Merci, Meghlah

The trip over. 767 packed to the rafters. Much time spent in the bulkhead alcoves. The dear boy doing aisle runs for the first two hours. Playing with light switches, unlatching tray fasteners, hanging from the magazine rack bar, and, in one particularly forlorn moment of the soul, the possibility of catching even 30 minutes sleep seeming ever so dim, American Dad helping himself to a champagne split from a rear galley cabinet. The Dear Boy had unlatched it; my hand just kind of fell in there. What can I say?

Bad daddy.

Anyway, a year does make a difference. Five months was way the frig easier than sixteen months. But thankfully we had a good neighbor. He was 8 years old and traveling with his older brother and his parents, a French expat family living in New York. I asked him his name in French and he said, "Meghlah."

"Comment?" I said.

"Meghlah!" he repeated.

We went back and forth like this about three or four times until finally the young man dispensed with politeness.

"In English ees pronounce 'Myrrh-lin'."

"Oh, Merlin."

"Oui," he said, and for a split second he seemed kind of off-put about the English/American pronunciation. I could be reading into it, of course. But then again, Meghlah, when you pronounce it with all proper emphasis and Gallic timbre, does sound a helluva lot better than Myrrh-lin.

Meghlah indulged Nik for much of the flight, asking many questions, making silly faces to get him to laugh, sharing his chocolates and Babybel cheese wheels and even offering me his French translated copies of "Captain Underpants" for entertainment.

Meghlah liked a lot of butter on his bread. He accepted graciously when I offered him the unopened pad off of my tray, and refused politely when I offered him Nik's, saying, "Oh no, is too much."

Later on, to kill some time, I melted Meghlah's face:

And then we melted Nick's:

Somewhere about 1000 clicks east of the Flemish Cap, Nik fell asleep in a bulkhead alcove on a makeshift pallet of Continental blankets and pillows, his feet poking into the aisle. I stood and read Captain Underpants in French, sipped champagne, and every so often directed some bathroom-bound traveler over or around the dear boy's toes.