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So, this is Iowa.

September 15, 2007

A few months ago, while N was fly-fishing somewhere out east, I was en route back to Chicago from the west coast sitting next to two gorgeous women from Montreal. I have to admit I’m a bit of a Francophile; the “chicness” of French women, their figures, their “French Women Don’t Get Fat,” allure and their exquisite accents. These Montréalers came pretty close.

We were flying towards O’Hare with me eavesdropping and pretending I’m part of their group, my hidden sophisticated and glamorous self suppressing the urge to participate in their conversation, when the pilot announced that due to atrocious weather in the Chicago area we were going to land in Dezz Moynes. That place in Iowa.

Madame Bovary leaned towards me and asked where it was we were about to land. I repeated in Iowa, in Dezz Moynes. I showed her on the map, AH, Day Moi, she enunciated, with a smile. Of course I knew that.

They cleared the cows off the runway before we landed and I astutely noticed that the Des Moines International Airport had perhaps for the first time reached International status and was obviously the place to be that evening, what with dozens of large Boeings and Airbuses looming through the dark; row upon row along the tarmac; the likes of which had never seen before. Everyone flying East, it seems, had been diverted to this airport.

A couple of hours after being trapped in a brown lounge at the end of the “long ago, officially closed the for day, food and drink concourse,” the weather in Chicago cleared allowing our flight to leave. We were a hungry, grumpy band of folk, who sometime during our forced lock up in the airport, had sort of bonded. We had all griped and moaned, our superficial conversations sounding a lot like we were mingling at a cocktail party; unfortunately ours was minus the booze, our airport’s facility being closed. Strangely though, my French speaking companions were nowhere to be seen.

The rest of our flight to Chicago was a little rowdier than most, with the newly formed groups of friends from our “stop-over” chatting across the aisle; and I swear (it’s not that I’m paranoid) my chic lady “companions” talked much softer than before; and their conversation was infused with many hearty chuckles around what sounded an awful lot like Dezz Moynes.

Copyright © 2007

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