It is August, and I tell a coworker, Tuggle, we’ll call him, I’m going back to part time. I’m switching my days, getting all my hours in two days, to get five days off. It’s possible, and maybe even better. I tell him I’m going to start in November and see all the Xmas Markets I can. Maybe only spend a day or two, but go every week. I invite him and others. Anyone can get 3-4 days off.

My work schedule gets a little out of hand. I make mistakes, work crazy hours, sometimes get five actual days off, but mostly, I don’t manage to go anywhere. November approaches and Xmas markets become more tangible. Tuggle is the last invite still planning on going with me. He wants to do several days in a row though. Go over there, stay for a week, come back. Also, Tuggle wants to go to Estonia. Maybe I’m desperate for companionship on this trip so I say, yes, we will go out of our way to see Estonia.

I am, in fact, interested in Estonia but, this was my trip, wasn’t it? This was my idea to do Xmas markets. Estonia is not known for markets, and it’s way, way out of the way. It’s basically two additional days of travel.

I am looking at flights from the USA to (anywhere in) Europe. Of course I want a chance at Business or First Class seats. I see a wide open flight to Paris and suddenly I want to be impulsive and go to Paris.

If Paris is actually on the table, I should invite my mom. We are nearing the end of her time as my registered companion.

Tuggle is intrigued by the addition of Paris, but wants to prioritize Estonia, because he’s somehow better at sticking to his own priorities than I am. Says he will Zed (fly standby on another airline) to Estonia and we can meet him there.

The only thing I really care about, is collecting mugs from Christmas markets. I have the somewhat ambitious, slightly complicated, simple desire to drink mulled wine in as many keepsake mugs as I can. Maybe if I can fill my kitchen cabinet with Christmas mugs, I’ll be so filled for the holiday season that I can handle family functions, and maybe the airport supervisor job I applied to, and got.

The Standby Saga portion of the tale.

So Mom and I are with Tuggle on our way to Charlotte. The plan is, Mom and I will split off and go to JFK to catch our Paris flight. He will continue on to Frankfurt, Zed to Paris or Tallinn. (Now he wants to go to Paris too.)

When we go to bed, 7 seats are available and Tuggle has checked in nano seconds ahead of me and mom, gets priority on the standby list. We wake up to a text from Tuggle, that our flight is delayed 4 hours. This is not a big deal for Tuggle because he has a long cushy layover in CLT. We will miss our connecting flight to JFK.

I can’t decide if we should go to another airport, one an hour away where we will have to pay for parking, or I will have to ask Josh to drive us (and he has only had 3 hours of sleep). Maybe we can just transfer to another connecting city and still leave on time-ish.

There is a moment when mom and Josh corner me in the hallway, staring and waiting for me to decide. A small scream/growl escapes my body. I step outside to smoke. I’m already not a very good supervisor. This is proof. In a moment of tension, and unpredicted obstacles, I’m freezing, choking, fleeing the scene.

We take mom’s car to the airport with our original delayed flight. I decide it’s best to get transferred there.

My (current) Supervisor says our flight is coming from a near by airport after being diverted last night (it’s not).

Tuggle greets me with a new plan. His business seats don’t look great on his Charlotte to Frankfurt flight so now, he says, we should try for London’s 4 first class seats. From London we can zed to Paris. Honestly, I also want first class, and I don’t have to worry about another connection, and I’m more interested in flying together.

My (current) Supervisor rebooks us. Deletes our old segments, and adds in new ones.

Tuggle looks and sees that she put us in business but not first class (like flagship first). Everyone else on the standby list is in F class. We are in J. We put ourselves in F class.

It’s 5 am and we are 3 hours early for our delayed flight (we should go back to bed). But do we? Ha! Now, dear reader, surely you didn’t think this was a tale of reasonable, well rested adults, did you?

I make a coffee, commit to the day. Coworkers meet my mom.

When we get our boarding passes for our delayed Charlotte flight, I notice we aren’t put on the priority list for our next flight. (Something is wrong). I ask and am told we won’t be put on the list until our boarding pass is scanned (wrong). We scan our boarding passes (doesn’t work, still not on list). We ask the gate agents (our friends) to see if they can get us on the list? These are veterans of the industry. So far, everyone who has touched our reservations have been working for the airlines for 5-15 years.

They tell us mom and me are fixed but they are working on Tuggle.

When we land, Tuggle is on the list, but without the correct through status. Mom and I aren’t even on the list.

While waiting for our valet bags in Charlotte, our Priority tags mean nothing. My bag comes after almost ten main cabin bags. Tuggle sees his bag, watches as a ramp agent walks it away from us. We both fear there is no tag and they will take it to baggage claim. But they find the yellow Priority tag on the ground (something they can scan) and send it up the conveyor belt to us.

We go straight to customer service to sort out the priority list for our next flight. We are told check in time shouldn’t change. It is 11 am.

I try to get us into a Priority Pass lounge. Membership is included with a credit card I just acquired, so I’m excited to offer my travel mates access like Dalton once did for Mom and I. At the door, I am told to scan a qr code and put myself on a waiting list. I read reviews that this might happen. We have so much time, we can wait. However, there are rules: I can’t enter more 3 hours before my flight and we are 7 hours from our flight. I could lie on the waiting list signup and say my flight is three hours away, but I tell the truth.

I am told the wait is 20 min. I wait for 10-15 minutes and decide I will ask what to expect since I was honest about my departure time.

The person at the entrance tells me, he’ll make a note to come back in around 2:30. As I’m talking to him, I see that I have just received a text that says “your turn” and “click this link to reserve your spot in the lounge.” I ask the man about it and he tells me I’m still on the list to come back at 2:30.

I thank him, and walk outside to the others. I explain to them how none of my questions were answered and now I regret approaching the desk.

I sit long enough to receive a text that says I waited too long and have been removed from the waiting list.

I walk back in, decide I will be shameless.

I show him the text, show my concern about being taken off the wait list. He tells me I’m still on it.

