Note: this story is actually the indirect sequel to a previous story I wrote, entitled Alexandre 3 that you'll find on this site as well. It would be better to read this story before you start this one, although I did my best to make things as clear as possible here. Oh, come on, be nice... go and read the other one...

Planes are never on time. They do not necessarily need a mechanical breakdown or a technical problem of some kind in order to do so. It is simply in their nature. Planes never leave on time. They sometimes leave so late that they make you miss your connection in another airport where the planes were obviously not informed of their true nature by the proper authorities. I have come to accept these as facts of life and I try to do my best to accommodate myself to them. Armed of that knowledge, I could have myself decided to play with times and schedules and arrive as late as the planes decide to leave.

But I don’t. I am of those people who are never late. Always on time. Always waiting for the others. Always waiting for late planes to take off. I tend to travel a lot and I could not even begin to explain the amount of time of my adult life I have spent waiting for late planes in airports around the world.

Anyway, this story is not about planes. Although it starts in a plane. A plane which, to break the established rule, is on time. On a rainy early October day in Paris, I take the plane from Roissy to New York’s JFK. I am only to take a connection there and then to continue onto Maine to visit friends for about ten days.

Public transports in Paris have been on strike for the past two weeks and the city is his chaos. This is not the first time and they have proven in the past to be able to keep up with this kind of situation for quite a long time. What surprises me the most is that they have decided to start so early in the season. Usually – because yes, there is a usually in France when one talks about transport strikes – usually, the strikes hit in late November or early December, so that after a week or two, the other transport services – namely the public railways and state-owned air company – can follow and put the whole country in a good mood right before and during the holiday season.

That day, I leave my apartment four hours before I am actually due at the check in desk. The taxi takes two hours to get to the airport. And it is the best and fastest taxi driver I have ever seen. When I get to the Delta Airlines desk, I am informed that because of some booking problem that is beyond my understanding of normal language, I am offered to fly in business class. I accept. I am quite happy with that arrangement. This is one of those times when you don’t regret being the punctual one, who usually waits around like an idiot.

That day, the plane is going to be delayed. This does not come as a big surprise to me. And for once, there is a good reason. The strikes in town have kept a lot of people from being on time and the airline has decided to wait for most of them. At least a little. I could be angry and bitter against these incautious people who have not taken into account the unfortunate predictability of Parisian bus and metro drivers, but not today. Today I fly business class, which is almost as good as flying first or leaving on time.

The airlines are actually quite good at making you wait. This day, they have us wait around for a bit in the lounge and then give us hope and call us inside the plane. I am amongst the first ones to get in, because, after all, I am to sit in business class. Business class is nice and cozy, the seats are large and comfortable and soft. It seems they are softer than in economy class, but maybe my mind is playing tricks on me.

We have been sitting in there for about half an hour and the plane's ass is still stuck onto the ground. I have just ordered my second ginger ale - I know I can choose Champagne if I want, but I have never liked Champagne. It would come in handy now though. I take my book from my backpack and I am about to open it again and go on reading. It is my friend Benjamin’s was third book and so far his best. I know how he suffered down the path that led him to this story. But I know how relieved he is now that he has reached the end of this path. I know the story behind the story described in these pages and each word stings my heart. I know his pain so well. I have reached about twenty pages and wept twice already, although I have tried not to do so on this plane, and when I feel the tears sting my eyes once more, I shut the book and leave it on the seat table.

I take a sip of ginger ale and look around me in the cabin. A few seats are still unoccupied, like the one next to me. I turn around towards the economy class. The little curtain is still open. After take off, when everybody will be onboard, the flight attendant will close it shut and separate us from the rest of the passengers, from the mere mortals. I smile. I know I should not and that next time I fly I will be a mortal again, but today I am really happy that I do not have to share the mob’s fate. I am happy to be sitting in a large, comfortable and soft seat, away from the crowded back of the plane.

She appears suddenly out of nowhere, breathless. Her hair covering half of her face. She stops in the aisle next to the empty seat next to me. She shakes her head quickly to brush her dark hair aside and I can see her face. She is a young woman in her late twenties, with blue eyes. Her face is all flushed from having run to catch the plane she did not know was waiting for her. She is checking her ticket for her seat number and soon realizes she has already found it. So she looks at me for the first time and smiles, a little breathless. "Hi," she simply says, "I think this is my seat." She is American, obviously.

It takes me a second to realize she means the one I am actually sitting in. "I'm sorry," I quickly say, already staring to get up. "We can switch."

"No, no," she says, stopping me with a quick hand gesture. "That's fine. I like the aisle better anyway. I hate bothering people to go and have a pee."

