July 3-4, 2003

The fever, I figured, was a good omen, because the trip could only improve from there.

The day before my departure, my old nemesis Left Tonsil enflamed and spread its poison slowly across to its partner on the right. The result was a dull but constant throat ache and, probably related, a drastically fluctuating body temperature. Lauren actually made me take a nap an hour before we left for the airport because I was shivering and complaining of the heat at the same time.

Perfect. Just perfect.

An hour before I had to check in for what would be a ten-hour flight, I caught another mystery ailment. Worse, I'd maxed out on Aleve � as she saw my trembling, steaming hand accept two little blue pills from the bottle, a realization dawned on Lauren's face and she sternly asked how many I'd had already that day.

"Four," I said innocently.

"I think you're only supposed to take three," she pointed out.

I blinked. "What does that mean?" I struggled.

"It means you're already over the limit, so if you take those, you'll have ingested twice the recommended amount in less than 24 hours," she said.

Again, I blinked. "But, wait, so, wait, math..." I began, then stopped, staring perplexed at the tablets in my shaking palm.

"You can't take two more or your internal organs will stop working and your mother will cry and your Kaiser bill will be enormous," she explained.

Pause. "So, I shouldn't take these?"

Out of fear that my body would liquefy mid-air without the courtesy of George Clooney � or, failing that, a real doctor � on board to save my life, I put the Aleve back in the bottle with a choking noise and continued packing, head throbbing and body temperature soaring back above one-hundred degrees.

The disease must have helped me sleep on the flight. Because I couldn't keep my eyes open, I sat there for ten hours staring at the inside of my eyelids and I'm guessing I was conked out for some of that time -- the minutes not spent trying to turn off my brain by staring at Colin Firth's ass in leather pants in What A Girl Wants, which in the case of that scene is incredibly aptly named. The lady sitting next to me shot me at least two disdainful looks, which I rewarded with overloud sniffles and an affected cough, just to freak her out a little. No judgment here, Prissy Lady. Just ogling.

When we landed at Heathrow, I zipped through customs with my swish UK passport, because I am a brat who loves using it and never gets to do so, and searched the crowd for Doug. I was so excited to see him, I could hardly stand it, but meaning no disrespect to Doug, he could have been a cannibal and I'd have gladly charged straight for his welcoming arms. I needed human contact. More accurately, I needed a hug, because at this point I wasn't terribly excited at the prospect of two weeks by myself with the only regular company coming from two enormous red tonsils who argued with every substance I put down my throat.

My luck: He wasn't there. I lugged everything to my next terminal and discovered that Heathrow is evil and mean, because it makes you wait for it to designate a check-in gate for your flight but doesn't supply benches on which to sit -- at least, none on which I could sit and be within sight if Doug made it to the airport to see me. So I set up camp on the cold floor and leafed through Sports Illustrated.

He showed up five minutes later, to my relief -- my ass was aching and I really needed some conversation -- and , bless him, he hung out for more than two hours. We got water and I eagerly listened while he detailed his exploits in Ireland and Prague, and pored over his Czech Republic guidebook so he could help me weed out everything worth seeing and the stuff I could afford to skip.

At one point, he excused himself to use the restroom and returned with a broad grin on his face. "I forgot to show you the best souvenir I picked up," he said with barely contained glee. I couldn't figure out why he'd had his memory jogged at that particular moment until he lifted up his shirt slightly, flashing a just-fastened brass belt buckle in the shape of a Mack truck.

"I found this at a hardware store in Prague. It ended up costing me about three dollars," he beamed.

It was so ugly and hilarious, and he clearly reveled in its trashy glories and in his luck at finding something so completely insane. I laughed and laughed.

So much so, in fact, that I cut it awfully close with my flight. But it just felt so good to have someone improving my mood like that; I'd needed to focus my energies again about what lay before me. I didn't even notice time pass until I looked at my watch and saw that it was 6:50, and my flight to Paris was due to take off in an hour. We walked upstairs to check in my bags and get my boarding pass, and we bid a quick but friendly farewell outside the security checkpoint with promises of getting together before my birthday to swap trip photos and compare experiences.

I crossed through the first line of defense � a bored-looking girl with three nails painted black and the rest a fiery red, her blond hair thrown into a haphazard ponytail that was off-center by at least an inch � and saw, to my horror, that the line to get through the metal detectors was enormous.

And slow. So very slow. The clock read 19:05. I checked my boarding pass and saw that it said, "Gate Closes: 19:25." By the grace of God, I refrained from shitting a brick.

The line didn't move. 19:10.

The security guy stopped loading bags onto the conveyor belt long enough to chat with a passenger he either knew, or with whom he bonded over the color of her fuschia boots. 19:15. I had ten minutes to get all the way to my gate from halfway back in line.

When the clock read 19:23, I was through the metal detectors and shouldered my heavy backpack with a groan and a slight stagger. Then I took a deep breath and took off running, through the shopping area and off to Gate 22, which was one of the furthest points from where I was. I sprinted down a long hallway and to a moving walkway, down another hallway, across another moving walkway, and then through an entire room, at the back of which my gate was faintly visible.

By the time I got there, my left lung was in my mouth and my face was the Atlantic Ocean.

But I made it. They'd left the gate open an extra ten minutes, because check-in was going slowly, and I didn't have to sit any longer in Heathrow. I was tired, sweaty, panting, and in desperate need of a cup of water, but I could begin my trip.

And on the plus side, I think that when all that salty fluid seeped out of my pores, some toxins went with it. Tucked happily into my surprisingly roomy British Airways bulkhead seat, staring out at the blue London sky as our plane taxied down the runway, I realized I not only felt great, but that for the first time I was feeling really, really thrilled to be there. I wasn't nervous, wasn't panicking, wasn't over-planning. I was just excited. I felt free. I felt ready.

Paris, here I come.

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