I apologize, tell him this is my first time using my pass lounge access, I’ve been up since 4 am, flight was delayed, is there anyway I could enjoy my “time” now instead in 3-4 hours?

He complies, asks for my priority pass, then boarding pass. I say I have 2 guests (which was in my request for entry, had he looked on the wait list where he said I was). He tells me to bring in my guests.

Alas, we are granted entry, easily find seats and mom is the first to venture to the food. Looks like soup, salad, and cookies.

Tuggle gets soup and a cookie.

I head to food last, as if I’m being a courteous host. The line appears to be moving left to right but one woman at the far left is moving rightward, and shes not wrong. Lettuce is far left, croutons are far right. So I change gears and despite already having a bowl of soup, I get in beside her, as if to move rightward with her. This fucks up everyone’s world. Everyone to the right of her act like she is an idiot trying to put toppings on her salad bed, as if they start their salad bed with croutons (crunchy).

Anyways, there is no ranch (fine) no cheese (fine) but even with only half the basics I think I can enjoy this salad. I am hungry and I don’t like waste, but I barely finish it. The soup, chicken gumbo, is inedible. I do not say that lightly. It was much spicier than I anticipated but also, just something off. I ate my cookie and tried my decaf espresso.

How do I hate this espresso?! I love espresso!

I give up. Water it is. I text Josh to tell him how disappointed I am. I painstakingly chose this credit card because of Priority Pass and I must reckon with the fact that I may have made a mistake.

The line for the bathroom is finally gone. I go and see that the women’s restroom is “closed for repair”. Figures. Single family restroom it is.

We are top of the priority list until suddenly two people are above us. These two people have itineraries that start at noon. We checked in at 6:30 am. There’s no way they should get higher priority than us.

We also know, there’s nothing anyone can do about it. If there’s one thing we’ve learned, is that once our check-in time gets fucked up, there’s no fixing it. It eats away at me. I get a beer (can’t mess up a Dos Equis). Tuggle and I swap gate stories. He doesn’t know I’ll be a supervisor when I get back.

Two people are above us and shouldn’t be. And also, First class and business seats are dropping. Oversells are getting assigned, business seats are being labeled inoperational. We have done all of this for, best case scenario, premium economy seats.

I can’t take it, I finish my beer. I’m going to leave the airport, smoke and come back to talk to someone to find out what we did wrong. Who did it, and how do we never do it again. Mom looks at me with trauma in her eyes (thanks dad) and Tuggle tells me there is a website for Tsa wait times. It says less than 10 minutes, plus I have tsa precheck.

They walk with me to the exit but don’t leave. Mom offers to take my luggage so I don’t have to take it back through security.

I find the smoking section outside, call Josh and not half way through my cigarette feel blood in my pants. At this point, it’s like yeah, of course, I’m menstruating.

I rush off the phone and go to the landside bathrooms. I go back outside and smoke one more. Then, I look for tsa precheck. It’s at a different checkpoint. I suspect it won’t be worth the walk considering no one is in the regular security line but it’s only 2 pm. I have time to see if I’m right.

I’m waved through, there is virtually no line. I stop at the conveyor belt to put my passport and boarding pass back in my purse and am surrounded by a family of 5. They are literally placing luggage, coats, purses all around me. Half of them are less than 8 years old. I try to just get out of their way and am told to stay with my bag. I can’t even get to my bag now because this family is still unloading all their shit. The tsa agent asks the family if I am with them. They say no, and it clicks for the dad, who pushes my stuff into the scanner (thanks dad).

It’s fiiiiiiiine, I’m not in a hurry.

I find mom and Tuggle seated at a table for two. I stand there awkwardly without a seat for a few moments then, I ask them if they’d like to go find some answers at customer service again. I know, there will be no solutions, I just want to learn from our mistakes, or someone else’s mistakes.

They aren’t interested in customer service. I get the distinct impression that I am somehow the only one willing to fuck around and find out.

We find the desk blissfully empty of passengers. I have all the questions. They tell us we checked in at 11am today. I tell them, ‘we had a 6:30 am flight that left at 9:30 am.’ Everyone agrees it’s wrong but there’s nothing to be done now. One agent has the audacity to tell us to be happy to get on the plane. (Bitch, I will hop over this fucking desk).

It takes some time to explain what we think happened. We realize that our supervisor lost our original check in time, by rebooking us the way that she rebooked us. And when mom and I weren’t on the priority list, we got onto the priority list because we were checked into our new flights when we landed in Charlotte. Hence, new (wrong) check-in time. We’ve lost any chance at business or first class seats. I woke up at 6:30 am yesterday, and woke up at 4 am today, for nothing.

We look for our gate and don’t find it. We still have 3 hours. Whatever. We sit down where there are seats. We are all feeling the exhaustion now. We joke how we won’t have any trouble sleeping on the plane.

I happen to notice a flight to Frankfort that has 8 business seats open and only 4 on the priority list that would be listed above us. Those are good odds!

We decide we will entertain the idea of a reversal of our tentative itinerary. Maybe Frankfurt is the key. We find customer service agents that tell us, if we tranfer, we will be number 6,7, and 8 for the business class seats. We are correctly transferred from the London flight to the Frankfurt flight. When we see the priority list, we are so not number 6,7, and 8. Tuggle is 8, but Mom and I are 11 and 12. There are two people above us, but they are only listed for Main, and two more people are not listed for any class.

We get Main Cabin. I’m slightly more confident approaching agents at desks, and I am too exhausted to care if I’m out of line. I march up to the desk and explain that I expected business because “look at these two listed for main.” The agent explains (something, whatever) and tells me, that my mom and I are in Main Cabin Extra. If a seats open up, they’ll come find us. It’s another way to say, “just be happy you got on the plane.”

