Poem for Paris

Awake at four to make a flight

to Paris in the dead of night

only to find our discount plane

made cancellations.  What a pain!

Steve and Han are still ok

to head to Edinburgh today

but Soph and I must make a plan

and get to Paris if we can.

She’s got a meeting there at three

(To be accompanied by me).

The taxi's coming very soon

(at ninety euros it costs the moon)

so the only thing to do is try

to find another flight to fly.

Steve books us one for 9AM

(Expedia is such a gem!)

so off we go, goodbye Milan;

be back in winter if we can.

We drop them first, goodbyes are said

to terminal 2 our taxi heads

but wait!  Guess what? Our flight is wrong

(The tiny violin now plays its song)

because the flight he booked’s at night

BUT 9 PM IS NOT ALL RIGHT!

“We’re screwed,” I say to Soph, aghast;

(I knew this good luck couldn’t last)

so off to ticketing I head

To put our budget in the red.

And for the record, let’s just say

don’t buy a ticket the same day.

There’s better ways to spend your dough

(trying not to think about them though).

So off we go, we’re on Air France

We finally do the happy dance.

We land, we get our bags, we go

But traffic makes our taxi slow

and phones don’t work so we can’t relate

we’re running just a tad bit late.

Now finally there and it’s SO posh

and again I hand out lots more dosh.

Soph goes in, her game face on

while I‘m frumpy, grumpy, pale and wan

in the lobby with the bags

looking at the fashion mags

and before we know it there she is!

(That’s how it works in fashion biz.)

And now we trudge through Paris streets

in search of SIM card, housing, eats.

Travel’s glamour has its cost

cause somehow, always, we get lost

and if you think it still sounds nice

Soph locked herself in bathrooms – TWICE.

My mastercard, it got denied;

my head it aches, my nerves are fried,

and our place is great—it’s tiny, cute

but it’s a workout for the glutes.

(I must admit I almost wept

when climbing up the hundred steps.)

But you know what? We will be fine

there’s croissants, chocolate, and wine

and not to end make it end all rude

But we’re in frickin' PARIS, dude.