What is it With Me and Bombs?

Theme song: Bombs Away

Personally, I love a good bomb scare.

Here I am, standing in the TGV station just outside Paris' Charles de Gaulle Terminal 2E Arrivals, waiting for a "colis suspect" to either explode or be -- what? -- detonated?

I hope it goes without saying that I have a basic understanding of how serious and tragic bombs can be, but on the other hand this bomb is a) not my first and b) saving my a**.

Come again?

Last year, strangely, at this very TGV station, I weathered another "alerte de bombe." It, too, turned out to be nothing. And, the year before that, I was (almost) evacuated from the Eiffel Tower due to another "colis suspect."

I'm no stranger to bomb threats.

This time, though, I grossly underestimated how long it would take me to get to the airport to meet the children for their first unaccompanied transatlantic flight.

If there is one thing of which I live in fear it is not bombs. It is my older son's wrath when I am running late. Something that I assure you practically never ever ever happens. Except when it does.

And this time, of course, he would be right to be frustrated. I mean, it's not every day you fly solo (or with your little bro) to France.

You want to be greeted with open arms by your loving -- and timely -- mother. In this case, though, a man with a machine gun is barring her access to Arrivals and that, my friends, is what I call an alibi.

Despite the fact that this particular bomb threat is keeping me on good terms with my children (even terrorism has its benefits) my favorite bomb threat -- by far -- was the Eiffel Tower scare.

Let me tell you what happened.

Those who know me know I like to get exercise. So, we are walking up the however many thousand stairs of the Eiffel Tower and had reached the final walkable platform when people start clearing out.

I don't know why they are doing it, but the children are hot and thirsty and want some ice cream. And the gelato lady is still selling, so I'm buying.

Now I see French officials and guides steering people to towards the stairs like so much Grade A beef but still no explanation. The children are happy with their ice cream, so I'm not going anywhere.

Then I hear, in French, "These Americans are so stupid. They never do what they are told!"

I ask a fellow (stupid) American what the problem seems to be. "There's a bomb."

Now, I have to tell you, people are not rushing. They are not panicking. But, unlike me, they are leaving via a slow shuffle down the 1,000 plus stairs.

Here's what I'm thinking: I'm destined to die and, really, what could be more glamorous (or unlikely) then me meeting my end right here on the Eiffel Tower with the two boys I love most?

Still, the French officials and guides are insistent, finally saying, in English, "Zees ees not a joke!!!" with all the French ferocity they can muster.

So, ice cream consumed, we meander towards the stairs.

Looking out over the Trocadéro it is interesting to see -- no people! And metal crowd control gates. And fire trucks. And the gates opening. And a huge stream of people re-entering the Trocadéro.

Dreams of a glamorous death on the Eiffel Tower dashed, we head to the top and, over a glass of champagne, learn that, after all it was neither bomb nor joke.

It was a lost purse. Hermes, I hope.

Your Turn

Tell us about your last bomb threat? How did it go?