I am so tired and so uncomfortable. I’m trying not to watch movies the whole flight. Trying to limit my blue light exposure, or whatever. I’m laying my self before the gods of slumber and I am not being taken. I sneak to a row ahead of me so that maybe my mom can stretch out, and I can stretch out. I am woken by a flight attendant. She tells me, I can’t sit here. “People pay a lot of money to sit here.”

Why does it hurt so much when she says it like that?

There is literally a passenger to my left, laying in the floor. And these are the not the best seats on the plane. The armrests don’t even move up and out of the way. I can’t drape my body over unused immobile armrests?

Does this women have any idea, any concept of what I, one of the lowest paid employees of American Airlines, give up to be draped over these immobile arm rests?! Does she not realize I get paid less than $16 an hour to make sure I am not sucked into a jet engine?? Ma’am, I pay a lot to sit in these seats.

I ugly cry under the complimentary blanket. I have to get tissues at some point, which means I have to wait for a bathroom to open up. I wait so long, I give up and grab napkins from the back galley.

My stomach is in knots.

My Supervisor owes me (and my mom) flagship first.

Even the dead can be festive.

We land the next day. Off the plane, I immediately find a smoking lounge. Tuggle and Mom look half dead, I’m sure I do too. Nary a one of us have slept. We pick a hotel in Frankfurt, where we can nap, then venture out into markets. I am navigator. I follow signs to the train, ask at an information desk just in case. We catch a yellow bus to terminal one where we find kiosks to purchase “all day tickets” for the trains to city center.

It’s mostly in English but two options are presented in German and a man looking over my solder asks me about how long I will be in Frankfort. I over think it, and he waves me off, tells me the first option. Thank you, to the stranger who wants me out of his way.

We find our train, and present our tickets. I use google maps to get us from one train to another, just one stop to Willy Hotel Frankfort. It’s only 11 am and they will not give us a room but we can drop off our bags.

This is a collective disappointment. We have no choice but to remain vertical.

It’s off to the markets.

We walk to the river, snap some photos and see Christmas lights. The market greets us before we can prepare ourselves. Gluhwein aromas surround us, the coveted mugs stacked in abundance. The Xmas lights are on and already so magical.

We don’t know that it’s a long string of markets by different names. The stalls just keep coming.

We enter a square with older style German buildings, a giant Christmas tree, a clock, music, a carousel, animatronics on roof tops, goats, chickens, and Santas in abundance.

The carousel is two stories high, with no railing around it. Tuggle and mom ask me how much it costs, as if I know. I just walk on. It must be free, or they’d block it off, right? I snag a porch swing on the second story. Tuggle and mom pick a horse. When it begins to move, both are have forgotten that carousel horses go up and down.

We are approached and asked for cash, the admission for the ride. We don’t have euros yet but the man takes my $10 which covers all three of us.

We spot a currency exchange and stock up on euros.

Half way through following the twinkling lights, we find a map and learn exactly where the markets are. Mom is on the hunt for food, finds bratwurst. I get a curry wurst and it is covered in a sweet sauce (like bqq) that I’m not crazy about.

We eat in a giant wooden barrel, with seating for like, 8.

We decide to go back to the beginning of the market and walk through the Kaiserdom St. Bartholomäus cathedral. On the way, mom and I pay for public bathrooms that are fully equipped, with some heat and cost 80 cents.

The church is heated. As soon as I realize the heat comes from the grates, I linger over them, invite Tuggle and mom to linger with me. Warmed to the core, we walk around the church and the pipe organ begins to play. As mom will say later, it is a bit shrill, but I think it’s eerie and moving. I sit in a pew. I don’t know what else we will do. Also, I’m not sure I’ve ever heard a pipe organ. After a while, when mom has already reviewed all of her phone photos up to this point, I ask if they are ready to go. We stand over grates some more and leave with complimentary literature on the church.

It’s only 1:20 but I lead us in the direction of the hotel. Mom stops at a store and buys a thimble for her mother and a fridge magnet for herself. Tuggle gets a magnetic bottle opener.

No one is at the hotel when we arrive. We sit and wait for something like 30 minutes, and then are greeted and shown to our room. We are given towels and washcloths, I turn on the radiator, plug my phone into Tuggle’s european power strip, draw the curtains closed, change into sweatpants and promptly pass out.

We wake up around 7, just a tad later than planned. We slowly change/make tea, and are back at the market by 8 pm.

We go for gluhwein. I think I am ordering an apple gluhwein but something else is presented to me in a glass cup that isn’t a mug. I am devastated that fate has other plans for me. Mom and Tuggle get red wine gluhwein in the market branded mugs. We all get coins to either, one, get our four euro deposit back, or two, exchange our empty/dirty mugs for clean ones to take home.

I spot little German smokers like my mother-in-law gave to Josh. I forget who gave it to her. Tuggle finds star shaped paper lanterns and we all buy at least one. I get one for my sister-in-law. I am thinking about honey for Josh’s beekeeping stepfather when Tuggle spots a beekeeping smoker. I buy it, hopeful its original box will protect it in my luggage.

We finish our wines and return our empties for new mugs, I am able to trade my boring glass mug for the market branded mug, which feels like a slap in fate’s face. We proudly hold our first European Christmas market mugs high and take selfies.

I stop at a spice vendor and ask how hot the Birds Eye chilies are. In limited English, the man says 7 out of 10 spice level. I ask him if he has anything hotter, and he points to a bag that, upon inspection, wouldn’t be hot at all. He’s misunderstood me. I ask him for hotness more than 7.

He points to something that is 2,000 scovil units. Then to a packet that is 1.1 million scovil units. I tell him I want that one. He tries to explain how hot it is. I laugh, tell him it’s for a friend.

Mom makes a joke, “does it come with a warning label?”

The man thinks mom is asking if I can wash the hot powder off with water.

The poor man tries to explain how sunflower oil is the best way to wash the spice powder off.

He thinks this will deter me. I insist I want the bag of spice. He shrugs, as if he regrets selling me my death. He wraps it, bags it, and finally lets me pay for it.

