Excuse my F...

Fries, letters, beans, toasts, doors, doctors, kiss but also manucures, knickers, horn, dressing, Riviera, chalk, polish, mustard, connection or paradox... Get over it, the French seem to be good at quite a few things!

The Saturday Shot #13: treats?

When you are like me, a Frog in London who has been raised on a Beatles soundtrack and with a piece of chocolate as the desert treat to conclude a festive dinner filled with Foie Gras and Escargots, you can only appreciate that shelf of treats... Seen this Saturday in West London in a traditional sweet shop, a childhood dream come true.

"Happy is the chocolate who, after having travelled the world in a woman smile, loses its life in a palatable kiss as it melts in her mouth" Anthelme Brillat-Savarin (1755-1826)
(loosely translated from the original quote: "Heureux chocolat, qui après avoir couru le monde, à travers le sourire des femmes, trouve la mort dans un baiser savoureux et fondant de leur bouche.")

Watch your moves (bis)

What's up doc?

It had been a while since I faced such a humorous situation due to a linguistic misunderstanding. The previous iteration was when someone used "tongue in cheek" as an expression and I thought it had to do with oral sex...

This time however no kinky analogy, but a medical misunderstanding when I poorly translated a French idiom in English. After having updated my Faceboook profile with this misleading sentence, in the course of the next thirty minutes, friends from all over the world were pinging me emails of sympathy, inquiring about my health... Thanks everyone for your concerns, but I am fine. Really.

So what did I say? Having had a poor day with a succession of bad news, I declared: "Gutted, I have inflated balls right up my throat". Writing this statement again now, with its aftermaths in mind, I realise that it calls an image of damaged limbs for the non-initiated... But that was certainly not the intention, so let me unfold the true meaning of this idiom.

Balls of steel.

In colloquial French two expressions describe a state of growing irritation. The first one is "Ca me gonfle", which could translate into "it inflates me", whilst the other one is "Avoir les boules", i.e. "to have the balls". Both expressions are closely correlated and express a similar feeling: being gutted or upset.

Visually they can interchangeably be accompanied by an appropriate gesture: two hands grabbing imaginary balls on each side of the throat (NB: with a more discreet alternative, where one hand claws the throat in a short back and forth movement).

It seems that this image would illustrate the fact that you are annoyed to the point that the "balls" - which are usually located a good meter lower - tend to make their way upwards like two inflated balloons, up to your throat.

So now you are warned. The next time you see a French guy massaging his throat suggestively, he may not be looking for a Strepsil... He probably just want you to leave him alone with your boring stuff.


To read further:

• Watch your moves, an article on how certain gesture and idioms can really be misleading;
• Season misunderstanding, or how some deers end up flying in the French sky;

The Saturday Shot #12: dolce vita

La Dolce Vita in London. This Saturday Spring has really taken over Winter. The sky was blue, the air warm, the sun bright, and life all the sudden was more enjoyable than ever.

"It's spring fever. That is what the name of it is. And when you've got it, you want - oh, you don't quite know what it is you do want, but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so!" Mark Twain (1835-1910)

The Russian (business) dolls

Unveiling the truth.

For business, Russia is still today an interesting case of opportunity, threat, unknown and known... A Russian distributor, Tochka Opory, has nicely capitalised on this situation to promote its understanding of its domestic market and complex culture.

A very nice execution to enjoy, a glass of vodka and a spoonful of caviar:

A mountain dweller in the Þingvellir valley

Visit Iceland.

No, this article does not have a typo in its title: it is the actual spelling. Last week I was kindly invited to present at an internet marketing conference in Reykjavik, and had the subsequent pleasure to discover a tiny, little part of that obscure country over the week-end. I say "obscure" because if many people have heard about Iceland through its impact on global air traffic or the worldwide economy, too few have had the opportunity to actually visit this country. And it is a shame.

