Orly

Not only French men are dramatic, the whole city of Paris is a constant drama, at least for me. Every time I arrive something unpleasant happens. Mostly it’s the RER the French pendant to the German S-Bahn (English: commuter trains). My favorite topic. Either the conductors are striking or there’s no train due to technical problems and at times for no reason at all. To avoid this hassle I take a taxi. Same thing. Traffic jams or just not the right direction for the driver. Yesterday something else happened, something new to me: My suitcase disappeared. Getting out of the plane I had a quick stop at the bathroom. Soon after at the baggage conveyor belt, only two lonely suitcases made their rounds. Not mine. I panicked straight away, knowing that it had been stolen. My Paris drama, here it was.
I mentioned before how difficult it was to pack the damn suitcase. My favorite things were in this suitcase and not only mine but––and this is much worse––borrowed dresses for the big occasions. I was devastated. I went straight to the three guys in uniform who carried around huge machine-guns. I told them the whole story. Hysterically crying, begging them to catch the nasty thief. They were nice although they didn’t fully realize the importance and seriousness of the situation. They escorted me to the baggage service. No help there. The suitcase did not stay in Berlin but it wasn’t in Paris either.
It must have disappeared in between.
I sat down on a cold metallic bench in an empty hall and cried. And cried. Ready to take the next plane back to Berlin.

When I looked up the three machine-guns stood in front of me. The soldiers told me in their therapeutic way that they had seen a suitcase corresponding to my descriptions on another belt. Again those friendly men escorted me.
And there it was, waiting for me, making it’s rounds all by itself.