Adieu

Our last day in France flew by so quickly, I can barely grasp the memory of yesterday.

If I remember right, I woke up later than intended.

In other words, it started off like every other day.

With our blankets on a truck en route to the Atlantic Ocean, we were sleeping under an old futon cover we'd bought for our old apartment and intended to leave behind. In addition, I'd convinced David to turn up the heat in the room, which made it downright balmy.

Once showered and dressed, David dove into apartment cleaning while I ran downstairs to buy us some breakfast.




The guy on the right is Wade. Wade spent ten years of his youth on Oklahoma, and decided to open an American cafe in France.
Right beneath our apartment.

Twelve days before we left the country.

How about that for timing?

Add that to the take-out sushi joint that opened next door just a few months ago and you have my own personal dream apartment real estate, if only they'd moved in two years ago.

Anyway, Wade's cafe serves muffins, donuts, and bagels. Toasted! With cream cheese! Needless to say, I took every advantage to pop by for breakfast during our short acquaintance. In hindsight we probably should have been appreciating out last croissants and pain chocolats before leaving them behind forever, but wow, it had been so long since I'd had a toasted bagel.

So yesterday morning I brought back to the empty apartment three bagels, two mini donuts, and a pair of take-out coffees. Take out coffee is one of those things that the French just don't do, and I have to admire them for their stubborn stronghold on habit.

After breakfast we went back to cleaning and packing. When mid-afternoon rolled around we changed our clothes and hopped on a train for Paris. We spent the rest of the daylight hours tending chores in our beloved old stomping grounds of Levallois-Perret. Banking, returning the cable box, buying a bit if cheese to take home, and generally being nostalgic.

As the dinner hour approached we popped by a favorite flower shop and picked up a trendy bouquet before taking the metro a few stops into Paris proper.

We had our last French dinner with our good friends Nicolas and Maude, who treated us in style to foie gras (from the same shop that le President buys his foie gras, oh la la), scallops, and salmon. And of course, a perfectly matched wine.

More than great food, they shared their relentless good natures, smiles, and contagious laughter. Then they surprised us with a lift home, sparing us one last rise on the sketchy suburban train to Conflans.

I can't think about Nico and Maude any longer now, lest I start crying.

Back in the apartment we finalized our cleaning and were in bed by the reasonable - given the circumstances - hour of 12:30 am.

Of course, neither of us slept for more than a few hours at best.

At 6 we were up again. Showered, packed the toiletries. Folded and packed the sheets. Crammed in as much stuff as possible that the movers missed (and uttered many a curse at them while doing so).

At 7:30 the apartment owner came by to finalize the apartment. As in all French transactions, it required a great deal of paperwork. We were lucky that he had already sold the apartment and didn't give the place much more than a cursory glance to make sure nothing serious was awry.

At 8:20 Hector pulled up to our building and I started bringing luggage down to him. By this point Oliver was feeling the sedative David had given him earlier and I was crying with guilt again.

On the way to the airport we tried to make casual conversation while I stroked the cat and muttered soothing noises to him. We were all nervous, but trying to make the most of our last moments with Hector. I know that I'll be back in January for another two weeks, but how does one say goodbye to one of their favorite people?

The airport was mad chaos, as one should expect for the week before Christmas, but we were still alarmed. We got in the end of a seemingly endless queue and proceeded to shuffle along with one eye on the watch, another on the cat.

At one point an American Airlines staff member walked by and saw our cat carrier.

"Ooooh. I'm sorry, but it's too cold in Chicago for us to accept your cat."

This simply was not an option. The cat must fly. Before I had a chance to argue David told her "Oh, he's used to it. This cat normally lives in Chicago". When she looked doubtful, he said the magic word: "We have an attestation (statement) from the vet."

Last week I had called American Airlines to double check the requirements necessary to bring a cat into the US. I was told that animals wouldn't be accepted if the temperature at either location was below something like 45 degrees F. Unless we had a signed statement from a certified vet.

So on Monday David hoofed the cat down to the vet, who gave him a good once over before hand writing a flowery letter stating that the cat would abstain temperatures down to 10 C. 10 C = 50 F. Pretty useless.

When he got back from the vet, Dave and I sat looking at the letter on the table.

"You have a black pen like the one he used for the letter?"

"Yes."

"How much is negative 10 in Farenheit?"

Math.

"Fourteenish."

"Do it."

And then our cat was certified to abstain temperatures down to -10C. What a trooper he is.

So this was the magic sheet of paper we waved to two American Airlines employees, one supervisor, and one checkin agent to get our cat on board. Never mind that the "warm blooded animal" checklist they made us fill in insisted that under no circumstances would they accept an animal if the temperature was below 45 F - attestation or not.

Finally, the gauntlet was passed and the checkin agent took the cat. The carrier was labeled and we set it aside next to the counter for pickup. Dave and I hurried onto security, then to the gate where boarding started not long after.

Eight and a half hours of fidgeting, half-dozing, and lousy movies later, we breezed through passport control and commenced hovering over the baggage carousel. I asked an airport employee where I could find my cat please, and he pointed to a corner. We found two big dogs there, but no cats.

The luggage arrived, we recovered all of our bags and still no cat. We camped out near the corner and bit our fingers with worry - what if someone had changed their minds and enforced the cold pet rule? In my head I started composing a little song called "American Kills Cats", fashioned after the viral YouTube video "United Breaks Guitars".

And then, from seemingly nowhere, the little carrier arrived. Delivered by elves, maybe. I ran over and crouched down to make sure that Oliver was alive. He was hunkered in the bottom of his carrier, eyes no longer clouded over from the drugs, looking downright sour. Very much alive.

With a big sigh of relief we wheeled the luggage trolley toward customs. They sent us to the Center for Disease Control for the cat to be inspected. One more hurdle.

A brisk woman stepped out of the CDC office, took a glance at the carrier and asked "Cat or dog?" She reviewed our customs form, stapled a little slip of paper to it, and sent us on our way without even looking inside the carrier.

Back at customs I turned my worries to the cheese and foie gras I had stashed in our luggage. Under the advise of customs agent in France, I'd decided not to declare it this time. If we were stopped for a random screening, I was toast.

I handed our customs form to the customs officer and held my breath.

"Have you already seen the CDC?" she asked, glancing at the carrier. "Oh good. Have a nice Christmas."

And we were home free. Home. And free.

My dad met us in the waiting area, then pulled the car around to load up our stuff. We took the last leg of our journey - a three hour drive - to Kalamazoo, where the fire was warm and my mom had dinner waiting.

It's great to be home.