As a local idiom says, "there are many wonders in a cow's head" and since I am not that mad myself, I want to share some of the wonderful facts which seduced me in the three days I spent there. Just an early taste to completely convince you that this should absolutely be your next travel destination. Question/Answer style.

Was JRR Tolkien an undercover Icelandic?

I must admit I got inspired from the very first moment I headed to Iceland. The national air carrier, Icelandair, had the interesting idea to share some random facts and figures about about our destination. Well, not that random as they are intended to fight against the cliches associated to Iceland being just bunch of glaciers with seasonal northern lights...

One of these statements struck me: "50% of the population believes in elves..." My immediate conclusion was that the other half of the population must be the elves themselves! My only previous encounter with this country was indeed through Bjork, and you must acknowledge that she is nothing but an average human. Her musical and graphical universes are eerie, and her innocent baby face capable of moment of fury is very close to these agile archers from these fantasy novels.

Interesting enough I was able to prove that Icelandair statement right on our second night. We met then local artist, who envisioned a multi-acre theme park plugging its visitors into the legends of Atlantis, Vikings, Elves, Middle-Earth, etc. Here a roller coaster goes through a cryptonic cave; there a White Tower faces its dark alter ego... His vision, enriched every day for decades to most insignificant details, only awaits a patron and a location to be turned into a reality. And for those who may think this is a crazy idea, let me remember you that his visionary castles are not visited by over-sized mice and ducks wearing gloves and dressed up like pupils, so who is mad?


Can Icelandic make an impact?

The problem with having your very own niche language and alphabet is that you are a challenge for the rest of the world. I was afraid that beyond Reykjavik and Eyjafjallajökull my Icelandic was pretty rudimentary. My 17-month old son keeps on saying "bjork, bjork" but I am not totally convinced that he is fluent either... It might just be that he does not like what we cook him for dinner.

Anyway, all this was before we were explained that Geyser, which means "eruption" in the local language and was referring to a specific place where hot, sulfuric water was sprayed at over 17 m in the air, has now become a generic term for all these eruptive water sources. In the process Iceland managed to add its contribution to the global thesaurus... A performance that Moldavian people still work on.

Joke aside, I could not avoid but finding the following situation really ironic:

This active Geyser, located a few meters away from the eponymous original, is called Strokkur. It erupts roughly every ten minutes. Roughly... So tourists gather around, all cameras out, waiting impatiently for the early signs of the next round. A ripple here... click, click, click... Missed. Someone shouts: "I saw a bubble, here it comes". Click, click, click... Missed again, fortunately we are now in the digital world. And when you are about to give up, without a warning, a jet of steam and water droplets pop out of the ground, catching short the most inpatients. By the time the latter have their SLR out, it is too late: the water is back to its pseudo still appearance. I could not avoid thinking that the locals must have named that geological wonder after the grumble of frustrated French tourists. As a matter of fact, Strokkur really sounds like "c'trop court", the French for "It's too brief!"...

Who else could invite The Grim Reaper at his table?

Iceland is geologically hyperactive: geysers, volcanoes, rifts... It is not too much of a stretch of the imagination to understand why some see an analogy to hell in this lanscape. But that morbid thought find an echo on the table of locals too. If you visit Iceland you are bound to have to face the Grim Reaper either in liquid or solid form.

Unmistakeably called "Black Death", the national spirit is made from fermented potato mash, flavoured with caraway seeds... And it seems to be the best remedy to the strange aftertaste that the other local culinary pride leaves in your mouth at first bite: rotten shark. Yummy, and cheers... So here is another amusing picture I could not avoid but taking:

Is that me of the local lifeline really looks like... a bottle? Drinking to forget that you have a piece of degenerating sea predator melting in your mouth? I can buy that.

Is everyone on steroid on that island?

