“Sit there. Count your fingers. What else. What else is there to do? I know how you feel. I know how you feel. And you’re through. Sit there, and count your little fingers, you’re unhappy little girl blue.” Janis Joplin streams out of the speakers of my Macbook pro. Next to me, my iPad2 is charging. I briefly reach into my purse to grab my iphone because I am hoping there is a text message on it. And there is. The New York Times sends me a news alert on my Ipad about Obama and the Middle East. On Twitter, every other tweet is about the Rapture. The supposed end of days that was to occur yesterday, which was just another day. Just another day. And you know, billions of years tells us that the world turns. Living forms evolve and die off but life as we know it, life as formed so many years ago we can’t possibly comprehend its entire point — it goes on.

We can be, and may be, wiped out by our own doing – or by the hand of nature. A virus. A nuclear war. Those can end us. But God? When are we going to get it that God is like the worst kind of unavailable man: no matter how much love you throw his way he is indifferent to you. Okay, she thought. Don’t get carried away with such horrid thoughts – at least never say them out loud. People will look at you funny. Our illusions, she knew, prop us up, keep us alive and procreating. After all, why would anyone bring a child into a godless, heartless, indifferent universe? So she kept her mouth shut, and she watched the Rapture jokes fly by.

The sun rose and set as it normally does. I had driven in from the airport at such an hour as I don’t remember even driving home. In a haze of jet lag, stuck on the immovable 405, I thought back through my daughter’s and my odyssey out of Cannes. There was a drive to the Nice airport. On the way, so early in the morning, we found ourselves in contact with a young man blazing on Ecstasy. I’d smiled at him as I almost cut him off on the roundabout. Being a Los Angeles driver, I am used to be rude. And in truth, in Cannes you have to get all up in there as a driver – you can’t hesitate. But most of the folks who live and work around Nice are not rude – they are anything but. So if you cut them off they will feel offended. My smile was a way to apologize for my rudeness. But he gestured for us to drive ahead of them – he too was smiling. Such a smile at 6am was probably suspect but who could know – French people are so nice everywhere but Paris. And this was Nice. We were on some service road, not the main highway, to the Nice airport but we had plenty of time so we were perfectly happy humming down this road.

When the streetlight turned red we rolled to a stop. I checked the rear-view. The youngish man hopped out of his car and trotted up to our window. Oh god, what now? Being a Los Angeles driver we don’t ever approach nor talk to one another. We’re too busy yelling profanities, glowering and otherwise tormenting each other to ever think about being nice. Rap rap rap. He knocked on my window — I rolled it down and looked at him. He was so sweet looking – blonde, messed up skin, wide, watery eyes high on something, clearly. Alcohol wafted out of his rose-colored lips. He was trying to tell me something — like “you’re sweet” or “you’re lovely.” I took it to mean he liked that I smiled at him during our road altercation. Trust me, at 46, unshowered, with unbrushed hair and no makeup, lovely was the last thing I was. But okay, I’ll take it, I thought. So I thanked him and rolled the window back up. He trotted back to his car just as the light turned green. We continued to drive to the next street light, which again turned red.

And again, the boy got out of his car but this time he approached the car behind them. A tallish brown-haired man got out of the car and the two began French kissing. Did the French really invent French kissing? If they did, shouldn’t they be hailed as religious figures? Because what is more wonderful than French kissing? I was glad that I wasn’t the dude French kissing the tweaker, though. The light once again turned green and we drove to the next street light, which was turning red. Honestly, this is why they take the highway, right?

The boy got out of his car once again and headed for our car. He tapped on the window – he was so sweet looking how could I resist? So I rolled down the window and he said, “un bisou?” Oh god, was I really going to open my mouth to this person? Of course not, not with my daughter riding shotgun. He pointed to his cheek and we did the French thing on each cheek. He then asked my daughter for one. She had already admitted she thought he was cute. Cute? Good lord, was my thinking. But hey, she was about to turn 13 so I’m sure he did. She surprised me by saying yes to him. So they did the French thing, on each cheek.

That was it. We rolled up the window and I vowed that the next red light I would run. No cops around – but boy, wasn’t that all I needed? To get stopped by a French traffic cop? So the light turned red and I drove through it, leaving the boy and his driver to fend for themselves. I hope they found a bed and slept it off. I don’t know if that counts as my daughter’s first kiss. Probably not as it wasn’t on the lips – and we don’t forget the first time someone kisses our lips. Do we.

We dropped off the car at the car rental and waited in the terminal for our Air France flight to Paris. We were both dog-tired already. But we got the plane and at some point it was all a blur of security lines, customs agents, all around us voices in different languages. Whenever you hear an American something inside puckers, doesn’t it? We tend to be so obnoxious. At first they told me that I would have to sit in a different seat than my daughter, which was unacceptable to me. She wanted to sit away from her, though, feeling the jolt of independence that comes as you turn 13. But for my purposes, I figured, if the plane goes down, in the throws of death, I at least want to be with her. So I had to plead with the airline staff – who did not give a shit. Eventually, I figured out a way. I ended up sitting sandwiched between my daughter and tiny Arabic grandmother flying to California to see her grandkid. She did not speak a lick of English but insisted upon talking to me in Arabic the whole way. I think people would call me a good listener, even if it’s another language and I have no idea what the hell she was saying. I just responded to her tone and gestures. It seemed to sort of work.

A really long flight, picked up our car and arrived back home just in time to fall asleep and wait for the end of the world.

“Well they’re drinking and they’re dancing and there’s nothing really happening and the place is dead as Heaven on a Saturday night.” Leonard Cohen’s Closing Time was the song that I would want to play when the world ended.

I didn’t remember to completely close and lock my car when we at last returned, which left me with a dead battery. The tow truck man kept talking about the end of the world when he gave me a jump. “What does it matter,” he said. “We’ll all be dead in a few hours.” He was laughing, as were most, except those who were praying. And all the while I was pretty sure this was how religious figures were born. Didn’t they laugh at Joseph Smith and maybe even Jesus Christ in their days? There is nothing more or less ridiculous in what this preacher was saying about the Rapture than in what any prophet has ever said – herein is our sweetest and most absurd folly. It is nothing new, this end of the world stuff.

And so people waited and laughed about it. Meanwhile, the mission was accomplished and the preacher drew probably many more followers than he ever thought possible. They all prayed. They prayed really hard. And the Earth was spared. You see, he will say, praying works. The power of prayer by so many saved all. Except for the hundred or so unlucky bastards who met their fate by happenstance, which is what most likely drives our days.

But no, we must not speak these dark thoughts because people look at you funny. In the end, if my plane had spiraled downward and it was time to face the music – I’m pretty sure I would pray too. I would pray really hard because I thought the end was coming. The last thing I would do is laugh. So even though I too laughed at those who praying for our souls (or those who accept Jesus Christ as their savior, rather) I knew that there is ultimately nothing funny about fear. Consciousness is a weighty responsibility. What in the world do you do when you see and know too much?

I was happy to be home. I knew Emma was too.

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