It was Monday, June 20th, 2022. My (Yale) roommates and I are in Paris to see Olivia Rodrigo (in two days). But tonight, I was doing a favor for my great-uncle Remy. Taking my elderly great-aunt Yvonne to the airport.
In RL this all happened in French, but I wouldn’t do that to you - but just so you know.
“I’ve always thought of Anais as a granddaughter,” Yvonne said, too loudly, into my phone, which she had grabbed from me and I was afraid she would drop. She kept trying to hold it to her ear.
She smiled at me with her old lady dimples. “That’s sweet of you to say,” I lied. She doesn’t fool me. She’s not innocuous. She’s as mean as a snake and she doesn’t like ME at all. How did I end up doing this? I asked myself.
“No Aunt Yvonne,” I said as I gently moved the phone away from her ear. “This is a CAMERA call. Hold it out so they can SEE you.” She’s saying a final goodbye to Remy and letting a cousin know her arrival time. As the Facetime call ends, I pocket my phone with relief.
Lisa’s with us (I told her not to come) and she doesn’t speak French. So for her, this whole task is an awkward pantomime. Charles, our escort, drove us to Orly airport and he’s circling in wait to pick us up.
Yvonne walks at a glacial pace, and it took forever to clear security. Lisa and I have special tags allowing us to escort Yvonne to her gate. I offered to get her a wheelchair, but NOOOOO.
“We need to hurry –,” I began, but she interrupted me.
“Why are you wearing that skintight nothing?” she barked loudly, irritatedly, “if I had YOUR figure, I’d hide those tiny ******* (“minuscules seins,” in French, loudly). Heads turned as I flushed with irritation and she cackled like a witch.
It’s 8pm in Paris and 30.5°C (87°F). I’m wearing a sports bra and two tank tops. Sue me. I wasn’t planning on doing this at all. We were staggering slowly through the terminal when, like a gift from God, an Air France courtesy tram pulled up next to us.
“Get on,” I demanded, “or we’ll miss your flight.” She did - as slowly as humanly possible.
When we finally got seated at the gate, she sent me for bottled water, a sleep mask, a neck pillow, sugarless lemon drops and a Paris Match magazine. “Thank you, my dear,” she said upon my return, baring her teeth at me in what I suppose was meant to be a smile.
“You should come and visit me (in Libreville, Gabon, Africa),” she suggested, “I think there are things I could teach you."
'Sure,' I thought, 'like how to get eaten by a lion.'
“I can’t,” I said, with feigned regret, "I'm in school,” (I wouldn’t go there if she lived with Timothée Chalamet).
I heard a familiar voice, and I looked up to see my Grandmère arriving with her usual entourage of 7 or 8 lackeys, a couple of frazzled Air France employees and two gendarmes.
“Yvonne,” she said, pointing to the two Air France employees, “these people will see to you. Say goodbye to Anais.”
“Goodbye dear,” Yvonne said in a fake, fragile voice. I gave Yvonne a half-hearted Paris bises (two kisses on each side) and my Grandmère shooed me away with a hand gesture and an impatient, “Go, GO.”
I’m afraid Remy’s in trouble.
Yvonne and her branch of the family are the slimiest people you could ever meet. They’re billion-heirs (not billionaires - billion-heirs) who (theoretically) stand to inherit handsomely when my Grandmère dies
(I am NOT in that grubby lineup).
They’re liars, cheaters and scoundrels who’d stab you in the face for an olive to put in their martinis. They're legal reasons my Grandmère has to put up with them from time to time - but every interaction is fraught with phoniness.
About fifteen minutes later, Lisa and I are in the car with Charles racing back to Paris for dinner with our roommates. As I texted them to expect us in 20 minutes, Lisa said, “I got bad vibes from that old lady - the way she LOOKED at you when you weren’t watching..”
“YOU,” I said with a chuckle, “are very perceptive!”
.
.
Songs for this:
Never Need Me by Rachel Chinouriri
Forever by HAIM
Mar 8
Mar 8, 2026 at 11:17 PM UTC
It was Monday, June 20th, 2022. My (Yale) roommates and I are in Paris to see Olivia Rodrigo (in two days). But tonight, I was doing a favor for my great-uncle Remy. Taking my elderly great-aunt Yvonne to the airport.