When I said that I knew nothing about Iceland beyond Bjork before this trip is not totally true. As a regular reader of this blog you probably know that I have a heavy TV consumption, especially when it comes to sports. Well, sometimes at night you land on these awkward programmes called "Strongest Men in the World" whereby long-haired giants in lycra outfits try to pull tractors or lorries with the strength of their only right ear... It seems that Icelandic excelled at that exercise as they were trusting the podiums. And if half of the population were elves, the other half may be giants.

This assertion was supported by the birth of a baby amongst our friends. The mother happens to be Icelandic, and the little one, born three weeks after ours, was almost twice heavier at three months, without extra fat. It was just a big, solid, massive (promising Icelandic) baby.

Well, when we toured the southwestern side of the country, I realised that not only babies were super-sized. Cars were too:

In my previous trips I have seen many all-road vehicles, but that is the first time that I could see monster trucks used as everyday cars, and not stunt vehicles. This picture probably does not pay tribute to the scale of the wheels, which turns these 4x4 cars into glacier-ready touring vehicles. In fact, they are so big that I could stand by the car and check the chassis without having to bend my knees. Iceland may just be the paradise for arthritis-struck mechanics.

Habla espanol?

And finally I could not finish this humoristic review of my visit to Iceland without sharing this brilliant point of view from Oscar Carreras, a fellow presenter at the above-mentioned conference. As you can tell, Oscar is a Spaniard and when we, the Spanish and the French visitors, talked about our Icelandic hosts, it totally made sense: constantly late, tactile, apparently disorganised or even messy... but genuinely friendly and welcoming. They were hardly representative of the typical North European behavioural stereotypes, i.e. distant, to the point, straight, rigourous... The Icelandic are simply latin Vikings. They are the Spaniards of the North!

And I will leave you with this provocative thought, because that is my greatest take-away from these three days. Iceland is a beautiful country with many natural wonders to enjoy, but its greatest asset is its people. In France, we have this idiom about the inhabitants of the northern regions which I think is even more relevant for Icelandic (after all they live even more North): "these people have in their heart the warmth they don't have outdoor".

More photos about that short stay in that stunning country can be seen here.


To read further:

• A mountain dweller in the Great Lake valley
• A mountain dweller in the Washington Lake valley

Shadow casting

Let me walk in your shadow

Larry Kagan, a NY-based artist, plays with steel and light to shade a different perspective on things... Well, in this case and to be more precise, he shades a different perspective on a wall. This video is a great induction to his work. It is surprising how a metallic mayhem can suddenly make sense when illuminated in a specific angle... Would that be a metaphor of life maybe?

Objects/Shadows from Larry Kagan on Vimeo.

UK, GB, EN and other acronyms for dummies

Geography class.

This animation is really well-done to explain the differences between the concepts of United Kingdom, Great Britain, England and all the other subtlities that make leaving in this part of the world a political nightmare if you want to be accurate...

It should help shade some light on doubts shared by many of my French fellow-citizens living on the British Island of Great Britain, most likely in London, the England and United Kingdom capital. Did I lose you?

Have a go at it, it will soon be crystal clear:



Have a read at Grey's Blog if you want to look at the infographic version of this animation.

Art can change the world. Or can't it?

Smile.

I have already mentioned the work done by JR, this French photographer, who is using his camera as a political device. Working anonymously, pasting his giant images on buildings, trains, bridges, the often-guerrilla artist JR forces us to see each other.

Traveling to distant, often dangerous places - the slums of Kenya, the favelas of Brazil - he infiltrates communities, befriending inhabitants and recruiting them as models and collaborators. He gets in his subjects’ faces with a 28mm wide-angle lens, resulting in portraits that are unguarded, funny, soulful, real, that capture the sprits of individuals who normally go unseen. The blown-up images pasted on urban surfaces – the sides of buildings, bridges, trains, buses, on rooftops -- confront and engage audiences where they least expect it. Images of Parisian thugs are pasted up in bourgeois neighborhoods; photos of Israelis and Palestinians are posted together on both sides of the walls that separate them.

