En route: Tunisia to Paris to Houston to Portland

It's official; I have now traveled so much that I've memorized my passport number. The night before I left Tunis I slept well in Hotel Pasha, but now know why cars have horns; for Arabic countries, where horns are a constant all-day, all-night sound. 

Ate a great breakfast of tomato, cucumber and eggs with baguette. They do not mess around with their coffee here; one cup and you're ready to belly dance! I felt right at home having breakfast in a restaurant full of French women, but if I say 'bonjour' one more time I’m gonna scream and I still have a night in Paris to go. Checked out of the hotel and porters carried everything. The young receptionist told me, in broken English, that my hair looked nice. It should have. I worked that Tunis blow dryer for all it was worth so I could have big hair for Paris. 

On the plane I made friends with an Arabic man, and he invited me to stay with his family if I came back to Djerba. Scrunched into the small plane, bumping wildly in turbulence, he drew me a fantastic picture of a cowboy on a horse, and said, "For a souvenir, a cowboy for the cowboy." and then he laughed.

Got to paris tired, went to the luggage carousel and was the last person standing there as the conveyor beeped then stopped, the sign that delivery was finished. I freaked—Paris with no luggage! I found baggage services, where a very sweet girl calmly smiled and asked, "Are you missing a bag?" With my passport and luggage receipt in hand she made a call and my bag arrived in fifteen minutes. Apparently it had been heading to Houston without me ….

I spent the night in Paris at the Hilton which was lovely. I couldn't help thinking it must be nice to be Paris Hilton, at the Hilton, in Paris. Tried to stay up late so I would sleep on the plane the next day, but woke up at 6 a.m., showered, ran down to breakfast, made it through checkout, got to the airport and passed through security like a wiz. 

I’m getting pretty good at international traveling, and as I walked through the concourse congratulating myself on my skills, reflecting on how easy and painless it had all been and how sweet and helpful people were, I suddenly came face-to-face with duty-free heaven; Prada!, Chanel!, Cartier!, Van Cleef and Arpels! Without warning—I swear—I was sucked in to the Prada store, and a voice whispered in my ear, "You should treat yourself to something niiiice…." A salesgirl miraculously appeared, and in broken English, complimented me on my jacket, a quilted one from Zara. "It is Chanel?" This girl was gooood! Buying a gift for someone? Wife? Self? Yes? I swear she said, "Fabulous!" and trotted me right over to the men’s section. Five minutes later I was the owner of a new belt and a pair of flip flops—yes Prada flip flops!  

Waiting for one more flight, I made a new friend from San Francisco, Tammy, a Japanese lady, and we shared trip stories for a few, and then she ran off to her gate. I am homesick. I miss my bed and my Nigel, and I am looking forward to the summer at home with my friends, and not having all my stuff in one suitcase like a hobo. Life is good, the sun is shining in Paris, and people really are wonderful the world over.