Um, hope this doesn't offend anybody! I tried to make the jokes in true South-Park style, but it definitely shouldn't upset.


"This is ridiculous." A TSA agent pulled Stan's arms up, cussing under her breath. He was posed like Jesus on the cross.

"Well, maybe now you'll understand that not everyone thinks your smuggling jokes are as funny as I do." Kyle was also being searched, more of a pat down than an inspection. Stan glared at the agent, who was currently giving Kyle what looked like a shoulder rub.

5 minutes later, they were at the gate.

"You see, Stan, people don't file forms about doing cavity searches on me because I'm a nice person. And I don't make jokes in airports."

It was a simple joke, Stan with his squinty eyes and bed head, smelling of pot, bent over the ticket agent's desk after Kyle had asked about how many ounces of something stupid he could bring.

"Is there a limit on the kilos of coke I can bring on?"

She did not give a chuckle like Kyle did.

"You know I don't have a good rapport with the TSA..."

"Yeah, well, just try to keep your mouth shut until we get to Paris. Only speak in French!"

Kyle and Stan were going with their French class to France for 3 weeks this summer, since they were in the highest French class. Kyle had been taking French since he was in middle school, he had such a passion for the language, Stan just took it because Kyle took it. But, as the fates, and their luck, would have it, they were to be two of the 6 students who were flying on a separate plane because of testing on the last day of school.

They walked down the aisle on the plane, Stan trying to find the seats, 14 A and 14 C, and Kyle, who was literally bending down and looking each fellow flyer in the eye to get a "vibe", as he called it, about them. He was writing notes in a small notebook with a picture of a pug on it. The pair came to a stop at the seats of 14 A, B, and C.

"Do you think someone's got 14 B?" Kyle stepped a centimeter forward, nonchalantly.

"Hopefully not, wouldn't wanna get stuck next to a...random...person." Stan also stepped forward, although not as nonchalantly.

Kyle threw a ripped jean clad leg on the head rest of the seat in front of them to block Stan from advancing forwards. A line formed behind them in the aisle.

"I'm getting the window seat, Stanley."

"Fuck no, man. And don't call me that."

"Um, boys, can we get moving here?" A stewardess smiled. They ignored her.

"I'm not sitting on the outside, I'm not going too. It's not going to happen, Stan...LEY, I'm not going to do it."

"I guess we'll just have to see."

Kyle spun his leg off the headrest, hit a man in the head and leaped, yes, leaped to the window seat, hitting his head on the window. Stan belly flopped on top of him, miscalculating both his velocity and time.

And so they sat, Kyle, a happy bundle of green with a bleeding forehead by the window, and Stan, a clump of blue with his fly unzipped.

An old man squeezed in between them, in the middle seat. Both boys leaned forward.

Stan lifted his hand up to block the man from hearing their conversation, Kyle didn't.

"Do you think he'll switch with me? Old people should sit on the outside; they have to shit all the time."

"I think you should ask him, using those exact words."

Stan gave him a look and replied, "He seems like a nice old man. Maybe we'll remind him of his grandsons, I mean, I kind of look like him."

Kyle looked at the elderly black man, who had fallen asleep, and then back to Stan, and then he lay back in his seat and rummaged through the magazine slot, reading an Entertainment Weekly with Game of Thrones on the cover.

Stan poked the old man, who was snoring.

"Uh, sir?"

His eyes popped open, and the first thing he saw was Stans teeth, white and straight, thanks to braces he wore from 6th to 10th grade. He coughed.

"Hello, I'm Stan Marsh. I'm traveling to France with my friend, Kyle Broflovski, who is in the seat on the other side of you. As two minors, I think it'd be best if we stayed together, you know, for safety reasons."

"I'm Wilbur." He didn't say anything else, just went back to sleep.

Stan leaned forward. "Kyle." He whisper-yelled. "Kyyyyylleeeeee"

"I think Daenerys needs to take it all, but I feel like Arya should be the true leader, although she doesn't really have a claim."

"Kyle! He didn't answer me!"

"So ask louder!"

He poked Wilbur. "Sir? Did you hear what I said? It'd only take a second and we should switch soon before the flight starts."

"I heard you boy." He closed his eyes again.

Stan blinked, twitching a little.

