Call of the Corporate World

I haven't felt a desire in years to get a "real" job with any real potential to make real money. But I'm spending a week in Paris with my dad, who works for an internationally-based company and actually flies there regularly, and some of the benefits have become, shall we say, apparent.

I'm referring of course to the People-With-Money-Only club that hides in most major American airports.

When we came upon the Tampa location, to fill our pockets with free pretzels before catching our flight to Philadelphia, there were some People-Without-Money lounging outside, utterly oblivious to the secret entrance right behind them. My dad pressed a button, and the wall revealed its true nature as a panel that simply slid to one side.

"To the bat cave," I breathed, unable to mask my awe.

I kid you not, there are free pretzels, free sodas, free fruit, free brownies and free beer in these clubs. They play CNN on huge flat-screens and stock newspapers from major US cities. The bathrooms are clean.

This is the start of my immersion experience with unfamiliar cultures. I spent my hours on the plane to Philly with a French phrasebook nearly as old as I am (my dad never bothered to learn the language, just keeps the book handy to get him by). I taught myself to say "Sorry" and "I speak very little French" and "Speak slowly, please" and "I'll take it. This phone card will be the perfect gift for my boyfriend Paul. Now he can call me. I get tired of calling him all the time."

(I kid you not, that entire phrase was in the book.)

I'm very excited about the days to come. All I remember of my last arrival in Paris was that it was around five in the afternoon, Paris-time, the sun was blazing, I was exhausted, I dropped my bags in my family's hotel room, wandered down to the street and bought an entire roasted chicken off some sidewalk vendor, carried it to an end-table upstairs and collapsed on my cot for fourteen hours without having eaten a bite. I was twelve.