We keep walking, slowly realizing the market is closing. Stalls are boarding up. Lights are flickering off.

We stop and I do a quick search. Tuggle and Mom are not interested in the Frankfurt night life. There’s nothing else for us to do but head back to the hotel.

We do stop at a grocery store. I stock up on creature comforts like Camembert, beer, dark chocolate, and sour candy “vitamin shots.” I struggle to operate the self checkout, and am rescued by a disgruntled employee. Mom does something very mom-like, struggles to understand payment process, all the while chatting away to the non-English speaking cashier as if he understands her, unaware of the line of locals behind her. She is still all smiles. She’s in Germany, of course, she is smiling!

We take our goods back to the hotel room and formulate our plan for the next day. We have no reservations and the world is our oyster.

In leiu of trains to Stausborg and Colmar or Cologne and Brussels, we choose on a 9:50 am flight to Tallinn, Estonia. It’s almost midnight and I make sure everyone is aware that we’ll be committing to cutting our sleep short, for the risk of not making the flight. They both seem eager to fly to Tallinn. I suspect the real appeal is to have a decision/plan made so that everyone can go to bed.

Tuggle books his flight on Lufthansa and is immediately awarded a seat. I book the flight for mom and I. Mom gets a seat and I am put on a wait list. Another subtle cruelty of fate.

I step outside to smoke, talk to Josh for a bit, and then promptly go back to bed. Sleep comes easy and I’m not anymore tired than normal when alarms go off five hours later.

We have conversations in Estionia.

As we are gathering our things to depart Willy Hotel, Mom asks me about the hotel’s free breakfast. I look at the information around the lobby and I swear I can’t find anything. Tuggle gets the uber and on the way out mom points to a sign about breakfast. In the elevator there is a floor for just the restaurant but now an uber is on the way and I’ve already given the key back. What a bummer. I hate to miss a free meal.

The uber driver drives like we are late for a flight, when in fact we are two hours early. Security is a breeze. We don’t even present our passports. We find our gate, and lucky me, it is across from a smoking lounge. I ask the agent at the counter about my status and she tells me she is not working the flight to Tallinn, I’ll have to wait for that agent to arrive.

I get a three euro coffee from a automatic machine and eat the rest of my Camembert and crackers. I answer requests on Staff Traveler in order to find out there are 15 open seats and only 6 standbys listed on our flight to Tallinn. This is good news. Tuggle picks out a hotel in Tallinn for two nights. I go to the smoking lounge and stare at the bulbous forehead of a 747. When I come back to our gate, I see a new agent. I ask about my status and she tells me to give her a few minutes to log in, which is only funny because that is what I am constantly telling people at work.

I receive the assignment as I walk back to her, spin on my heels and sit back down like a good passenger. Boarding begins a few minutes later and they are shuttling passengers to the plane. An agent weighs my carry on and it is flagged as too heavy and is tagged to go under the plane. My luggage tag only shows the first six letters of my name.

I join Tuggle and mom on the shuttle bus, then hand off my carry on, fingers crossed I will be reunited with it upon landing in Estonia.

On the plane, we are presented with bottled water and milk chocolate. Everything else has a price. And us three, frugal to a fault, we will be fine until we land. Besides, I have new aircraft safety cards to read and appreciate.

The Tallinn airport looks fun. There is ping pong and exercise equipment and playgrounds and smoking lounges.

I am reunited with my carry on and wait for Tuggle and Mom by a water fountain that says “tap water is drinking water.”

Tuggle gets a Bolt to our hotel. The driver is chatty, from Estonia, and has lived in Florida a while. Says everything in old town/at the Christmas market is overpriced. Uses the word garbage. I gather that locals are exhausted with tourists even as they tote us around.

We are dropped off as close as is permitted. No cars are allowed in old town. We walk a few ancient blocks, carrying our luggage.

Tuggle has the instructions to retrieve the keys to our airbnb. Photos lead us through labrythine hallways, doors, and elevators. There are three keys for four locked doors, and finally we arrive at a two bedroom apartment with a sauna, spiral staircase, and washing machine.

We walk to the grocery store where we look for Estonian staples, kohuke and saku beer, but find only beer. Tuggle gets smoked fish. Mom gets a candy bar that looks like a 100 grand. Then we go to Chocolala. A place discovered on tiktok, where Tuggle pays €29 for a box of chocolates that is also a music box. We pass a place called barbar bar, I take a photo. For who? I don’t know. So few people know about the literary magazine I started with a friend called BarBar.

We drop off our groceries at the apartment and head to the Christmas market. It is a small quaint affair but we walk around every booth, our eagle eyes on the mug situation.

To our disappointment, the mugs are a plain plastic variety. They do say Tallinn, so we all get glogi (gluhwein) with the only true meal they offer: some variety of sausage, potatoes, and sauerkraut. We stand at stereotypical stall with an older couple from Finland and begin converse while we eat.

They tell us about the cold temperatures in north Finland (-45?!) and how the Finnish believe Santa comes from there, and not the North Pole. The man has also spent time in Florida. Loves Thailand. And sailing. The whole experience feels like a bucket list item. I saw videos of people enjoying Christmas markets, and explaining how the stalls are meant to gather strangers together. It is a lovely tradition that I am thrilled to take part in.

The finnish couple leaves us for dinner reservations. When we look down at our plates, I am the only one to have eaten most of mine. Mom and Tuggle toss 50-80% of theirs.

It is at this moment that we realize how cold we are. It’s still early but it’s all we can think about. I swear I can feel the cold of the cobblestone through my shoes and against my feet. We go back to the Airbnb to drink our Saku beer, eat our groceries, and watch Kpop Demon Hunter.

Somewhere in the mix, Tuggle stays in to try out the sauna while mom and I venture back out to shop souvenirs, find the oldest operating pharmacy, a wiener dog shaped bench, an old clock on a wall. Eventually we call it a night.

On both sides of the Tallinn curtain.

