"Why shut up?"

Peeling out over and over from the back of the plane, you'd think this incessant questioning was coming from a five year-old. That is, of course, if it didn't come out in a combination two parts drunken absurdity and one part heavily accented, broken English. The whining and groaning continued as I sat waiting for my flight to leave behind the formality of Paris and head away to country #19 on my life-to-date European travel list. Not all of us would be traveling willingly eastward this morning, though. When curiosity reached insurmountable levels I looked back to see Mr. Won't Shut Up flanked by two cops in civvies. It turns out, when you're handcuffed on a plane, cops don't want to hear your groans or your insistences that "your hand is problem." (Wasn't that the issue to begin with?). So we know Mr. Five Finger Discount should shut up, but the cops didn't say anything about twenty something travelers. More and more I want to remember the little things like staring down a crazy criminal that make travel so crazy, unpredictable and fun to share with others. And thus was born a short-term blog of little interest to anyone.