What a joyful experience it is to travel to Europe and escape from the abject insanity of life in our busy advertising agency. Why, sometimes I have had to appear in the office as early as 11 am!
âItâs this crazy North American work ethic,â Sebastian commented while behind me his hands gently manipulating my hips, adjusting my yoga position.
I had left the office a little early, at 2 pm since an air conditioner on the second floor had failed.
âItâs inhuman expecting staff to work in these conditions,â I had pointed out to Brenda, our human resources manager. Admittedly my office is on the seventh floor, but itâs the principle of the thing.
âWhat you need is a holiday, Fiona,â said Sebastian as he adjusted my pose. Heâs right, of course. I do so much more than the required amount of work. Thatâs the sort of person I am. Always âover deliveringâ.
âYouâre running a serious risk of burn out. And then what would people do?â he continued. âWith so many people depending on you, youâre almost honor bound to get away. Itâs the kindest thing to do.â
I sat upright and took a sip of Perrier.
âItâs true,â I said. âFew people understand the pressures on a transgender advertising executive.â
You might think I am joking but the very same thing was said to me the other day when I took a couple of hours out of my work day to see my masseuse, and I always find it wise to listen to the advice of experts.
This is how I came to be sitting on an Air France flight to Paris with my friend Sylvester who had decided it was time to visit his aging mother who lives in the beautiful ancient city of Lyon. After touch down we quickly cleared customs, a process made all the more human by the total lack of human contact as we progressed through the airport. Gone are the days of invasive baggage searches by curious homeland security perverts wondering why I had so many exciting items of lingerie. Prior to going on hormone replacement therapy, while still in the realm of emergent crossdressing, this had been the humiliating ritual I went through when traveling anywhere in the States. Fortunately most of Europe has made the technological leap forward that leaves their US counterparts clutching at their flies while mumbling about tariffs. In Europe the technology exists not to need to do searches, or they just donât care enough to give travelers a hard time. As a result, disembarkation to clearing customs took no more than five minutes.
We quickly found the TGV â a train that would swiftly carry us to Lyon two hundred and forty miles from Paris. I should explain something here, for the benefit of my American readers who have not experienced European train travel. Trains have come a long way since they first started carrying fare paying travellers. While Amtrak appears to be stuck in the dark ages, believing male engineers who told them that female passengers travelling at speed would experience their ovaries exploding and the uteruses flying out of their bodies, elsewhere things have moved forward. Admittedly this would add a little color to an Amtrak journey.
While Sylvester fiercely defends the great American train journey, I prefer the TGV. I find it comfortable and fast. No, I mean really fucking fast. The TGV rushes from Paris to Lyon at speeds of up to 200 mph. Yes – you read that right. Check it out.
I remember traveling to LA on one occasion to visit a client. After a humiliating airport search we sat in traffic for two hours to travel a full 15 miles to their office. In France in that time we covered more than 240 miles to arrive in Lyon.
The journey was easy and uneventful, other than occasionally having to rebuke Sylvester.
âNo, Sylvester! Iâm begging you, never again say visiting Paris is just like âthat time you travelled to Anchorageâ. Youâll start an international diplomatic incident.â
I sometimes think itâs like traveling with a child. Iâve seriously thought about having Sylvester tested for, well, something.
So, now you know how I come to be sitting in a pavement café in the Place de Terreaux in the centre of Lyon sipping Cointreau with Sylvester. This is a place where pavement cafés compete with beautiful old buildings to take your breath away. Street art, statuary and the beauty of the Basilica surrounds us as young French students casually roll cigarettes and glance at tourists, their innocent chic indifference inviting us to drop dead. These people have a style all of their own, made still more dramatic by the occasional rumble of thunder in the distance as summer lightening cuts across the night sky.
Here the in-crowd manages to radiate cool when they go out in the heat of the summer night. Itâs a quality we may manage to imitate but can never master. The difference is no less than the difference between a parrot and a poet.
Welcome to Lyon.
The next episode in this collection will be out in a few days.
FD