We all sleep in. Wake up slow, drink espresso from our Nespresso. Buy Tallinn cards for €43, which grant us access to museums and public transit for a day.

We begin at an old cafe, where I eat a cheese and salami strudel. We walk through the great hall which has been converted into a museum. Across the street is the Holy Spirit church, where respect the signs that ask us to stay quiet as we climb ancient spiral steps and admire medieval stained glass windows.

Next, we head to St. Nicholas’ Church & Museum where we climb smooth stone steps one floor, and take the elevator up two more stories into the church tower where look across the old and new city of Tallinn. When we come down from the tower, I excitedly show Mom and Tuggle the Dance of Death, a macabre painting from the middle ages that is only a portion of the much longer original painting. It’s a beautiful reminder of how death comes for everyone, popes, kings, and the poor alike. We spend a surprising amount of time trying to get the perfect panorama photo of its entire length. There’s more to see in the rest of the church but I am only recalling a surprising amount of holy figures and their nipples.

We head to the Danish Kings’ garden, where there is a crowd so we walk into the kik in the kok museum. There is a tower with treacherous five stories of spiral stone steps that test our thigh muscles. Then there are tunnels that try to teach us about soldiers, and bums, punks, and cold war era emergency drills, but mostly incite claustrophobia and deposit us out into a mystery plaza. We have no idea where are. We laugh at our selves and take a photo of a yellow church like building facing a smooth concrete plaza. We must find our way back to the museum to walk along the old wall, and finally back to the Danish Kings’ garden to photograph monks with no faces.

Around the corner from the garden, is the Aleksander Nevsky cathedral. It is beautiful inside. We are not permitted to take photos. I buy three wallet sized icons and tell mom and Tuggle about how the Russians built it all across from Estonian Parliament as a big middle finger to the Estonians.

We are getting hungry when an Estonian man flags us down, can tell we are tourists from yards away. He tells us where to go, what to eat, but first he insists we should come to his souvenir shop in a 500 year old building. He tells us Monica Lewinsky once came by. He tells us, twice, how beautiful Monica Lewinksy was, then. I make a joke about Bill Clinton but it goes over his head. Maybe it is the language barrier. His shop sells ornately jeweled eggs, way out of our price range. We look as if we might buy, while he sits in an old chair in the middle of his shop. We leave without buying anything, as politely as we can.

We decide to eat at the Olde Hansa where we are greeted by candlelight and staff that dresses and speaks as though indoor plumbing hasn’t been invented, yet.

I order mushroom soup and Tume Olu. The beer comes in a pitcher that is so large I need both hands to hold it. Mom gets a fish platter but is disappointed that the fish is served cold and the bread has nuts. She eats hardly any of it.

It is all very expensive, the price we pay for eating on streets where cars are not allowed.

We go back to the Airbnb to do nothing/rot. We debate what else to do, where to go the next day, etc. Eventually nothing is open except a torture device museum and also, a photography museum. We choose the latter, and find old cameras, candid photos by amateur Estonian photographers. In the basement the exhibit continues. There we find artistic nudes, and a curtain. When I notice mom isn’t in the basement with us anymore, I look past the curtain to find, not mom, but full blown pornography. I, of course, walk through and read the plaques beside the cum shots and the orgies. I read about the Father of Estonian pornography, Ned de Baggo, who would become world renowned for his photographs, excommunicated by Estonia, and would find it difficult to settle anywhere else due to his reputation.

In the gift shop, I buy a postcard size print of a collage of nipples among rocks, and some loose leaf hibiscus tea for a friend. I pop into multiple shops to shake the crushing sadness of our last night in Tallinn. I find gifts for a few more people back home. We bookend our night at the grocery store where we look for ice cream and finally find kohuke. It is divine. Reminds me of cheesecake.

We take mom to a McDonald’s to eat something since her fish platter was a bust. The restaurant is tucked in next to the entrance towers to the old town. Inside, I see goth girls ordering happy meals. I am overcome with curiosity. What does a big mac in Estonia taste like? Better. It’s better. I don’t know if it’s the lack of car exhaust, or the proximity to death dancing since the medieval times, or all the pornography, but the Big Mac in Tallinn is everything good, all at once.

We go back to the hotel and finish off beer and groceries as we book flights to Paris. A TV show about ghost hunters is on as we all settle in for the night. I realize it is thanksgiving day.

I mean to sleep in again but I am awake by 8 am. I make coffee and talk to Josh before he goes to bed. He tells me about his Thanksgiving day, and I tell him about mine.

Our flight to Paris is not until 5 pm. We don’t know what to do with our luggage. Our airbnb hosts have told us no, they can’t store them, and it is raining and no cars are allowed in old town so we must walk out of old town to even get a Bolt to the airport. We linger in our airbnb as long as possible, as if Tallinn tourism can’t offer us anything better than not having to carry our luggage.

With no other choice but to leave at check out time, we go to a donut shop with cats on the window, luggage in tow. We place our donuts inside a bag of powder sugar, and shake, as instructed. There is no place to sit inside so we stand out of the rain under an arched tunnel next the the Great Guild Hall. Mouths full of soft, moist, sugary dough, we debate our next direction. Indecision rules the hour. Mom wants to see the sea wall. We debate a Bolt, and public transit, and luggage storage via an app and some money. We are all suffering from decision fatigue and can only manage to proceed forward, to the edge of old town with our carry on luggage bouncing behind us.

If it hasn’t been said yet, Tallinn’s streets are cobblestone. When we tow our luggage past Fat Margaret, it is a noisy, god-awful racket. Fat Margaret is the affectionate name of the largest tower of the old wall around old town on the north end. We, by sheer airline employee stamina, carry, and then noisily roll, and then carry again, our luggage through the rain and make it to the sea wall. We let ourselves believe we are looking at the Baltic sea and the hazy horizon is hiding Helsinki. Off to our right, a perfectly reasonable distance if we weren’t dragging luggage, is the abandoned Olympic grounds. It looks as though one could climb upon it. Stand where medal winners once stood. But with our luggage? Nah.