"So, do you have anything to say about that?"

"Nope. I'm tired of you crackers always trying to get me to do things. I didn't fight for my rights to be bossed around by a boy with a shirt that says 'Pants' on it."

"It's witty...." Stan said, quietly.

"Be more like your friend here; keep to yourself with your little girlie magazine."

"And I really don't like Joffery, but the actor who portrays him is just exquisite."

Stan leaned back in his seat and Wilbur asked for an eye mask. Kyle continued to list his support for Jaime Lannister.

1 hour in to the 10 hour flight, Stan had already given up on the in-flight movie when Kyle threw him his little notebook.

"What do you think? Anyone interesting enough for my play? My main character is a Tyrion type." Kyle had attempted to write a play, titled 'The Wishing Well' but hadn't gotten much past the title. He had taken to look for inspiration in everyday life. Stan flipped through the pages.

"I don't know what that means. But, there are a lot of Arabs on here."

Kyle leaned forward. "Stan, what the hell?"

"Just an observation. Aren't we stopping halfway in like Istanbul or something?"

"Something like that."

Stan put his headphones in, Wilbur snored and Kyle thought some more about Jon Snow.

They were quite as sight at the stop for their connecting flight, which was in London. Kyle was wearing a Rent shirt and ray-ban sunglasses, Stan had a purple backpack that he kept reaching in for Pixie sticks on. It was raining. The rain seemed to always follow them.

"What can I get you lads today?" The waitress, who looked eerily like Wilbur, asked them. They were at a chain restaurant, tired of airport Cinnabon. Kyle's phone buzzed, but he took a look at it and put it away without answering the message.

He spoke in his French accent, "Yez, I would like, er, hamburger et frite?" He said 'hamburger', in French, like 'om-bur-gare'

"Hamburger and chips?"

"Oui." He sulked. She rolled her eyes.

With no accent, Stan said, "2 chocolate milkshakes and cheese pizza."

"Cool beans." She took their menus and left.

Stan put his hands on the table. "Why do you always do that?"

"I'm getting in the zone. Once we get to France, I'm going to become immersed, and I want people there to think I'm a national." He stood up. "I'm gonna take a piss."

"Thanks for telling me."

Kyles sneakers seemed to squeak all the way to the bathroom, but just as Stans stomach grumbled, Kyle whispered cinnamint in his ear. "And don't eat my fries."

Squeak, squeak, squeak, there he went.

Stan was sipping his shake, which had been delivered by the waitress with the rest of their food, when Kyles phone buzzed, a reminder of the text he hadn't answered earlier. Always the nosey one, Stan swiped it up with one hand and pressed the 'home' button.

The contact read 'Tophe', Stans inner monologue rolled his eyes without a thought, the text said:
"wish u were here" and it had a selfie of Christophe with what appeared to be several children behind him.

Stan scrunched his eyebrows. He unlocked the phone, peeking behind himself to make sure Kyle wasn't going to sneak up on him again. 7-6-8-4. No idea what the numbers meant but the pair had memorized each other's codes over the years.

Scrolling through the conversation, they were talking about how 'Tophe was babysitting his neighbors kids. Bored, Stan placed the phone back where it had been, but not before taking several selfies of his own.

A Ben Folds song came on the radio in the restaurant as Kyle sat back down.

"I'm feeeeeeling more alone, than I ever have beforeeeee!" Kyle dipped a fry in ketchup and starting talking about his theory that Jon Snow is the actual son of Rhaegar Targareyn and Lyanna Stark.

Stan sipped his milkshake some more and pretended not to notice when Kyle ignored his text tone, once again.

Kyle was doing handstands in the airport lobby, and every now and then he would hop back up and scribble something down in his notebook, then return to the wall. Stan was playing guitar while waiting for his Candy Crush level to re-load.

" minute to the chocolate mountain......please just let me clear the jelly..." He strummed the guitar, a passerby threw a quarter into the cup that he was drinking from. Kyle harmonized with him. More quarters went in.

Stan looked at the ticket: GATE 4C TO PARIS, it said. "4C.....4C....hmm...."

"What are you doing?" Kyle stood up.

"Trying to figure out a way to remember our gate."

Kyle peered around Stan's head and read the ticket. "4C....The four seasons!" He held his fingers up for 'four' and held the beginning of "seasons" to prove his point.

