Being cramped in Economy class wearing rumpled clothes and sipping stale water didn't quite live up to his standards, but the view... the view was something else.

He had managed to snag a window seat (he might have stolen from Sam after threatening to out his flagrant use of hair dye... maybe) and he was currently sitting with his face pressed against the small window. He had always complained about the rolling fields that made up of his hometown, saying that he would have much preferred growing up in a sprawling metropolis, with billboards and streetlights that outshone the stars, but now, at 3000 feet above ground, Kurt couldn't imagine a more beautiful sight than the bright green grass, the soft yellow fields and the blue sky not only above, but all around them.

Tears suddenly sprung to Kurt's eyes, although he wiped them quickly, before anyone noticed. It was stupid to get so emotional over the damn scenery.

"Pleure pas ch�ri, pleure quand on devra y retourner" Don't cry dear, cry when we have to return to it, said Mercedes, holding his hand.

"Je pleure pas, ce sont des larmes d'ennui caus� par le paysage. Je meurs de voir une vraie ville" I'm not crying, these are tears of boredom brought on by the landscape. I'm dying to see a real city.

Mercedes shot him a soft smile, seeing through Kurt's lie, but decided to go along with the subject change and began prattling on about all the stores they absolutely had to go to in America, all the while squeezing his hand comfortingly. Kurt smiled at her; he didn't know what he did to deserve such a good friend.

The flight was supposed to last six to seven hours and so Kurt decided he could crochet a fabulous new scarf to wear in Washington; he had heard that the weather was usually similar to the one back home but that they were having a particularly rough winter this year. Not that Kurt minded, of course, all the more reason to wear his beloved scarves.

He began his crocheting to the sound of his friends laughing and chattering. A while later, he noticed that Rachel's voice, usually the most obnoxious was strangely silent, and when Kurt turned back to look at her, he found her asleep against the window, tasselled ear plugs and silk eye-mask in place, � la Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's. Quinn, who was reading a book beside her caught his inquisitive gaze.

"Elle a dit que puisque le vol dure six heures et qu'il y a six heures de diff�rence entre Normandie et Washington, on sera tous absolument morts de fatigue en arrivant, sauf elle parce qu'elle aura �t� la seule assez fut�e pour avoir dormi. Honn�tement, j'accepte n'importe quelle excuse pour qu'elle se taise." She said said that since the flight lasts six hours and that the time difference between Normandy and Washington is six hours that we would all be dead tired upon our arrival, except for her because she will have been the only one clever enough to have slept. Honestly, I'll take any excuse for her to shut up.

Kurt let out a soft laugh and returned to his scarf. He was about two hours in and it was looking pretty fantastic, if he said so himself. He shoot another look behind and let out a sigh; Rachel was probably right, with all the excitement, his friends would all be exhausted when they arrived, but not Rachel, and not him either, he decided. He wrapped the scarf around the ball of yarn and stuck his plastic crochet needle (plastic! As if he could kill someone with a crochet needle!) through the middle. He grabbed the thin blanket that Air France provided, wrapped it around his McQueen covered shoulders (hey, he couldn't have the pressed Emporio Armani suit, but he could still rock travel fabulous, and travel fabulous meant soft, fuzzy McQueen sweaters) and settled down for a long nap.

- x -

Kurt felt something shaking him roughly. For a moment, he wondered if the plane was experiencing some turbulence, until Mercedes' voice pierced through his dreams.

"R�veille, mon coco! On est arriv�!" Wake up darling! We're here!

Kurt opened his eyes blearily and noticed that they were, in fact, there. Finn and Sam were taking their carry-on luggage out of the storage compartments overhead, while Rachel was bossing them around. Santana gave her a glare that spoke of imminent murder; Kurt deduced she was probably cranky from lack of sleep. Perhaps just usual Santana crankiness, either or.

Suddenly Kurt realized that he had missed the view of the city from above.

"Mercedes! Comment as tu pu me laisser dormir jusqu'� maintenant? Tu sais que je voulais voir la ville du ciel!" Mercedes! How could let me sleep up to now? You know I wanted to see the city from the sky!

"J'ai essay�, Kurt, mais tu m'as presque gifl� dans ton sommeil, et je suis pas assez fine pour te pardonner �a, dormi ou non!" I tried Kurt, but you almost slapped me in your sleep and I'm not nice enough to forgive you that, asleep or not!

"Ouais, le seul moyen de le r�veiller quand il est si profond�ment endormi sans souffrir les cons�quences c'est en lui mettant un caf� sous le nez" Yeah, the only way to wake him up when he's so deeply asleep without suffering the consequences is by sticking a cup of coffee under his nose.

Kurt scowled but said nothing. He had seen Finn doubled over in pain in the mornings enough times to know they weren't kidding. He gathered his knitting, and stuck it in his messenger bag. Finn had already taken down his vintage carry-on trunk, which he offered to his younger brother as a sort of peace offering; it wasn't coffee, but it would do. Soon enough all seven of them were standing in the cramped aisle, bags in hand, waiting for all the people ahead of them to get moving. The previous lethargy some of them were experiencing was being replaced by a thrumming energy that had them bouncing on the balls of their feet; they were here. They had arrived in Washington D.C., their home for the next four months! Their coordinator, Mr. Schuester, had flown ahead three days ago to set up their accommodations and would be waiting to pick them up with a bus at the arrivals' gate.

They finally made it off the plane, got their remaining luggage from the carousel and passed the rigorous questioning at Customs. They were soon walking through the glass doors in the arrivals gate, all of them craning their heads to catch a glimpse of their teacher's gelled curls. Unsurprisingly, Finn was the first to spot him, standing in his trademark vest, clutching a McKinley/Dalton sign, surrounded by six boys in blue blazers and grey slacks. It seemed the Italians had beaten them here.

"Vous voil�, enfin! Gang, je vous pr�sente les gar�ons de L'Accademia Dalton. Euh, ragazzi questi sono gli studenti francese." (French)Ah there you are, finally! Gang, let me introduce the boys from Dalton Academy. (Italian) Uhh, boys, these the french students.

Kurt would have laughed at Mr. Schuester's atrocious italian accent, but at that very moment, his eyes locked with a pair of hazel orbs.