Without warning, we are done done done. There’s no pretending we want to do anything else with all the hours we have. It’s time for the Bolt to the airport. We are so ready to sit somewhere warm, dry, and without carrying our luggage, that we are willing to stand in the rain until our Bolt finds us.

Tallinn airport flags all of our bags. Mom and I forgot about our water bottles. Tuggle’s bag is scanned three times and then released inexplicably. We shop the few stores and then find a place to sit. We pick out a hotel in Paris which is much more expensive than we anticipated.

I visit the airport’s smoking lounge. We get hungry and eat sandwiches. I remember, way too late, that I have access to some international lounges. I find out, via an app on my phone, that I have access to the single lounge in Tallinn airport.

Lamenting not thinking of it sooner, I get us all in. We pick a spot by the window. I pour a glass of Saku, fill a plate with samples of food, and then top it off with a small coke in a glass bottle. We still don’t have seats on the flight but it’s nearly boarding time so we leave after only an hour.

I check in at the gate and request that my party of two passengers, be placed near Tuggle and am told to wait. We watch the entire flight board and never receive seats.

We approach the gate agent hesitantly and are told to scan our standby boarding passes. Our seat assignments are written on torn slips of paper. Welcome to Air Baltic, I guess. We board the plane, Tuggle is assigned 17 rows away.

It is a three hour flight, with no complimentary water or chocolate on an airbus 220-300, with one lavatory in the back. The safety cards, however, are my favorite thus far. The humans in the instructions have the best hair. I photograph each page.

When we land in France, it is already dark. We compare public transit to uber and choose uber. Mom tells me later, the driver looked like he was about to fall asleep. I recall thinking he was driving a little conservatively.

We find our hotel where we have two rooms, accessible by a two person elevator. We can’t help it, we all want McDonald’s. We stop by a grocery store and I buy a bottle of Cabernet for 4.5€. We order our McDonald’s for takeaway. Our numbered receipts are called out in French and I realize I don’t remember the numbers but Tuggle does. He recites one through ten for me and they, very fuzzily, come back to me.

We eat burgers, fries, and nuggies with wine in the hotel breakfast area. We make a plan for Notre Dame and the Louvre in the morning. We anticipate the line into the Louvre to be too long but we think we know a secret entrance.

We finish our food, and go to bed in our clean, reasonably priced room at Parici Hôtel.

Live, Laugh, Love Paris.

We have a great breakfast at the hotel. There are meats, cheeses, croissants, eggs, orange juice, tarts, and of course, espresso. I could live off these things and want for nothing.

We set out for the metro and choose a route that, at first, is a double decker train that crosses the Seine river and offers us glimpses of the Eiffel Tower with her head in the clouds. But then terminates in construction, forcing us to ask for directions.

We arrive at Notre Dame where the line is already very long. It is a Saturday.

We have selected a time slot already but are nearly 45 minutes early. I insist we approach the line for those with reservations anyways. I suspect they will just think we are dumb Americans, have pity, and will let us in. Which is precisely what happens. I am getting a reputation for not having any shame.

Notre dame is packed. We are herded through the cathedral, occasionally lifting our phones for a photo over the crowd. There is a mechanical noise over the speakers. It goes “sssssssshhhhhhhhh,” then “silencio,” every 10-15 minutes.

The christian god and the queen of heaven have a grand place to call home, here. The alcoves have floor to ceiling paintings of the old and new variety. There are candles and friezes and sculptures and “sssssssssshhhhhh,” and icons, and saints, “silencio,” and a relic in the main alcove: a thorn from the crown of thorns that Jesus wore on the day he died.

We shy away from the lines at the souvenir stand, and use a kiosk to buy coins that have Notre Dame on them. I get the cheaper one that has the back of the Notre Dame, which is presently under construction.

When we exit, we climb a set of bleachers to get a photo of the whole cathedral. It takes some distance to fit it all into the frame. Then we head to the Louvre. I am happy to walk on a bridge over the Seine. It is a name I have known only without form. And now, I know it with all five senses. I know it with the chill that creeps through my unbuttoned jacket. I know it with a blanket of low lying clouds resting on the rooftops. I know it with the smell of a french breakfast still on my lips. And I know it with the sound of shushing, fading in my memory.

I realize I am not as annoyed by mom stopping every three steps to take photos. I have Tuggle with me. Every now and then, we look around and say, where’d she go? We spot her with her camera phone pointed at something magical, and we all move on.

We find the Louvre, but maybe miss the spot that recently had the break in. The line to get in wraps around the entire court yard. It has only been open for 30 mins. We snap some photos, take the customary selfies, and carry on toward a second hidden entrance to the Louvre which turns out to not be so secret.

We decide on the Musee d’Orsay instead. We walk past the Christmas market and make a note to return. We walk through gardens that would maybe be very lovely in the spring summer or fall.

The line is longer than we expect and tickets are sold out online so we have no choice but to wait in the line that lets walk-ins trickle in between ticket holding tourists. Luckily the weather is great. It is almost warm. We know rain is coming but for now, we feel fortunate.

The museum is in an old train station. There is a special exhibit for John Singer Sargent. I fear for a minute I need a special ticket but shamelessly ask and am told it is free. I almost lose mom and Tuggle because I am so excited to see Madame X. When I find her, she is accompanied by an earlier, more scandalous draft: her dress strap has fallen off of her shoulder. There are also the sketches of the woman’s face in profile. He looks at the model from every angle, and the same angle multiple times. I am obsessed. I can’t quite remember why. Is it because of a book by Maggie Steifvater? or is it because of my Pre-Raphealite classes at SCAD? I have the memory of a goldfish. I wonder if goldfish swim around, knowing they feel strongly about what they see, but not sure why.

We blaze past Monets, and Reniors, and Van Goghs. We find the back side of the station’s original clock and peek out at Paris between the hour and minute hands. Mom is thirsty and Tuggle’s feet hurt so we sit in the museum cafe. I get croissant #2 with a coke. The coke cost more than the bottle of wine from the night before.