"Four seasons...four seasons..." Stan repeated to himself out loud, but he was really listening to Kyles thumbs tap on the screen of his phone. Bastard never turned off the sound.

They were only supposed to be in London for hours, but somewhere it was storming. The rain always seemed to follow them around. There was a delay in their Paris flight and since they didn't have a hotel, they slept in the airport.

"I feel like a homeless person." Stan was lying on bench under a jacket.

"Why?" Kyle popped his head up from his own bench, parallel to Stan's.
"Well, we are sleeping in an airport."

"Then you should feel like a tourist."

"Ok. I feel like a tourist."

"I....." Kyle shrugged and made intense eye contact with Stans "I LOVE THE UK" baseball cap.

"Shove it, Kyle." Stan stared at the ceiling, Kyle went to sleep.

"DUDE. DUDE!" Kyle shook Stan's shoulder.

"What?!" He woke up with a jump.

"It's like, 10:30."

"What the hell are you just standing there for Kyle? We have to get to the plane!"

"Yeah, naw dip! Get your shit together!"

Stan bundled up his camera, filled with pictures of him making vulgar poses with the Buckingham palace guards, a zoomed in shot of one of the One Direction guys leaving their hotel, and his head hanging out of a double decker bus. He put his map, his book on learning dirty French, and his lucky gray hoodie, signed with faded sharpie, in his backpack. Kyle stripped, literally stripped, his t-shirt off in the middle of the airport to put on the only French shirt he had, it said: 'I love music!' on it in French, with a bunch of music notes. It was basically the gayest thing you could imagine. Also, for some reason, Kyle thought people in France just walked around wearing graphic tees with toddler-level French words on them. Kyle searched in his bag for the shirt, Stan pretended not to count the freckles on Kyles back.

"What's the gate number, again?" Kyle ran his hands through his hair, which had turned a strawberry blonde, an almost blonde, in the sun.

"I....I don't know. 4.....T....5....C....Oh! 3D! Like 3-D."

"That sounds right. Where is it?" The boys spun around, each checking a different gate. Kyle pointed and grabbed Stan's arm, and the two ran towards the sign. They handed in their tickets and boarded the plane. Their seats were 12A and 12B, the middle and aisle seat. After a wrestling match beside their row, Stan got the aisle seat, again.

Kyle scribbled in his notebook, "The Wishing Well" was now an action play, the first of its kind, or that's at least how Kyle described it. It also had songs in it, but was "defiantly not a musical."

"Okay, so you kicked me in the shin and then what did I do?" Kyle was making stage directions.

"You tried to twist my arm backwards, then you pushed me onto the flight attendant and ran away to the middle seat."

"Twist arm backwards...." Kyle muttered, leaving out certain parts of Stan's story.

"Hey Kyle..." Stan tried to look around inconspicuously. "There are a lot of....ethnicities on this plane."

Kyle paused from rummaging through the magazine rack for a moment. "You have got to stop saying shit like that." He opened his magazine, which, again had Game of Thrones on it. "But, uh, now that you mention it, I think we're the only white people on this plane."

"France is a beautiful country, maybe these people are all one family and are immigrating in."

"Hello and thank you for flying with us today!" The plane started moving slowly down the runway and Stan and Kyle settled in. The flight attendant continued speaking, "The flight from London to Giza shouldn't take very long, but get comfortable because...." She started talking about the in-flight movie. Kyle blinked several successive times, Stan jumped towards the planes window to see the other classmates boarding another flight inside the airport.

"Goddamn it."

"Do you think they speak French in Egypt?" Kyle and Stan were eating frozen yogurt in the Egyptian airport. They had paid with French money.

"No. I don't think so. I think I remember how to do hieroglyphics from World History."

"I really don't think they speak in hieroglyphics anymore."

"Well what are we gonna do? I can't read any of the signs. How are we supposed to get to Paris when we can't even figure out where Paris is at on the sign GODDAMN IT!"

Shortly after Stan's meltdown, they were escorted out of the airport. Stan was wearing his French flag t-shirt and carrying his dirty French book while Kyle was attempting to Google directions to a payphone, since they were getting no reception.

They wandered down the street and attempted to call their teacher, their parents, the damn po-po, nothing.