JR's most recent project, "Women Are Heroes," depicts women "dealing with the effects of war, poverty, violence, and oppression” from Rio de Janeiro, Phnom Penh, Delhi and several African cities. And JR has been granted a TED Prize for his insideoutproject.net...

Inspire.

Ah, TED, an acronym originally for Technology/Entertainment/Design is a lot more than just three letters. This is a constant source of inspiration plugging yourself in anything from nanotechnology to art, from politicians to philosophers... All shared never heard before thoughts.

Enjoy JR's point of view:




To read further:

• Smile my brother, smile. An article about JR's work in Middle East.
• White men can't jump, an article on this humorous stance on cultural differences

Seduction in a spray can

Grooming hero.

Axe, or Lynx as the Anglo-Saxons know it, is a brand that truly interests me, and not because it was born in France. As an international marketer and a marketing lecturer, I am often coming back to this case study to illustrate how a brand can own a territory, an idea, and yet always find a way to reinvent itself and to surprise its audience again and again.

Launched in 1983 in France, it is now available in 60 markets where it dominates the male hygiene aisle in supermarkets. The reason of its international success is indeed based on the Unilever brand's ability to innovate whilst remaining loyal to its vision and values. That is true for its product strategy, and that is true for its communication. The advertising campaigns created by London's agency BBH have been hailed around the world and captured quite a few awards along the way.

Consistency through diversity.

The foundation of this brand story is a universal consumer insight: a man who smells is repulsive. But instead of providing a functional answer, Axe has decided to have an emotional approach of the situation. And off they were to own the seduction idea.

At first, it was quite a literal approach of that idea, and let's face it nowhere near creative. The first ads were about the hunk who gets the weak, defenseless lady as she inadvertently smells the "Axed" torso of
the airline pilot after dropping her pen...

It was an immediate commercial success, but the product was adopted by the younger consumers who were finding in this deodorant an affordable substitute to too-expensive perfumes. However the image projected by the ad hero and the real consumer were disconnected, and the brand had to readjust its communication strategy whilst remaining true to its core values. So they kept on dealing with the seduction theme, but casted away the stereotypical hunk and Hollywood-like scenarios. Back to reality, to the random Joe, to the everyday life. Sounds boring?

Well, what followed was just pure brilliance. And an exercise of style on the theme seduction that has lasted for over two decades. Here is my personal selection of the best TV adverts:

1. The victory of Random Joe over the hunk:
   


2. Seduction is about poetry:
   


3. Seduction is epic, spectacular and over the top:


4. Seduction is a daily stunt that discards the side glances:

A divine creative exercise

Let's face it, it is not easy to be engaging and inspiring when talking about transpiration... But Axe has managed to. And here is its latest production:


For the people in the know, there is a nice little twist in this execution: the soundtrack. Not sure if it is intentional, but the music of this advert is a remix of French electro band Air's "Sexy Boy". A way to refer to the brand's origin?


To read further:

• Chocoholic, or when Lynx explores the convergence of seduction and food
• And the burger started to rule the world, an article on Burger King creative product demo

The Saturday Shot #11: writing

Unlike this picture could let you think, no visit to any Far Eastern country on this week-end programme. No thank you, I have had my lot of long haul flights recently. This picture was shot at the Victoria and Albert Museum were the curators have prepared some exciting activities for children ahead of the upcoming Chinese New Year: crafts, opera, music instruments... and caligraphy.

"Forget all the rules. Forget about being published. Write for yourself and celebrate writing." Melinda Haynes (1955-)

So let me shamelessly celebrate that attempt to follow Haynes' path: here is a sneak peek at that short story I wrote not so long ago (in French), in case these few pages entice you enough to put your hands on a copy.

La loi du milieu. Une nouvelle de Cedric Chambaz Book Info

The Saturday Shot #10: gaulois

You could call that edition the French paradox...