I stop by the gift shop on the way out but can’t decide on anything for my remaining family members. Will anyone care that I paid double for a Van Gogh print on a tote or umbrella from THE museum that houses said painting? I convince my self they won’t.

We stop by the bathrooms (use the free ones while we can) and leave. We head back to the Christmas market, which stinks of cheese, and has rides like it confused Christmas markets for county fairs. I sort of love it. But I also stick my nose in the air. I have seen a German Christmas market and think to myself, have some class, Paris.

Also, it’s incredibly crowded. Not a shoulder is un-graised. Their gluhwein is in plastic cups that look like they belong in movie theaters along side popcorn. Where are the tube tops? I spot a striped shirt in a shop window just outside the market and think I can get a Breton shirt as a souvenir. Upon closer inspection, it has script over the chest that says something live, laugh, love, adjacent, which is not what I want. Not that I don’t want to live, laugh, love. I just want more, to be confused for a Parisian.

I spot Mona Lisa magnets that have her smoking a cigarette. I buy three. We walk back to the market, and we all agree we would never ride these rides. We all grew up believing carnival rides go awry. If you want to live to laugh, love, you gotta pass on some risks. We can see the Eiffel Tower in the distance, her head finally out of the clouds. We migrate towards her subconsciously, stopping to finally sit and admire her in the distance over Place de la Concorde.

I have the idea to find a Uniqlo (no one else has a better idea) because I think it will have simple, cheap, Breton-like shirts. I may or may not be right, but I’ll never know. The store is in the shopping heart of Paris and is shoulder to shoulder inside. All three floors are almost impassable.

It begins to rain and the Tallinn fiasco is about to repeat. We don’t have luggage but we also don’t have umbrellas and the temperature has dropped.

I google where one can find a true Breton shirt and read that Saint James may be the spot. It is in fact a great spot, but is not in my price range. Not by a long shot. However, our little side adventure has not been a complete waste. My search for a shirt has brought us to an indoor shopping mall and the Saint-Eustache Church that online reviews say is prettier than Notre Dame.

I can tell Tuggle is done, that his feet hurt. I can tell mom wants to fill the rest of the evening and but doesn’t have ideas. We take photos of the Christmas decorations in the mall, and then I use google to determine that the church is both open and free.

It is truly beautiful and there is no Sssssssshhhhhhhhing machine, which counts for a lot.

Afterward we go to the metro station and head to the hotel. I navigate and when we exit the metro, we stop at Kaiser Kebab. Mom and I split a kebab and I’m so glad because it is as big as my head with a tray full of fries. Tuggle is left to tackle an entire one on his own. When we leave, I say “bonnuit!” and Tuggle laughs. I ask him if I said it wrong. He tells me I just told the kind men at the kebab stand, good eight! We laugh, and then he says, I maybe could have said “bonsoir” or “bonne nuit.” Love that for me.

It is only 6 pm or so but we have to wake up at 4 to leave at 5 to be at the airport by 6 for a flight at 8am that we may or may not get a seat on. (Which means we have to miss that beautiful breakfast at the hotel.) Also, it is properly raining and apparently that’s a full stop for us.

I finish off the wine from the night before, smoke cigarettes outside under the awning for a sushi place next door to the hotel while I talk to Josh. When the cold, wet becomes too much, I say goodnight, lay down, plug my ears, and don my complimentary sleep mask from that one time I got first class.

Finally, Zurich delivers on the mugs.

Sleep comes relatively easy. I am offered an espresso at the hotel reception even though they haven’t finished preparing the breakfast. I express my undying gratitude. The Uber arrives quickly, but doesn’t know English well. This driver is also sleepy. I’m sort of confused, because I watched a Grand Tour episode once and they joked about how the french just bumper car their way through parking and driving on roads. Supposedly, they have really nice, banged up cars. So far they have all been very cautious and sleepy.

The Paris airport is big and concerned about the weight of our luggage. They okay mine and mom’s bags but make Tuggle check his bag. I look at the lounge access situation but we are in the wrong terminal. We settle for sitting near our gate, where we also have food/toilets/a smoking lounge. I eat croissant #3 with chocolate mouse.

With only twenty minutes before boarding we head to the gate where we wait and wait and never receive seats. I get info via Staff Traveler that there are 24 seats open and only 3 standbys listed (us). So I walk up and ask the agent. She greets me as if she had no idea there were standbys listed on the flight. She gives me a seat immediately. I wave at mom and Tuggle to present their passports for their seat assignments.

We get seats together and are pleased to find out, Air France offers cookies and coffee with water. It is another A 220-300. When we prepare to land, the pilot and then the flight attendants ask everyone to turn phones off entirely so that the plane can land “automatically”.

Tuggle and I assume there will be lots of turbulence but the landing is smooth. The fog visible from outside the window is in fact quite dense. We have zero visibility up until the moment the plane’s wheels touch the ground.

After we land, Tuggle waits for his luggage while I pick a hotel for two nights. I’ll save money by staying close to the airport and I think this is also a benefit. When we leave, might get to kind of sleep in, instead of leave hours early to be hours early, etc. Everyone agrees, so I book a single room with bunk beds and the option to pay for breakfast individually, at the Ibis Budget hotel.

We buy tickets for the tram, miss our stop but hop off and back on to backtrack. Our hotel is not ready for us to check in (it is 11 am) but they will store our luggage. We can not live, laugh, or love, if we must also carry our baggage.

We head towards Zurich city center via the scenic route. There is a Christmas market in the train station, which also stinks of cheese. I’m browsing for mugs, and Mom and Tuggle or likely just trying to keep up. I look over my shoulder every now and then to make sure I haven’t lost them. The mugs are a paper cup, which, if I must, I will atleast try the gluhwein but maybe there are better mugs out there.