"WHATS WRONG WITH THE PAYPHONE!" Stan shook it several times and a bunch of quarters fell out. "Oh, cool."

"Uhhh...Bonjour! Hello! Hola! Anyone? Anyone at all? Really, no one understands French, English, or Spanish? REALLY?!" Kyle was also getting angry yelling for help in the street.

They walked the block some more and sat on the street next to a dog who peed on their luggage.

"I think they're speaking Arabic."

"Who?" Kyle asked.

"Everyone. We just need to...figure out how to...speak Arabic."

"I think that's a great plan, Stan. You get on that right away." Kyle often gets sarcastic when he gets mad.

"Let's just sneak back into the airport and wait there until we can get to Paris. I mean, we're unaccompanied minors, they kind of have to take us in!"

Kyle and Stan walked up to the information desk at the airport.

"Hello. Me and my friend are two unaccompanied American minors who need to get to France." Stan gestured to the air beside him, believing that Kyle was to his left, not sitting on a bench reading a 3rd, different Game of Thrones magazine. "Anyway, we boarded the wrong plane in London and need to get 2 tickets to Paris."

The man, a tall beard with the nametag 'Rasheed' stared forward. "I don't speak very good English", he said, heavily accented. Stan sighed. "But, next plane to Paris is in 3 days."

"3 days?!" Stan got all up in Rasheed's face.


"Here." He gave him money for the two tickets. "So, what are we supposed to do for 3 days?"

"I...I don't know. Next!" Rasheed handed him the papers and waved another person forward.

"Wow thanks Rasheed, you've been so helpful."

"My pleasure!" Rasheed smiled, with no hint of sarcasm.

He walked back to Kyle.

"I don't know how Theon could betray The Starks like that. How can his father not understand that after being raised by them he doesn't want to murder him?! I'm so over the Greyjoys...."

"Kyle. Real life for a second. No time for Theon and Asha..."

"Oh so you have been reading."

"Watching. But more importantly, we can't get a flight out until Thursday." He handed Kyle his ticket and they both put them in their pockets.

"Shit. What are we supposed to do until then?"

"I don't know. Rasheed," he pointed to the desk, "was not helpful at all."

Stan plopped down next to Kyle on the bench and they sat in almost silence.


Kyle chewed his gum, loudly. Stan sat down on his suitcase next an alley.

"Maybe we could go sightseeing. See the sphinx, the pyramids."

"We should climb on top of the sphinx and take a bunch of pictures." Kyle got Stan's camera out of his backpack and took a selfie.

"Salut! Parlez-vous français?" A skinny black guy walked up and asked them if they spoke French.

"Oui. Comment savez-vous?" Kyle replied dryly: yes, how'd you know?

"Coup de chance." He put his hand on his hip, 'lucky guess' while pointing to their t-shirts.

To Stan's confused look, Kyle said: "L'Anglais?" He asked for them to speak in English.


"Ok." Stan said.

"Now boys," the man said, with some kind of African accent. "I work for the King here. He wanted me to help, 'clean up', if you will, the streets. Come and stay at the youth hostel, in that building with the red door. Bless you children." He handed them each a piece of bread and pointed to a building, with a red door, further down the alley. He walked down the street and began speaking to other people who were sitting down on the side of the road.

They walked down the alley, eating their bread.

"That was nice of him to invite us to stay here."

"Maybe they'll have a TV." Stan wondered.

"Only thing that bothers me is, why'd he say he worked for the King? I don't think Egypt has a king. I don't think they've had a king since like, the 50's." Kyle opened the door.

"Hmm." Stan said to the dark. He felt around for a light switch.

"Goddamnit." Kyle said as his bags were grabbed from his hands and he was punched in the face.

After a few more hits, they were pushed back out into the alley and met with a camel that had boxes of silk on it.

"We trade." They said, and the door slammed shut.

"This would never happen to Bran Stark." Kyle sat down on the ground and wiped his bloodied nose.

Stan lay down in the water and dirt in the alleyway. "What the hell are we supposed to do now? They took all our shit! We're never going to get to France!"

It started raining. The rain always followed them. The camel grunted. Kyle jumped up and went over to it.

"Hey buddy....what's wrong?" He rubbed its ears.

