Nurse the Hate: Return To Burgundy

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I have become unusually focused on my return to Burgundy, France.  "Return" isn't really the right word.  No, I suppose my "grand entrance" to Burgundy after the humiliation of being denied entry into the EU by a 26 year old chubby very British airline employee with aggressive red lipstick.  She did not fit the profile of most worthy adversaries.  As I was currently standing in the EU while denied entry into the EU, it was perhaps the most embarrassing and confusing part of the entire thing.  Oh weary traveler, let me offer you this advice.  Do not try to fly from a regional English airport to Lyon on an American passport with 74 days left until expiration.  You must have at least 90 days before expiration to be admitted into the EU, this despite the fact that you might be already in the EU at the time of this discovery. 

Now you would think that a passport would expire when it passes the “expiration date”.  The EU, excepting the UK, decided that they would need it to be “expiration date minus 90 days”.  I don’t know what advantage that creates for the good citizens of The Old World, but I can say with great authority that 26 year old plump aggressively lipsticked airline employees are not going to provide the type of wiggle room a man like myself would require.  I prefer to live in the margins.  This is not a good match for European Union policy.  I could have attempted to secure some type of waiver from the American Embassy all the way back in downtown London, but I cannot even imagine what type of bureaucratic hell that would have been.  Assuming it would have shot the day, it would have created an impossible itinerary for me to accomplish my Burgundian mission.

One of my associates, a Dr. Sonnentag, aka “The Land Sailor”, is in full agreement with my focus on maintaining “a very tight schedule”.  I believe this quality of mine is what has allowed me to enjoy a cordial and friendly relationship with the People of Germany, a people that have an unusual fixation on scheduling.  For example, if a club in Germany says they want you on at 9pm, this means 9pm exactly.  To step on that stage at 9:02 is “impossible”.  Being set to commence the set at 9pm is “absolutely perfect”.  There is no discussion of options.  The plan has been made and must be executed exactly as formulated.  Anything else is complete disaster.  It was with this mindset that I knew I must catapult out of the UK, lick my wounds, and plan my next assault.

Within days of my exile from The Old World, I secured an updated passport.  In my photograph you can see how mad I still am at the whole incident.  The only time I want to have to go to an American Embassy is when I need to plead for an ambassador to spring Leo from a local prison for whatever violation he has unwittingly made.  The Jackal likes to glide across international borders while hiding in plain site, this even though The Jackal is often wearing a cowboy hat while walking around with three degenerates carrying guitar cases.  Krusty, a true genius at being anonymous, has blended into crowds so effectively that I have lost him at cafés while standing only 10 feet away.  It was easier to hide in plain site with Krusty in the band as he morphed into some type of Euro chameleon in blocky glasses and clunky black shoes.  He became part of the backdrop, just another pensive man quietly sipping coffee.  He would have probably slipped onto that flight to France without anyone even noticing.

I am completely committed now to my mission.   This will be a Burgundian Blitzkrieg, though I will likely keep my mission code name to myself.  Those feisty Germans don’t have a good history in the region.  Utilizing airline points I will go Cleveland to New York, New York to Paris, jump on a train to Reims in the Champagne region.  After this suicide run I will secure my place at a champagne bar near the cathedral and demand to open a vintage Pol Roger with the nearest champagne saber.  I am certain that airline officials will not permit me to arrive in the champagne region while confidently brandishing my own saber.  Thus I will be forced to use some type of "house saber".  This will obviously deter from everyone’s shared experience as I will be overtired and using an unfamiliar saber as I attempt to open the Pol Roger.  Slicing off a waiter’s hand is considered to be in poor taste in Reims, as it is in most of France as I am told.  I will need to use the utmost care and attention to detail.

From Reims, I have already secured a dangerous German sports car, one which will offer plenty of thrills as I ignore French traffic laws and push the car to the limit.  I will roar into Epernay, where after delicate negotiations, will engage in two tastings at leading champagne producers that do not normally allow in “the public”.  This is where my current title and foggy future plans in the wine trade have paid off.  While I might have been intentionally vague about my qualifications and job title, I think once I arrive and begin to toss out terminology and recite back history of The House, everything will be fine.  Well, as long as there are not too many questions, in which case I may well be escorted to the door or beaten with batons.  The Champagnoise will turn on you like angry jackals if they smell fear.

From Epernay I will then strike the village of Chablis, a personal favorite wine of mine.  It turns out that two of my favorite producers do not speak any English.  I cannot speak French.  Furthermore, even if I try to pretend I speak French, like if I make French sounding noises, it does not sound believable.  This is a hurdle.  I am hoping to gain an audience with these producers, so I have written them very flattering letters requesting a visit to taste their wines in their caves.  My fear is that my correspondence translated from Google will not say things like “I am a great admirer of your wines and hoped to arrange a visit” but instead say “Wine great to the most admire I will come to your house and hope”.  Cranky French farmers will likely not warmly greet an illiterate American caveman rocketing into their village in an overpowered death machine.  This will require some finesse.

After a night in Chablis, where I hope to win over the locals and get inducted into whatever their local secret wine society is called, it’s a straight shot down to Beaune.  That is a three night stay to not only tour the Cote d’Or, but insert myself into places where I can’t possibly afford the wine.  I have already mobilized my shadowy network of contacts in the trade to nudge open doors from high end producers that don’t let anyone in to taste their wines.  They make such small quantities of these wines, with the demand so great, they don’t have to work to sell them.  Their task is to try to placate the fierce demand with the tiny drops of allocations they sprinkle out.  I don’t know what lies will need to be told, or who I am going to have to pretend to be, but if any questions get too uncomfortable, I will pretend I can’t understand their accent.  This old trick has been done to me a number of times by Chinese restaurant owners, who suddenly can’t understand English when I have come to collect the money for their advertising schedules.  Two weeks ago the guy was a Man of Letters.  Now he is a poor peasant that cannot understand your complex words.  Smart play.  Now the student will become the teacher…

After wearing out my welcome in the Cote D’Or, I will really press my luck and do a drive through in the Macon and Beaujolais.  I have come all this way, so I have to at least see what it looks like, right?  Perhaps I will have a photo taken by a nervous local as I stand in my El Mysterioso mask next to a windmill or crumbling cathedral.  I will  obviously need proof that I was there.  This is when it will be imperative to adhere to the “very tight schedule”.  The car must be returned, fines paid, but with enough time remaining to grab the bullet train back to Paris.  By my calculations, I cannot have even the smallest delay if I want to make the return flight.  A railway strike or mechanical issue will prevent my timely return and then necessitate a lengthy story as to why I have not returned to my cubicle to once again make tremendous amounts of money for strangers sitting on the corporate board.  The move will be to speak very rapidly with a strange French accent as if I have gone completely local.  “Yes but you do not understand!  The railway strike has shut down everything!  Everything!  There is nothing left to do but wait…  I am certain you understand.  Au revoir.  (click)”

This scenario is the only way I can see to make things right from what is commonly called “The Disaster in Gatwick” last year.  I need to go totally German on this thing.  Rigid schedules.  Perfect paperwork.  Aggressive travel without remorse.  It will be “absolutely perfect”.  Like a modern day somewhat twisted General Douglas McArthur, I will return.