Humorist David Sedaris has a brand spankin’ new story in The New Yorker, “Journey Into Night,” in which he documents one red-eye flight from New York to London. He ruminates on topics as diverse as first-class air travel, grief, and flatulence. On the envy and loathing that coach travelers often feel for those in first-class, Sedaris writes:

The looks they gave me as they passed were the looks I give when the door of a limousine opens. You always expect to see a movie star, or, at the very least, someone better dressed than you, but time and time again it’s just a sloppy nobody. Thus the look, which translates to “Fuck you, Sloppy Nobody, for making me turn my head.”

Sedaris is rarely thought of as a travel writer, in the traditional sense. But his stories frequently discuss his life in France as an expatriate, and all the quirks and difficulties of adjusting to life in a foreign country. In “Me Talk Pretty One Day,” a diabolical French teacher insults her students, particularly David, whom she perceives as lazy and hopeless.

“I hate you,” she said to me one afternoon. Her English was flawless. “I really, really hate you.” Call me sensitive, but I couldn’t help taking it personally.

In “Jesus Shaves,” Sedaris is back in French class, and this time his class, handicapped by poor grammar and a limited vocabulary, tries to explain to a Moroccan student what Easter is all about. Hilarity ensues:

The Poles led the charge to the best of their ability. “It is,” said one, “a party for the little boy of God who call his self Jesus and… oh, shit.”
She faltered, and her fellow countryman came to her aid.
“He call his self Jesus, and then he be die one day on two… morsels of… lumber.”
The rest of the class jumped in, offering bits of information that would have given the pope an aneurysm.

And as Christmas approaches, it is the perfect time to read (or re-read) Sedaris’ hilarious essay “Six to Eight Black Men,” in which he discusses some rather odd Dutch Christmas traditions.