"Kyle...don't touch it..." Stan backed Kyle away from the animal by his arms. "It could have like....camel herpes or something..."

"Yeah, that's not a thing...he's just hungry. Bonjour petit bébé..." Kyle stroked its head like a horse while it made happy grunts. "I think he understands French!"

"What? Shut up, Kyle. This is serious."

"Ok Stan, I'm going to tell it to stomp its left foot if he's listening. Mr. Chameau. si vous écoutez piétiner votre pied gauche." The camel stomped its left foot. "Holy fucking shit. Stan. The camel can understand French."

"Kyle. Shut up. Please, just shut up."

"Me and Pierre are going far far away, where we will be understood. I will ride him to France." Kyle led the camel out of the alley onto the street, petting its head and whispering French to it the entire time. Stan ran to follow.

"Dude, you'd defintley have to cross the Mediterranean Sea and plenty of countries first."

"With love, you can conquer anything."

"Oh and you love this camel, Pierre?"

"J'aime mon chameau." Kyle said. Stan blinked. "Dany has her dragons, I have my camel. I will find more camels, we will travel with the native people and conquer lands until we get to France, where I can speak French to someone who isn't a goddamn camel."

"Kyle!" Stan chased him down the street. "I don't think you understand the dire situation we are in! We have no money, no possessions, and no phone charger. Instead, we have a French speaking camel and a bunch of silk."

"Chillax, man."


"Yeah, so we have a bunch of silk and no money, lets go sell some silk."

"Um, this isn't the 1300's Kyle, who buys fabric from people in the desert?"

"Tried and true, man. Plus, I'm soaking all of this in for my play. I've already got the main characters idea."

Stan leaned his elbow on the camel. "Yeah?"

"He's a tall, handsome lacrosse player who watches Game of Thrones and has a pet camel who speaks French."

"So...he's you?"

"No way man, I play soccer."

They were lying in a tent in a desert looking area behind a few houses. They were in just their boxers underneath a few silk blankets from Pierre's back. It was raining. The rain came in from a hole Kyle had ripped in frustration during the set up.

"How did we end up here?" Kyle put an arm behind his head.

"We always do, end up here."

"Hungry in a tent with a camel?"

"No dumbass, in these situations. We're very good at picking bad ideas."

"True. But this one takes the cake."

"Hey, look on the bright side, you're using this for your play!"

Kyle smiled a big smile, and started talking about his plans for characters. Stan found himself not even listening, just watching. It's amazing how someone looks a million times different when they're just sitting on an airport bench, when they're petting a camel, and when they're being animated, talking about something they adore. Stan was so upset, so mad about everything that happened on the way to France, but he was content just listening to Kyle talk about anything, everything. Kyles phone buzzed in the background. Stan pretended to not hear it as the rain stopped and the wind blew the rip open where stars shone through. Pierre guffawed like a horse outside.

"I hope it rains tomorrow. If the sun keeps up, I'll be Playboy material blonde by the end of the month."

Stan looked over at him. "It suits you."

Kyle met him with sad eyes. "Stan..."

"What Kyle?" Stan angrily said. He ripped a thread out of his shirt.

"This isn't the right way to showcase your feelings." Kyle tap-tap-tapped on his phone. It went "shooooop" when he sent a text.

"Don't like my feelings, so, lets change 'em. Cheer me up, you always know what to say."

"You're having a bad night, right?"

He paused, "a bad forever. But yeah, right nows pretty rough."

He put his phone to the side, looked Stan in the eye and said, "Well, somewhere out there, at this moment, someone is falling in love. Someone's holding their newborn baby, someone's seeing the love of their life for the first time. Out there, past the stars and the clouds, someone's coming home, someone is writing their masterpiece, someone's being told they aren't sick anymore. Someone's finally falling asleep and someone else is finally waking up. It might be the worst night ever for you, but somewhere on this ball, tonight is the best night of someone's life. That should give you hope, that by the time you're dead in the ground, you'll have more nights like that, than like this."

Stan melted.

"I've made a plan." Kyle buckled his belt. They were wearing the same outfits as yesterday, since that's all they had.

"Oh?" Stan rubbed his eyes.

"We need to sell Pierre to get money for our shit back. Plus," he whispered this part, "he's kind of an ass."

