Trashy or “European”?

So, we left our intrepid travelers on a flight to Paris. It takes 8 hours, so it was the next day when we finally arrived. The airport was lovely, but no dogs in sight, so a slight demerit. Some fun motorized pedestrian ramps though! We passed through customs with a halfhearted stamp of the passport and no eye contact.

We then navigated the Metro to our rental apartment. I’m pretty sure whatever devilish app Ginge installed took us the longest route possible. Because she’s evil. And a ginger. But nonetheless, we arrived eventually, shortly before our host arrived to check us in.

How here, comes the controversy. We’ve been traveling for a day and a half, so of course, we were excited to get out of our clothes. Now, I may have happened to peer out of the windows while underdressed, which Ginge labeled as “trashy”. I claim this is “European” and I stand by my statements.

After some rest, we about our adventures. First up was lunch of galettes (buckwheat savory crepes). Then, off to the Tuileries, as they were a block away from our apartment. Where I found the first human hybrid of the trip! Centaur Number One! Which was immediately sent to the work wife, who replied “IS THAT A FUCKING CENTAUR?!” uh, no, Sarah, he’s clearly NOT copulating yet. Spoiler alert, there will be many more human hybrids before the end of the trip.

We then went down the Champs-Elysees and ogled the stores. We did get tempted in by an underwear store and the french equivalent of Target, Monoprix.

That evening, we had reservations for Bus Toque. This is a double-decker bus that’s a restaurant. So, we traveled around the sites while eating delicious food. And drinking. Most importantly, drinking. I found out about this delicious drink called a Kir Royale. It’s champagne (or cider or wine) with red currant cordial. On the bus, the wine glasses had holsters, which I really do need for all times. Believe me. All the time.

So basically, we ate, got driven around, and drank. Then walked back to the apartment, and I probably was “trashy”/”European” again, because that’s just how I roll.

The Fartcabin

So our illustrious heroes (me and my substitute husband, Ginge) had decided at some point they needed to visit Paris. We set out on this adventure from the Minneapolis/St Paul airport. Now my real “husband” travels most of the time, so I managed to convince him to give me some of his upgrades. Therefore, I ended up in business class, while Ginge was with the peasants.

The airport has therapy dogs and a cat, which gives MSP airport a rating of 4.5 stars.

So, we fly to scenic Newark. Ooooh, exciting Newark!

Now, on this leg of the trip, Newark airport was perfectly acceptable. There was nice views of New York (which strangely I have never visited). There was a bonus of being able to order food and drinks from tablets at the gate.

So, logically, I ordered a French 75 because we were on our way to France and all. It was delightful. Lemony and boozy, which is a nice combo.

Now begins the experience that inspired this post’s title. The Fartcabin. I don’t know if y’all have traveled business class for international flights, but I must say, IT IS AWESOME. On this particular aircraft, I was in an aisle seat, which left me in a little section by myself. And I don’t know about y’all, but flying gives me gas. Not sure what it is, it’s not smelly, but it is plentiful. So basically, I spent 8 hours farting away since I was not near other humans. And eating and drinking fancy food, of course. It was business class, and if I didn’t try the duck and salmon and champagne and custom sundae, what would I have to make Ginge jealous later?

Not to mention being able to fully stretch out my legs. And fart with wild abandon.