This Saturday, I was reading this graphic novel about the adventures of Asterix. It is a pun-packed French classic within a vast series of books following the Gaul and his best friend Obelix in their resistance against the Roman oppression. Accordingly to the preliminary note, at that time, in 50BC, the whole French territory was occupied by Julius Caesar's troops, but a small Gaulish village who would fulfil their feisty nature with the help of a magic potions brewed by a druid. The two heroes go through various adventures, here, there, everywhere.


This specific edition is a ticket to schizophrenia for anyone like me, a French in England. It is indeed an originally French story, translated in English, about two of my French ancestors visiting England to give a hand to their English cousins. You still follow me? Well, it has been offered to us by some English friends, and guess what? These friends are called Mr. and Mrs. French. No joke.

Anthology of a teenager sex life

Warning: this blog post should be rated PG18... Look away if you are underage!
OK, now that I have your attention, you dirty little minds, I wanted to confess something. Having been caught in some aerial mayhem in the recent months (in fact I realised that in 2010 I have been stranded 13 days due to flight cancellations, snow storms and other volcanic ashes!), I have also been forced to deal with the in-flight entertainment and its depleting content quality. But, hey, when you are stuck in a plane for way too long, you have an alibi to catch up on the latest romantic comedies and other so-called blockbusters: there is not much else to do... especially if you have been graciously flanked with some over-weighted fellow travelers who block your escape route.

Teenagers' underbelly

Having rapidly exhausted the movies I really wanted to watch, and not being a great fan of the Turkish film scene in original version and without subtitles, I had to make a concession: watching one (or two) of the latest features for teenagers. I am not talking about sanitised movies like Anna Montana or the High School Musical series, no, I am referencing to the underbelly catalogue, films a la American Pie for instance.



The revelation of these screening was a bit weird... and you will certainly concur that I must be a crooked mind myself to watch such a movie and draw cultural/societal conclusions. These films however remain in my eyes a magnifying glass of cultural trends happening on the other side of the pond. And one thing that struck me was the vulgarisation of some sexual practices.

"voulez-vous coucher avec moi?"

I will not enter in the discussion around pre-marriage lust, you can make your own decisions. What I would like to call out are cultural discrepancies between Western societies around oral sex.

It seems that girls (and boys) on the west side of the Atlantic are more likely to perform such stunts rather than having regular intercourse. It seems less committal. I let you digest that first fact and reflect on the fact that for some societies ingurgitating something is absorbing its essence, its soul, its power... Think a moment of Toreros and the post corrida feast of bull ears and tail, or even cannibals.

Putting something in your mouth does not seem to be that trivial a practice for some. And so, let's put this into the perspective of a European culture. Let's say the French (as I can make generalisation about my own culture, without being taxed of racism). If you agree on today's legend about French girls, it would seem that they are quite easy to get laid.

Let me first demystify that cliche largely echoed in the above-mentioned films... Twenty years or so struggling with female gender allow me to clearly confirm: this IS a legend. Nevertheless, assuming that this myth was somehow based on some statistical truth (and that I must have been exposed to the placebo group when I was young), it appears that girls in France would be more prone to open their legs than their mouth.

Taste the difference.

The dichotomy between both countries seems to be articulated around, on the one hand, fear of pregnancy/lack of understanding or rejection of contraception, and on the other hand, a different conception of intimacy.

Note for the male teenagers who discarded my introductory warning and read all the way to this sentence: if you were planning a trip to France to "enlarge your horizon" and practice my mother tongue, it seems that you may have to get into a serious relationship before you can get a taste of home from a local. Yet I could understand your misunderstandings, after all, the inventors of French Kiss should be skilled at this tongue twisting oral drill. To boot aren't the German referring to oral sex as "Franzosisch" (i.e. French sex).

Too bad, guys, France is also the country of romance and seduction... You will still learn a lot from that trip. Unless you end up in the placebo group.