That makes sense to me. It also means I am going to have to bother her.

She settles in quickly. She puts her carry-on in the compartment above our heads, takes a very thick book out of it before doing so, takes off her jacket and her sweat shirt, and tries to order a club soda before she actually sits down. But the flight attendant informs her that we are about to take off and that refreshment will be served soon after that. My travel companion sighs strongly and passes her hand in her dark, long hair. "I'm dying for a drink," she says. "I had to run all the way from the cab stop! Man, this strike is hell!"

I nod. "That's the point."

She turns to me. "It is?" she says, not sure what to think of me yet.

I smile. "You're not from around here, I take it," I say and hold her out my can of ginger ale. I have been drinking from my glass and the can is clean. "Please. Have a sip."

She smiles and accepts the offer. She is very hot from running. "Are you French?" she asks after a sip or two of ginger ale. I am flattered she even asks. I have never thought my accent to be that good. She chuckles and tells me that I have to be French to cope with such a mess and keep a cool attitude. I nod.

"Unfortunately," I say, "we don't have a choice. And the fact is: you get used to it after a while."

Her name is Toby. I wonder what it is short for. She lives in New York, New York and works in fashion. But she is originally from Pennsylvania. She has just finished a two-week tour of Europe - well, she mainly stayed in Italy and Southern France - she is now heading back to the Big Apple. In the seven hours it is going to take our plane to cross the Atlantic ocean, I will learn everything that is humanly possible to know about a complete stranger in seven hours. Including that she owns a horse, she has been having trouble with her boyfriend Greg and that she has been seeing this new dermatologist who does wonders for her skins. She compliments me on mine. When she leaves her seat to go to the bathroom for the second time, I sit back and sigh. I smile. I quite like her. Although she speaks a lot. She makes me speak too, which I do not always enjoy, but today I don't mind. My seat is too comfortable to be ill tempered.

I mess my immigration card again. No matter how many times I have already filled the silly green form, no matter how often I will fill it again, I cannot get it right. I have come to ask for two copies right away. It is simpler and less time consuming. But you do have to admit these are confusing and I end up writing on the wrong line every other time I fill one. I am just finishing filling my second copy - after having hidden the first messed up one - when Toby comes back from the bathroom. She sits down with a sigh. "Boy, that guy reeks!" she says loud enough for the big guy behind us to hear. He does smell bad, I must admit. "What are you doing?" she asks, leaning over my little immigration form.

I'm sucking on the end of my pen, thinking. "I'm wondering if someone would notice if I answered YES to the ‘Have you ever been a controlled substance trafficker; or are you seeking entry to engage in criminal or immoral activities’ question?"

She smiles and does not answer. She bends down instead and grabs her bag underneath the seat in front of her. She takes her wallet out of it and gives me her card. "I know you're on your way to Maine this time, but next time you stop by New York, why don't you give me a call? We could go out or something..."

I thank her and accept, assuring her I will, but in the back of my mind, I know there is a very good chance I will never see her again. Not that I dislike her. She is quite nice and has been a real pleasure to travel with.

But I know myself too well. I don't go to New York that often and the next time I fly to the Big Apple, I will probably never dare calling her, fearing to be rude or to intrude, or even that she has forgotten all about me.

I take the card nevertheless and give her mine, giving her the same routine about Paris. It is a routine, but it is sincere at the same time. I still haven't found what Toby is short for. It’s going to bug me for a while.

So I leave Toby in JFK that day in October, her card neatly placed in my personal organizer, with others. Right before I catch my connection - and I have to run to catch it because of the delay before take off in Paris - I promise myself I will call her if I ever go to New York soon.

Six weeks later, I am back in the city that never sleeps, on a business trip this time. I am to meet a few business partners and was given full authority to conduct the meetings as I please. Understandably, it makes me a little nervous. My boss has sent me to New York for 5 days and I will be staying at the Washington Square Hotel, in the Village, all expenses paid. It is a nice place, right in the beating heart of Manhattan. I was to go to the Sheraton, which was fine by me, but the place was full because of a vet convention and Pauline, our secretary wonder, booked me in the Washington Hotel instead. She likes me and I am grateful.

I get there on a Friday; I am to meet with a client in the afternoon and have dinner with him later, but when I get to the hotel reception, a message from Pauline informs me that the appointment has been postponed until Monday morning. I am a bit annoyed. This meeting is the only reason why I got there on the Friday and I’m going to have to spend the weekend in a city where I don’t know anybody.

Then I remember that this city is New York City and that I should be grateful.

Then I remember I have Toby’s phone number in my wallet.

Continued in Part 2.