How to get your seatmates into 1st class - A guide.

We will skip the long drawn out colorful descriptions of my elderly, beautiful Mexican (who had to use the double cane thing) seat mate and the 16 or 17 year old boy who was miserably stuck between us instead of sitting in the back with his family (read: his brothers and sisters who were the same age as him and, frankly, willing to carry on a conversation instead of grunting before they slid on their eye masks, ear plugs and other sundries to block out all signs of life...)

Yes, let's just jump into this. Right in the middle, shall we? Let start at the moment that I looked down on the beautiful brand new gray cowl necked sweater and noted that of all things I never expected to see was a huge red blob of throw-up on it as my first ha-looo bonjour to France.....

Yes, your's truly got sick on the plane after convincing herself that it was okay to have the beef -- I mean this is a European country right? -- and on top of that throw on the free, yes free, red wine. I drifted off after a gut deep laugh fest that is the act of watching "The Hangover" which I need to see again in the right frame of mind....I woke up to a very familiar, yet dreaded sensation....there was a cold sweat on my forehead and gentle waves of revulsion working their way from some ephemeral point in my stomach that I'm sure had some of that beef in charmoise sauce somewhere near it. So I woke up and began taking deep breathes hoping it would go away...I don't think there was anywhere 'convienent' to land in the middle of the ocean...And let me say this if their healthcare is anything close to the crazy efficiency with which they took care of the situation -- I'm moving. So the boy realized I wasn't making to the bathroom faster than I did, and before I knew it I was laying across 2300 bucks worth of seats with my head on the floor with the "I need to leave church early finger up" trying to get them to stop asking me questions for just a second.

I'm fine. I certainly got my full dollar out of those attendants, one was fanning me, another bringing me water....its almost funny -- no, the truth is that it is not funny at all. Seriously. Finally the really pretty goes...why don't you just go take care of this in the bathroom -- and thats my first cognizant memory of Gay Parie -- gray sweater, red blobs, and my finger down my throat.