Bros & Broads Abroad Board the Plane Part 1

Unceremoniously booted from our plane yesterday, our little band of broads and brothers invaded the airport, planting our territorial flags throughout the terminal. Even as hope diminished, we held on to the bitter end-- knowing that, even though we may have lost the battle, we would win the war. Yes, we suffered some sizable losses such as disrupted movies, Kaitlyn's eight Euro tube of Crest Whiting ("I regret that I have but one tube of toothpaste to give for my country," she bravely declared at customs), the unnecessary ingestion of powerful sleep medication ("Huh...uh...are we already there," one of the group asked groggily as she was guided gently off our broken plane). Another brave patriot fought her way back on board, vowing to "Leave no book behind!"

The next battle, later to become known as "The Suitcase Skirmish," rivaled the Hundred Years War in duration. It was psychological warfare of the worst kind as we watched the carousel revolve maddeningly for hours bearing unclaimed luggage. Our soldiers faltered and fell, one by one, bodies littering the floor waiting, waiting, waiting for our belongings to emerge from the point of origin, spewed out from the bowels of the broken beast. We did what we had to in order to survive and we won't apologize. Many a song will be sung in remembrance of the sacrifices of this day. Not a single (flight-sized approved) toiletry item was lost during the heroic retrieval campaign.

"Stranded at the airport...branded a fool...what will they say...Tuesday at school (except for Dee who returns on Monday: ha ha ha)"  ~Grease

Our suitcase-sniffing carry-on canine, Blalock, on the hunt for our missing baggage.

To maintain our spirits (and increase our cash flow), Morgan and I began wagering on the revolving luggage. We fearlessly threw our euros down ("Mom," Sydney informed me, glancing at my bet, " that's a pence.") and rooted loudly for our favorites. "It's black Samsonite in the lead," the announcer chanted excitedly, "followed closely by Owen's flowered-but-still-somehow-manly soft-sided suitcase! But wait," the announcer said, his voice rising, "There's Monica's over-packed green luggage making a move...no...no....no, it exploded, folks, and it looks like an Arial cup took out one of Dee's wheels! There's a yellow flag on the field as a French luggage-unloader takes his fiftieth cigarette break. The race will resume when l'additione has finally been delivered at the cafe where he leisurely enjoyed his third crepe of the afternoon."

Having finally gathered our wits and our wardrobe, we bid a sad farewell to the little refugee family who huddled together, waiting, with lost, empty eyes, for their stroller to appear.  "Mom, they're like Fival's family in An American Tale," Sydney whispered as, while clutching her infant, the mother waved an embroidered handkerchief in our departing direction. Our small battalion shuffled off to the shuttle where I inexplicably switched accents. "Aunt Julie, lass," I brogued, "be a lamb and let this fine young man pass." This, of course, inspired another round of singing:

"Aunt Julie didn't fly over the ocean; Aunt Julie didn't fly over the sea; Aunt Julie didn't fly over the ocean, cuz she's stuck here in Paris with me."  ~Bring Back My Bonnie

The next military installment occurred during what became known as "The Hardship at the Hyatt." Determined to enact vengeance on our enemy, I embarked on a pen-acquisition campaign of epic proportions. Cruelly separated in double-occupancy rooms with king-sized beds, plush robes, and a telephone by the toilet, our group was then sparsely fed a buffet that only contained approximately twenty-five different choices. Poor Monica had to heap her dozens of dessert selections onto a teeny-tiny plate which is obviously a blatant violation of the Geneva Convention. We stared at the hotel's offering of a small chocolate molded coffee cup filled with a berry mixture with revulsion as it obviously had been poisoned. Such cruelty. How were we to endure these bleak conditions?

Meanwhile, oblivious to our suffering, our leaders were living it up in the hot tub, getting luxurious massages and gobbling Godiva chocolate. You would have thought that they would be tirelessly e-mailing the travel agency until the wee hours of the night (as the hotel's wi-fi was down due to the rash of pilgrims who arrived simultaneously at their door), agonizing over difficult choices as we faced the travel challenges of a major holiday week-end, patiently answering the worried concerns of the group (over and over and over again) all the while battling against the crushing migraine that accompanies such a situation. But no...they were too busy getting their nails done to be concerned with the likes of us. It was obvious that if we were going to get out of this, we would have to do it ourselves. "What room number are we again," I asked Monica for the thousandth time as the elevator let us out on the wrong floor, "We need to construct  plan."