To read further:

• The end of a myth, or how the Little English girls lost their European sex appeal;


• The cost of loving, an article on the hidden truth behind weddings;


• Watch you moves, or what your gesture can tell in a different culture

The Saturday Shot #9: dead trees

The streets of London looked like a cemetery this week-end. At each intersection, former Christmas trees are lying on the pavement, abandonned to what is promised to be a gloomy fate. They fulfilled their duty, and are now discarded by the same people who cherished them, embellished them... just a couple weeks ago. How cynical life can be!

"All theory, dear friend, is gray, but the golden tree of life springs ever green."Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832)

I Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

Seriously some trips can make you crazy. Here is a short summary for those who have not followed my adventures on Twitter of how I managed to fly back to Europe just in time for Christmas.

Houston, we have a problem... too.

I was traveling to U.S. for work, I have again been stranded on the other side of the Atlantic. No Icelandic ash cloud this time, but a so-called snow storm that would have hit Western Europe instead... Seriously, how can we still be surprised by snowfalls in December? My departure was initially planned from Seattle on Friday 17th in the evening. I got hot by a treatorous SMS in mid-afternoon informing me that my British Airways flight would be canceled due to possible flight restrictions over Europe. And indeed a couple hours later Heathrow closed its doors.

I then spent the afternoon on the phone with my travel agency emergency hotline, since the main line was long closed due to the time difference and the promising weekend. Well, when I say spend the afternoon on the phone you will have corrected by yourself: I meant "spent the afternoon listening to a pre-recorded message reassuring me of my importance and the immediacy of the hotline response"...

Three hours later, someone finally picked up the phone... to confirm that my flight was canceled - thank you for the news, miss, but that I knew first hand otherwise I'd be in the air rather than over the phone with you! The real new news was that a Continental flight may be leaving the next night from Houston to London. I was thus rerouted to Texas the next morning to make sure I catch my connecting flight. In parallel I learned that fellow Londoners were trying their luck via NY or Dallas... If all roads lead to Rome, it seems that they also make stop-overs in London.

Saturday morning, at dawn, I was leaving Washington State, in the Northwestern part of the U.S., for Houston, Texas in the Southern part of the U.S.. At least I was migrates eastwards, and it was looking promising... My flight to London may be over than 5 hour late it was still scheduled. In fact we even boarded. My eyes soon closed under the weigh of accumulated fatigue, the time differences, flight foods served at any time... "Crrrrr ..." The microphone crackled and woke me up. A glance by the window tells me it is still dark outside and we're still airborn, however my ears were to capture some bad news. "Crrrr... back to terminal 3... crrrr door 15."

What? Did I hear that correctly, we were returning to Houston? After two hours, our plane made a U-turn, having been denied access to European airspace. So it was three o'clock in the morning when we got back on the ground, in the baggage room, waiting for our suitcases. 5 by 5 we made our wayto a suburban hotel, presumably to rest. But for me no time to sleep: I needed to use the Wi-Fi in the lobby to join either the airline or my travel agent to my being placed on the first flight to London. The perspective of spending Christmas amongst Long Horns rather than stuffed turkeys did little to charm me.
Back to square 2.

Since the pre-recorded messages started to make me sick, I never went to bed, and rather jumped in the first shuttle to the airport and do what French people do best: snake my way through the queue to get a precious pass to home. Luckily a ground hostess opened up a patch of blue sky in my so far gloomy horizon. She was French (Yeah!), in her late fifties... and more importantly had access to a terminal which informed her that a flight would leave that same Sunday evening from New York City. And off I go to NYC. Good fortune seemed to be with me that Sunday: a shortcut through the Personel lane, a breathless race through the airport corridors I had extensively visited the day before and here I was boarding a plane to... Newark. "Sorry, what did the hostess say? New York or Newark... that sounds a bit similar to my tired French ears... but I cannot cope with such a misunderstanding at this point!"

