Merde-y Moments

So, I’ve been doing it– living inside each moment, proud to be noticing a sidewalk’s graffiti rather than worrying whether a cab will ever come.
But the moments have tricked me! Jerks. They piled up, fighting for my attention, attacking me with French pastries and wine and late night conversations and more French pastries.
And now, all of a sudden, the moment is here. The moment where I get on a plane and return to my own country. That moment has surprised me, and I don’t like it. I’m not ready.
“Go away!” I scream.
But the moment is still here. I am on a train to the airport and a man with a wireless credit card machine is yelling at me for not having a ticket.
“Go away!” I scream again.
I close my eyes, but when I open he’s still there! And I’m still on the way to the airport. Merde.
“Merde!” I yell at him. “There were no signs about a ticket so I’m not paying you fifty euros. Go away.”
I close my eyes again. Open. Still there. Still on way to plane.
“Go make some signs,” I yell. I do not like this moment.
Catalina cannot control laughter as she pays my fine for me. She assures me that the mean fine man will go immediately to his home where he stores extra poster board and will cut out some arrows to make signs.
I still hate the moment. I am not living in it. I refuse.
Alas, I find myself at the airline counter. They ask me thousands of questions. They don’t understand why I was in a Muslim country for a month. They think I’m a terrorist. They ask me why I keep closing my eyes and mumbling about signs.
I prove that I am just a traveler by writing down my email and blog address. All you terrorists out there: just get a blog and you’ll get through customs.
I guess I get on the plane but I don’t remember because I refused to live in that moment.

Whose face fits in such a large hole? The French really have a problem with signs.