"He's an ass?"

"Shhh!" He shushed him, as if he could understand English, "he peed on me this morning. Like full on whipped it out."

Stan sighed and put his clothes back on.

They walked back into town and attempted to sell Pierre, although more people seemed interested in the silk. It probably didn't help that Kyle only offered his skills as being able to understand French, not the ability to carry heavy loads.

"See? People buy silk."

"Ooh, lets get something to eat."

Kyle waited outside with Pierre while Stan ordered at the café. They ate outside.

"Oh man, I love that guys shirt!" Kyle pointed with his spoon to a guy wearing a White Walker shirt inside the restaurant. "I think I have the same one. Or..." He dropped his spoon and smacked Stan on the shoulder. Pierre whinnied. "THAT'S THEM! THAT'S MY SHIRT!"

"What! How do you know?"

"Well, who else would wear a White Walker shirt in Egypt? And, he's got your lucky sweatshirt. Look, it says 'CLYDE' on it! How many Egyptians do you know that are named Clyde?"

"Holy shit. Pierre do you see this?" Stan nudged the animal, Kyle quickly translated in French. Pierre appeared to nod.

The thieves left the restaurant, taking selfies of their own with Stans camera. Kyle, Stan and most importantly, Pierre, followed. They went into a bar down the street that advertised karaoke. Kyle rubbed his hands maliciously.


"I've got a plan." Kyle walked in the building, holding the door open for both Stan and Pierre. No one seemed to notice the camel. Kyle jumped up on the stage and signed in for the next karaoke slot. "When I get up and sing, take all our shit back, strap it to Pierre and I'll follow you out."

The scene was set: the criminals were half-passed out at the bar and Pierre was wide awake and purring by the time Kyle's slot rolled around. The DJ called the name: Tyrion Lannister. He whispered in Stans ear: "Winter is coming." Kyle leaped onto the stage. The song, "Eye of the Tiger came on the speakers. Stan ran to the back as the Egyptians started dancing with each other. "Rising up! Back on the street, done my time took my chan-ces! Ow!" He swayed across the stage as everyone in the bar started dancing. Someone started recording on their phone.

"Went the distance now I'm back on my feet, just a man and his will to survive! Ayiyiyi!" Kyle started doing the dougie. Stan quickly took their things back and secured them onto the saddle Kyle had made out of the tent for Pierre.

Kyle shadowboxed out of the bar to thunderous applause.

As they walked down the street, with talks of forming their own acapella group, Pierre let out a roar and jerked forwards toward an old man selling fruit.

"Delilah!" The old man cried.

"What the hell?" Stan and Kyle followed the camel to the man.

"Is this your camel?" Stan asked.

"Yes, she is my Delilah." He spoke in broken English but beamed at the sight of Pierre, err....Delilah.

"She?!" Kyle cried, "shit, sorry Pierre."

"She was traded to us after we were robbed sir." Stan tried to explain, but was cut off.

"No worries, boys, as long as I have her back we're straight."

Stan and Kyle smiled, said an awkward goodbye to Pierre/Delilah and made their way to the airport, where they swore they would not leave until their flight.

"Now boarding, Flight 22 to Paris, France."

"This is to Paris, right? Gate F1? To Paris?" Stan asked.

"Yes sir, as we said several times. You are getting on the right flight. Have a nice time."

Kyle laughed and they found their seats. It was a window and middle seat.

"I'm going to let you have it this time, Stan. Because we probably couldn't have gotten here without you."

"Well, thank you Kyle." Stan looked out the window, and felt a little seasick. He didn't dare admit defeat, though.

"And guess what."


"I've decided to scratch my entire play, I've decided to call it 'Les Vacances' instead." Kyle flipped in a TV Guide magazine to a section on Game of Thrones.

"The Vacations huh?"

"I think it fits. Our whole experience this week."

"Now that I think about it, that seemed a little easy."

"Huh?" Kyle said, reading the caption to a picture of Robb Stark. He whispered to himself, "King in the North."

"How we got out of this situation."

"We always get out of shit easily. We're Stan and Kyle, man. Everything always works out for us."

"Hmph. Guess it does."

"So anyway, here's what I think about Talisa...."




If you enjoyed this story, remember to check out the original artwork that inspired it!