Newark was indeed the final destination of the aircraft in which I was buckled up, but Newark was also printed on my ticket and the passenger next to me informed me that it was the third airport in NY (actually it is in New Jersey but it broadly speaking it sounds better to pretend it is "New York" for most tour operators).
Do I really want to be a part of it?

It was 11am when we landed in Newark, my connecting flight to heaven was scheduled on time, but 8 hours later. Fair enough, I was not going to complain, even if the airport was indeed much, much smaller than JFK or La Guardia, I had never been that much East and therefore close to my final destination. I just had to to kill some time: I toured the few shops clockwise, and then anti-clockwise. I stopped in front of the electronic displays in order to assess the situation: some delayed flights from Europe, nothing alarming. A few pages of reading, a little surfing on my Windows Phone 7, and I resumed my walk. A small burger, one for the road as they say.

Soon enough it is 4pm, and even if the displays remain positive, I am less and less. My wife hqd just pinged me a weather report from London and a notice regarding further airspace restrictions which reminded me of many bad memories. Customer Service was as usual not aware of any cancelation, or at least they did not receive any official guidance to confirm or deny the rumors which had begun to spread amongst some seasoned travelers like me. The signs were unmistakable, so were the sidelong glances of ground staff. And for good reasons, few minutes later the two evening flights to London were canceled.

Taking advantage of my earlier wanderings, I headed up straight to the customer service and booked myself on the first flight to... Paris. As a matter of fact, due to the backlog and new weather predictions, the first seats for the Old Europe were not before Wednesday. Yet on the Tuesday I was due to fly to our holiday destination with wife and son. I would never get that plane, but a detour by the French capital and a possible connection by train or car should enable me to spend the Holidays with my family. The Holy Grail at this stage.

Some will say that I'm lucky in my misfortune because NYC is still a nice destination. Except that the constant time difference between the UK, the West Coast and East Coast, uncertainty, a remnant of bronchitis and the stress of the last few days have got rid of my last strengths. I was exhasuted and had no taste for tourism. I wanted to see only one thing: the light at the end of the tunnel. And I was not alone since my colleague who had gone directly to NYC from Seattle there was still stranded there too. There will be no blog post entitled A Mountain Dweller in the Hudson Valley this time, it will take a more favorable opportunity to report on the inspiring cultural disparities to be experienced in the Big Apple.
Home Run.

Wednesday came. The plane was scheduled to depart at 6:30pm but I was already on site at 1pm. I must have missed Newark Airport... In any case, I was not to miss this opportunity to go home. My first three attempts had failed... The fourth should not. And the overweighted couple who would travels with me, will not indent my anticipation. The seat was too small for the woman who was spreading over her husbands who in turn was crushing me against the cold window of the aircraft. I did not care, I was flying home and no smelly armpit would make me lose my smile.

Because this time it was true, the plane took off and did not turn around. It was en route to France, home sweet home. I peeped over and over again through the window to see if a change of scenery would announce a change of course. To no avail. Despite the fatigue, I did not close my eyes, the experience in Houston left marks. Besides, my neighbor's elbows tucked in my rib cage helped me stay awake.

Land, I see land.

What a joy to see the Irish coast at dawn! Not to mention the frosted English back country... But what a joke to see the Parisian airport Roissy Charles de Gaulle. I expected to see six-feet-high snow drifts, employees shoveling snow with flamethrowers... Think again. Only a few inches of snow were scattered around. You could still see here and there some patches of grass. Seriously if there was a snowstorm a few days before, it must have been followed by a tropical one that melted down the evidence!

But again I did not care, I was in France, only a few hours from my family and day ahead of Christmas Eve. I did not care either about the announcement on the loudspeaker letting passengers from Orlando know that they would have to wait for their luggage another two hours due to a "sudden strike from the ground staff"... It had to be France. A Warm Welcome Home!