We head towards what looks like a Main Street. There are fancy shops and lights strung across. I see a sign for a market. It’s the singing tree! But it won’t begin until 2:30 pm and it’s only noon. We amble towards Grossmeunster, a church that my uncle suggested. On the way, we see more Christmas markets along old town alleys. Zurich heritage and architecture is coming into focus and I’m falling in love.

We stop in one of only a few shops open on a Sunday. I learn the Swiss Army knife maker makes all kinds of things that I can pack in my carry on luggage without getting flagged by TSA as a terrorist. So I buy Josh’s stepmom a vitronix peeler. We amble on through alleys, smoking cigarettes freely as I go. When we arrive at Grossmuenster, we find it surrounded by a market that is open and has real mugs! I am so happy. I enjoy my classic red gluwein and Zurich themed mug. It has a slight printing defect and I decide it is perfect. It is the first classic gluhwein I’ve had since in Europe. I am peak live, laugh, loving.

The church is very cool. It has interesting stained glass, a crypt with a statue called “Charlemagne” who watches over a circle of chairs organized AA meetings perhaps. Or covens. I don’t know Zurich well enough to say one way or the other. When we lose mom at some point, she calls and asks where I am, and I get to tell her we are in the crypt, which is just something one does not get to say to their mother often. We are all a little tipsy and giddy but there is no Ssssssssshhhhhing and we carry on in our frivolity.

Back across the River, we spot a large circus tent near the lake shore. We find out it’s 50€ to enter and pass on it for a few photos of Zurich lake with the alps in the background. We then head back towards the train station towards something we thought might be another market. We don’t find it but we do find Louis Vuitton, and Dior, and Tiffany’s, and Georgio Armani, and many more places that look very festive and inviting but also as if maybe they will turn us away like Julia Roberts in pretty woman. We stumble upon the singing tree again, and realize we are 20 mins away from witnessing children carolers with bright red caps climb bleachers decorated in Pine branches to look like a Christmas tree. The carols are in German and the parents around us are rosey red with pride.

Mom’s tired, and Tuggle isn’t saying anything. I’m trying to be considerate without overtaxing my self with my people pleasing tendencies.

I request we visit a grocery store to grab some comfort food before a quick jaunt back to the hotel to check in. Just kidding, it is a 30 minute scenic bus route. I know without knowing we will fall asleep and wake up in time to mostly miss the markets, and catch the rain and I can’t do the math to prevent it.

We do fall asleep, we miss some markets, and it does rain. There are maybe 2-3 that I can find via a google search and the last one has mugs! We barely order our gluhwein before it closes. The mug has no words, but two sassy squirrels back to back, like they are the stars of the parent trap. Mom’s has two peacocks. Tuggle says the squirrels disturb him so he passes. We sit and have a rare chat, to the sounds of a Swiss rain on the shelter’s roof. When our gluhwein runs out, we cannot resist tempation. We stop at a McDonald’s. I have a McChicken which is more like a proper sandwich and less like the dollar menu money grab it is here in the states. Mom tries some raclette version of a burger. Tuggle buys a stuffed giraffe.

We go to back to the hotel and easily fall asleep. Easily sleep in.

When we wake up, mom’s ready to be led around the city, to employ her daughter as tour guide and google search engine for the low, low fee of…guilt.

I suggest a scenic point outside the city via public transit. The train terminates and we walk through the woods, all quietly glad we got to see some nature on this trip, but also not too much nature. We are so high in elevation, we are above the cloud bank and can see nothing. There is gluhwein at the top with raclette but no keepsake mugs, so we all refrain, hop back on the train, and head back downtown.

I refuse to be planner or guide anymore. I have done my fair share. I am putting my foot down. They can’t make me.

Mom wants to see a scenic view in the city that she found from google reviews. I get her there, and we admire the river, the old town, and twin spires of Grossmunster. It looks just like a postcard. She wants to walk through old town again. Since it is Monday, things will be open. On the way, we find another market with mugs! I order more gluhwein to get my mug and mom gets ravioli with a special butter and we all share it. It is so tasty. It if hadn’t be twenty some francs, we all would have eaten our own plate.

On the way to and through old town, we stop at some souvenir shops. I buy some postcards and last minute gifts for family: a zippo for Josh’s dad, a lucky cow for his sister, coins for Josh’s half sisters, and a Swiss Army knife made set of fingernail clippers for Josh. I buy some chocolate for my brother’s wife, and candy for my nephews.

I find a post office and am greeted enthusiastically. Taken aback, I try to keep up as I am told it is the grand opening of this post office. I take a ticket with a number, a large heart shaped chocolate, and wait to mail my postcards for 7.5 francs.

There is another surprise market by the post office. It is long and has well manicured chalets for sitting and drinking. Mom almost gets some alpaca socks for Josh but decides against it. We all climb the steps to an observatory platform, snap selfies with the market lights and decor in the background.

Tuggle and I, are done. We discuss quietly, that we could have gone home yesterday. Mom wants the day to last as long as she can stand it. Doesn’t know what to do with herself in a hotel. Says she still wants to find socks for Josh. We almost head back to the market with the alpaca socks when mom slinks into a shoe store and finds wool socks on sale. I even buy two pair for myself, plus wool insoles for Josh. Josh’s feet will be very well taken care of, I guess.

We take the familiar but scenic way back to the hotel where we have nothing to do but repack, fall asleep to German-speaking news stations, and wake up to get on a plane.

The next morning is as easy as we had hoped. A three minute train ride gets us to the beginning of the labrythine passage through security and customs and, finally, to our gate. My Priority Pass membership gets us into a lounge where we have a bountiful breakfast, unlimited coffee, and I still have time to use the loo, smoke, and get our seat assignments on our flight home. There is no tortuous wait for first class, or premium economy. There are a hundred open seats in main cabin only, and I must say, I prefer this standby experience.

I get to call Josh before I board, and he sends me photos of snow and ice on the back deck. Live, laugh, stay home.

In reflection, of the execution of a plan.