So I'm sitting here in a towel. Not because i just got out of the shower or anything…but rather because the two pairs of clothing I currently have in my possession are in the washing machine. My baggage still hasn't showed.
I was so angry from calling people at various airports who couldn't help me and getting transferred to other people who couldn't help me, that I marched/rode the metro all the way back to CDG today to demand an explanation. I was fully prepared to verbally abuse any gosh darn representative who tried to tell me they couldn't help me, but instead, after talking to five different different representatives and finally getting into the baggage claim, I just started bawling in front of the young French woman looking for my bags, when she just confirmed what I already knew…. they had no idea where my bags were or what had happened to them.
I retreated to the metro, where I closed my eyes and tried to think of raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens. Instead, I wound up imagining the slimy dirtbag who had spotted my vera bradley bag and its red mate sitting there at the airport, and had snatched them to bring home to his wife, or better yet some knocked up girlfriend, because that's clearly the kind of guy he would be. I just picture her going through it and oo-ing and aw-ing about pretty much everything that I own, considering that's just about what was in those bags, and I just want to sock 'em both right in the kisser. More likely it's sitting in some random airport and is going to just rot away. I can see God, shaking his finger at me and going, "I told you….don't store up your treasures on earth!" as I sit here in my six-day old underwear, and my favorite dresses and shoes and $159 face cream dance through my head.
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