Air Force Brat by Susan Kiernan-Lewis Page B

in
Paris that September afternoon, I had seen enough film clips of
Jackie Kennedy poised at the top of the non-motorized gangway to
take a moment and strike a similar poise when I “saw Paris for the
first time.” This was, of course, before the days of the equipment
scooting right up to the gate. In 1962, you still had to climb down
to the tarmac and walk across the runway to get to customs. It
would be a little harder for a romantic child today to weave her
way through the Pizza Huts and magazine stands and moving sidewalks
inside Charles DeGaulle airport, past customs and baggage claim to
where the Metro opens up to take her into the heart of Paris before
she ever got to say “I am now on French soil!” There’s a reason the
Pope doesn’t fly Coach—he’d never find an empty spot to kiss the
ground upon debarking.
    Paris in the sixties was, to a starry-eyed
nine-year old, the perfected picture of Paris in my dreams. It even
smelled different from America, or at least New York City, from
where we’d just flown. I’d been practicing my French vocabulary for
months, but it was pretty clear, right from the beginning, that
learning and speaking a foreign language was not going to be as
easy as I thought.
    As I understand it, my mother had preferred
that my Dad come back to the States to collect us all when it was
time to join him in France. This may have had something to do with
the fact that my brother, Tommy, although only eleven years old,
could be very strong willed and my mother didn’t relish attempting
to bend his will during what promised to be a challenging journey.
Or maybe with four children, and having never been overseas
herself, she just wanted the extra support. On top of that, this
would be her first flight ever. Whatever the reason, my father did
fly back to escort us over, only to be thwarted at the last
minute—as we were all boarding the plane. He’d flown over “space
available” on the TWA flight into the New York International
Airport (three years later it would be renamed JFK International
Airport) but wasn’t able to get a seat out on our flight.
    For us kids, it was also
our first airplane flight and we probably never enjoyed one more.
Once Dad knew he wasn’t going to make it on our flight, he paged
the family of a buddy—also on their way to France—so that we might
all travel together. The Scibettas would be living in our same
village. Their Dad—Captain Scibetta 3 —was a flight surgeon at
Chambley who had become good friends with Dad during the time the
two were in France waiting for their families to join
them.
    The Scibettas were a family of four boys and
one girl which nearly perfectly matched our own family of three
boys and one girl. Susan Scibetta became my best friend for the
whole of the time that I was overseas. We were both dark-haired,
bright, and short. We were both scheduled to be registered at the
convent school in the French village so we would not only be
neighbors but the sole American schoolmates in a French school.
    As soon as we landed on French soil, it was
clear that we had all taken a huge step back in time. Gone were the
neon signs of Rome, New York, from where we’d moved. Gone were the
super highways, the outdoor movie theatres, the McDonald’s
hamburger stands and early morning television cartoons. Gone also
were the bright colors that had earmarked the beginning of the new
decade. France was tired and gray and, more often than not,
black.
    Paris was Paris, however. When I saw the
Eiffel Tower for the first time, I gasped as if seeing my favorite
fantasy character come to life. My memory of the first time I saw
Paris always has a cheesy, scratchy-record Edith Piaff song playing
in the background. Absolutely magic.
    Captain Scibetta, a bald, stern-looking man
who, I am told, was really extremely witty and fun, met us at the
airport with a large station wagon which, amazingly, the three
adults and nine children were able to fit in. We drove to