In RL this all happened in French, but I wouldn’t do that to you - but just so you know.
“I’ve always thought of Anais as a granddaughter,” Yvonne said, too loudly, into my phone, which she had grabbed from me and I was afraid she would drop. She kept trying to hold it to her ear.
She smiled at me with her old lady dimples. “That’s sweet of you to say,” I lied. She doesn’t fool me. She’s not innocuous. She’s as mean as a snake and she doesn’t like ME at all. How did I end up doing this? I asked myself.
“No Aunt Yvonne,” I said as I gently moved the phone away from her ear. “This is a CAMERA call. Hold it out so they can SEE you.” She’s saying a final goodbye to Remy and letting a cousin know her arrival time. As the Facetime call ends, I pocket my phone with relief.
Lisa’s with us (I told her not to come) and she doesn’t speak French. So for her, this whole task is an awkward pantomime. Charles, our escort, drove us to Orly airport and he’s circling in wait to pick us up.
Yvonne walks at a glacial pace, and it took forever to clear security. Lisa and I have special tags allowing us to escort Yvonne to her gate. I offered to get her a wheelchair, but NOOOOO.
“We need to hurry –,” I began, but she interrupted me.
“Why are you wearing that skintight nothing?” she barked loudly, irritatedly, “if I had YOUR figure, I’d hide those tiny ******* (“minuscules seins,” in French, loudly). Heads turned as I flushed with irritation and she cackled like a witch.
It’s 8pm in Paris and 30.5°C (87°F). I’m wearing a sports bra and two tank tops. Sue me. I wasn’t planning on doing this at all. We were staggering slowly through the terminal when, like a gift from God, an Air France courtesy tram pulled up next to us.
“Get on,” I demanded, “or we’ll miss your flight.” She did - as slowly as humanly possible.
When we finally got seated at the gate, she sent me for bottled water, a sleep mask, a neck pillow, sugarless lemon drops and a Paris Match magazine. “Thank you, my dear,” she said upon my return, baring her teeth at me in what I suppose was meant to be a smile.
“You should come and visit me (in Libreville, Gabon, Africa),” she suggested, “I think there are things I could teach you."
'Sure,' I thought, 'like how to get eaten by a lion.'
“I can’t,” I said, with feigned regret, "I'm in school,” (I wouldn’t go there if she lived with Timothée Chalamet).
I heard a familiar voice, and I looked up to see my Grandmère arriving with her usual entourage of 7 or 8 lackeys, a couple of frazzled Air France employees and two gendarmes.
“Yvonne,” she said, pointing to the two Air France employees, “these people will see to you. Say goodbye to Anais.”
“Goodbye dear,” Yvonne said in a fake, fragile voice. I gave Yvonne a half-hearted Paris bises (two kisses on each side) and my Grandmère shooed me away with a hand gesture and an impatient, “Go, GO.”
I’m afraid Remy’s in trouble.
Yvonne and her branch of the family are the slimiest people you could ever meet. They’re billion-heirs (not billionaires - billion-heirs) who (theoretically) stand to inherit handsomely when my Grandmère dies
(I am NOT in that grubby lineup).
They’re liars, cheaters and scoundrels who’d stab you in the face for an olive to put in their martinis. They're legal reasons my Grandmère has to put up with them from time to time - but every interaction is fraught with phoniness.
About fifteen minutes later, Lisa and I are in the car with Charles racing back to Paris for dinner with our roommates. As I texted them to expect us in 20 minutes, Lisa said, “I got bad vibes from that old lady - the way she LOOKED at you when you weren’t watching..”
“YOU,” I said with a chuckle, “are very perceptive!”
.
.
Songs for this:
Never Need Me by Rachel Chinouriri
Forever by HAIM
our cast:
Lisa (Yale roommate), grew up in a posh 50th floor tower residence at Central Park South, Manhattan. A fellow (pre-med) Molecular biophysics and biochemistry major and easily the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen RL (and she’s sensitive about it). Our tastes match, in everything (fashion, media, music, humor) except men.
Charles, a 50-ish 6'4" retired NYC cop, has been my escort, driver, security and surrogate parent since I was 9 years old.
