I did it. I made it to Paris.
Which, given the last 24 hours of my life, is quite a feat.
Here’s the rundown:
After a LOT of waiting in the San Francisco airport, I finally got on my flight. Frazzled and overwhelmed by the fact that in an American airport all the announcements are still in French, I forgot that there are three rows of seats on such big international planes, and I began walking down the wrong side of the plane with no way to cross over to the other side where I was sitting. So I had to inchworm my way through an empty middle row and ask nicely to cut in front of somebody in the other line.
Wow. I literally could not even get myself on the correct side of the plane. Can you say “tourist?” I could practically feel the other passengers’ eyes rolling at me.