Davidson's [POV]
I step off the flight from Italy to France and smooth the minor wrinkles in my shirt. My mood could best be described as extremely irritated, because the flight was five hours late. Which, of course, means I've missed my connection to LAX.
Just how difficult is it for the airline to maintain its fleet properly and operate on time?
Delays due to mechanical issues just mean the airline is terrible at its primary function. And I hurried through everything in Italy to make the damned flight for nothing.
I pull out my phone and turn off airplane mode. Texts and alerts fill my screen. Some of them are from the airline about the damn flight, like I wouldn't know I've been hugely inconvenienced without their idiotic alerts.
A mountain of to-dos are waiting for me in L.A. I don't have time to waste here, even if this airport is spectacularly spacious and nice.
One new email in particular is near the top of my inbox. Despite the fact that it's in French, I check it first because it's going to be more effective than meds for bringing down my blood pressure.
Sure enough...
The email contains pictures of old golden retrievers. They look adorable and happy. I smile. Only a sociopath could stay angry seeing those panting doggy grins. And just look at those cute, bright eyes. The dogs are lovable. No other word for it.
This is exactly what I wanted when I started sponsoring a "retirement center" for old seeing eye dogs in France. I never knew what happened to those dogs. Actually, I never gave much thought to them at all, since I've never known anybody who needed one.
But three years ago on a long trans-Pacific flight, I watched a documentary about what the French people did with their animals once they grew too old to serve. Since they can't be seeing eye dogs anymore, they're sent to a kind of retirement center where they live out the rest of their lives. Their owners visit them if they live nearby. But it has to be painful for the dogs to be away from someone they've known and loved for so long.
Toward the end, the film featured a sick dog named Nana. That poor thing was old and suffering from an unspecified illness. A center worker said they were waiting for a vet to come in, while rubbing Nana to comfort her.
The slow way Nana blinked...and how unfocused her eyes were... It just gutted me. The film wasn't trying to solicit donations. But I found out where the center was located, hired a translator, and flew out there.
Nana had already died, so there was nothing I could do for her. But I got to see the other dogs at the center. How intelligent and gentle they were, how happy they were to have a visitor, tails wagging and noses questing to meet this new person.
They've spent all their lives in training and service to humans. Now that they're retired, they could use some pampering beyond what the center's budget can give. Every single one of the dogs there deserves steak and biscuits. They deserve dignity.
I set up an annual donation on the spot.
Everyone was thrilled about the decision except my accountant. He advised me to choose a different organization to give money to, saying I couldn't write it off my taxes. Apparently, a foreign entity that isn't registered with the IRS doesn't entitle me to a deduction. It's my accountant's job to worry about stuff like that, but I ignored his advice. It's my money. I'll give it to whoever I deem worthy, not who the IRS considers acceptable.
And I say those dogs deserve to be treated like royalty.
So every month, the center sends me updates and pictures...sometimes videos. I can't read the updates because they're in French Google Translate helps to sort of parse it out but opening the updates is always a happy moment.
Finally I close the email, then send a quick text to my best friend Aiden.
–Me: Can't make it for drinks like we planned. Got delayed.
–Aiden: That sucks. Some other time, then.
Assuming we can agree on a date. We both keep busy schedules. He's an attorney and lives to protect his clients and destroy their enemies. I'm one of his clients too, and I love having an asshole on my team. Comes in handy at times.
–Aiden: Lemme know when you get back.
–Me: Ok. I'll have Benedict check my calendar next week.
–Aiden: Too special to hang out with me this weekend?
I snort. Because of my trip, I suggested meeting for drinks on Saturday rather than Friday, but he told me he was busy.
–Me: Like you have any free time.
–Aiden: Yeah, true. TTYLater gator.
That done, I contact my assistant Benedict.
–Me: I just landed. Call me.
I see another security checkpoint. Shit. But at least the lines are moving.
–Me: Wait. Call me after I clear security. Ten minutes.
After I go through a metal detector and have my carry-on scanned by a woman who tries to maintain eye contact a little longer than is really necessary, I walk along the wide and curving main corridor of Charles de Gaulle Airport, past a string of brightly lit duty-free stores, phone in hand. I also note an indoor garden that must be new. I don't remember seeing it last time I came to Seoul. Panels on the high ceiling above show soothing patterns of blue and orange. I squint. Are those fish on the screens...?
And when is Benedict going to call? I said ten minutes, not eleven—
My phone rings. "Tell me you put me on the next flight out of here," I say.
"Sorry. The airline put you on the one after."
"Why?" The gall of the airline. "Don't they know they've wasted enough of my time?"
"I made that clear, but they were worried that you might not clear the second security check after getting off the flight from Singapore. But they assured me that was the fastest they could arrange. Even said it was with their partner airline."
Oh for God's sake. "Well, I've already cleared it. So can they put me on the next flight?"
"Probably not. Unless it's been delayed, it's already boarding. Or about to."
Fuck. Me.
"But according to the schedule, you should be home in the next fourteen hours for sure."
That fails to improve my mood. I should be halfway over the Pacific by now, damn it. But there's nothing to be done, so I latch on to something that I can do something about. "Fine. Update me on anything I should know."
"No emergencies. Your agent sent five more scripts since you left for your little getaway in Phuket. How's your tan, by the way?"
"Good enough." I grunt with half annoyance and half pleasure.
I don't regret adding the three-day detour to Thailand to my trip to Japan, where I was filming a few whiskey commercials for a local brewery.
I'd never been to Thailand, and a producer told me the beaches in Phuket are fantastic. But I resent the hell out of the fact that the airlines fucked up my return trip home.
"Also, FYI, you have fourteen calls from Jessica Martins," Benedict says, to distinguish her from another Jessica, a photographer I used to work with some years ago.