I kept the painting as near my body as possible as I lugged my thirty-pound carry-on through the ribbon of travelers meandering through security. The cubic yard parcel covered in cardboard, brown paper, and snuggly wrapped in twine wasn't going to get out of my sight.

This was Lee's original, entrusted to me, and a gift for Claude, one of his collectors. It was also my first trip to Europe. I could tell I over-packed. I checked my other bag and wished this one were in the same place. I began to grow weary with each step lugging two cumbersome pieces. Lee was already in Paris two days before and expected me in fifteen hours. He knew my schedule.

Lee started painting in the eighties and had some pretty good stuff inspired by the nouveau and deco movements, along with his close cohorts; beatniks, weed, and dry martinis. He graduated into bronze sculpting and Claude was a collector. Lee's past career was that of a restaurateur. After his thirty some year tour of duty there, he pretty much read the paper at the kitchen bar, still drinking martinis, and lived off his investments, when he wasn't sculpting.

"You can't take that on board," the flight attendant stated flatly when I handed her my ticket.

"I can't! Why not?"

"It won't fit in the overheads. You'll have to leave it here." The plane was boarding. I had a $900 ticket in my hand. I had been on my feet with almost fifty pounds of weight for two hours, thrashing the throngs of molesters disguised as security agents, on my first trip to Europe, with a priceless painting, and was told I'd have to just "throw it away"!

I politely stepped out of line to assess my options and waited until all the passengers were checked in. Then I walked up to her, handed her my ticket and said, "I'm going and I'm taking this with me. And you can bet, I will find a place where it "will" fit," and I calming walked down the aisle and boarded the plane.

I sat my bag in my seat and continued to the rear of the plane with the painting where I stashed it behind the row of seats in front of the latrine relaying my story to the folks seated in front of it. Shaking their heads, they agreed they wouldn't get bumped either for a painting and to leave it there was no problem.

I got a least one dirty glare from the stewardess as she walked by as if to say, "How dare you." Then I slept until we arrived at Charles deGaulle.

The nighttime truly began when I departed the plane. Lee spotted the painting first and then me as I continued my struggle with it.

"Is that all you brought?"

"No, we'll have to go to baggage claim."

Lee knew how to get there so we were off. Well, we got there and watched and waited, and waited and watched. My bag never showed up causing another trip to Terminal one and the claims office. I filled out three pages in triplicate noting each item I had in my suitcase. That's when the reality of having over-packed really hit home. Not only had I over-packed, but I did something no one should ever do; never, never, never put your travelers' checks inside a checked bag!

I handed the completed paperwork back to the agent and was told to check with them in the morning,

"We apologize for any inconvenience and we'll do our best to locate your bag and have it for you in the morning." I didn't feel reassured.

The next morning I called, and the next and the next and still nothing. The only thing they affirmed was that baggage somehow got transported to d'Orly, de Roissy from de Gaulle the night of my arrival. So here I was my first visit to Paris with "no baggage" no change of clothes, and no money, plus only ten days leave.

On the third day a call came in from the airline, "nous avons disponible