all out of wack, because now the sun was starting to come up. It’s very odd going from bright day to sunrise on the horizon.

When we landed at Charles de Gualle, I was truly sad to part ways with my sista seatmate, whose final destination was Barcelona. Hope to see her again. Just as I was getting in line for Passport control, a voice behind me says: “Are you here for the study abroad program?” in a twangy drawl.

Flattery. Again. Gets everyone everywhere. Really does. Why yes, study abroad. Of course.

I didn’t really say that, but I thought about it. For a brief second. I decided to keep it simple with “No”. I recognized this girl from my flight and as it turned out, this was not just her first time out of the state of Kentucky, but anywhere.

There’s a shock for you. The first time you leave to go somewhere and bam. Passport control central in Paris. I immediately took her under my wing. As we were waiting for our bags, she explained that her father had paid for a car to pick her up.

Now my plans were to haul Big Blue on the RER to le métro. I heard “car” and suddenly perked up. Could I be so lucky?

Yes, I was. After finding out that we were staying no more than five minutes away from one another, I asked if I could ride with. She didn’t mind and seemed to feel more at ease that someone would be with her. You know, in case the driver turned out to be insane or a serial killer. Or both.

Next on the list was making sure Monsieur driver didn’t mind. It took us a while to find him, and when we did, he refused to listen to me. He kept shouting at us to quickly walk, which was more like a jog since he was sprinting through the airport. Turns out he had parked illegally and had to hurry to make sure he didn’t get towed. His exact words to me were : we talk in the car.

So we get in the car and off we go and thus began my bargaining. How much would he charge? I love how direct the French are. “You want ride because you are friend. Fine. But we figure out price when we get there.”

I had no other choice, though the statement made me a little uneasy. What if he wanted 60€ when we got there? It’s not like I could have said no. I mean, I would have, but you get my point?

Little Miss Kentucky was absolutely star stuck during our 45 minute ride. I’m sure it was like one shock after another, especially all the crazy weaving in and out of traffic that was happening and the horns and the slamming of the brakes last minute, just narrowly missing hitting the car in front of us by a millimeter.

I loved it. Especially the Aretha Franklin he kept blasting. I started singing. He started singing. And that did it. Just that bit of music, bringing us together. Lightening the mood. Giving way to more music discussions and life.

Monsieur driver was awesome. He had a great style about him {don’t all French?} and I will remember those Aviators reflecting the morning light and his blue scarf that didn’t look at all gay, but in the U.S., totally would have looked gay.

After he dropped Miss Kentucky off, he said I look like and thought that I was Laura Prepon, from that 70s show. Which I found ironic, because when I lived in L.A., I got stopped all the time by people asking if I was her, or someone would ask my name, and I’d say, “Laura”, and then they’d freak out and think I was her. I might have been known to scribble my name a couple times in autograph attempts.

What else was I going to do at that point? It would have been more embarrassing to say no. Yeah, pretending to be someone I’m not. How in line with What You Be.

Anyway, Monsieur Driver, told me that he knew I couldn’t be her though. I asked him, “why not”.

“Because you would not be in zis car. You would be in a Mercedes.”

Point taken. He’s probably right.

When he dropped me off and I started to get my bargaining powers on, he told me not to worry about it. Enjoy my stay in Paris.

Boo-Ya.

Manifesting free ride to my apartment. Check. Even if it wasn’t a Mercedes.