The Paris International Airport
This bottle of cognac looks almost celestial. It looks like something the Archangel Michael himself would drink.
This beautiful bottle of cognac is sitting in Duty-Free at the Paris airport. The glass box is bulletproof, and a SWAT team is called if you trip the alarm. It is more than 10 grand US for this silky smooth Remy of Louis XIII vintage. Beautifully presented with the light job and all.
You Gotta Get in to Get Out
Yes, that’s right. But, what if you got in and couldn’t get out? What if you felt like a ball inside a pinball machine being shunted around from place to place? What if you were actually caught in the gigantic maw of an inhuman machine that would not spit you out no matter how hard you tried? And what if all of this included a blood trail? Hmm? This is what happened at the Charles de Gaulle airport when we missed our flight.
Let me preface this by saying that there is not one public phone at the Charles de Gaulle International Airport in France, not one. I know this because we needed one. Houston has one and here it is:
It’s called a “Courtesy Phone”. How courteous. Notice how a big city American airport cares enough about its customers to install a public phone and Paris does not.
Gate C87
It took 2.5 hours to exit the airport. We asked the girls at duty-free how to get out of the airport. They told us to walk out that door (the entrance to duty-free). We did. Nope, that wasn’t it. We walked back in and asked how to get out again. Another girl who was “sécurité” said, “C87”. So we walked all the way down to gate C87. It took about 20 minutes. All the way there, you could hear a pin drop. Not a soul in sight.
We found a cleaning lady when we got to C87. “How can we exit?” I asked her. “Downstairs and then droit” she responded. Here I must admit my embarrassing mistake. I say embarrassing because I really should’ve known better. Droit means right and I went left. When I went down the stairs and turned to the left there was a door. But that door said you needed a pass to enter.
Photo by Jacques Le Gall on Unsplash
We walked all the way back to Duty-Free because we could not find anyone else to talk to. The airport was empty and it was only 4:45 in the afternoon. Almost an hour has passed. The girl said, “Go to C87”. “No, we were just there,” I said. “Yes,” she said. “Does anybody speak English?” I asked. “I take you there,” she said.
Gate C87 Revisited
Again we walk back to gate C87. Our guide actually walked past C87 and I yelled, “It’s here!” “No, no,” she says. “Yes, yes,” I say. “Oh! You are right” she laughs. Ha ha, the whole thing is so friggin’ funny. She takes us down the same set of stairs that lead to the restrooms, but instead of turning left, she turns right, and there it is. Down a short, dark, narrow passageway one can make out a green exit light. They don’t want to make it too obvious, do they? What if you’re running for your life from terrorists, is this how you get out? You’d never know it was there.
Freedom at last. We exit that door and again no people. It was so lonely that I actually got a little nervous. However, being the dogged travelers that we are, we forged on. We walked and walked and walked some more. Eventually, we ended up at airport security, you know the place where you go through security? We told them we wanted to leave the airport and they said, “C87”. I’m not kidding.
I Don’t Speak French (and never will)
I sat down because I needed to sit, and then said calmly, “No. I want to speak to someone who speaks English.” This security woman kept insisting on C87. I kept explaining that we just came from there. She insisted. Then she changes her mind and tells me we have to go through security again. This really pissed me off. I hate going through security. I threw my luggage on the conveyor belt and then my backpack. The security chick behind the conveyor belt with heavy make-up, tattoos, and piercings mumbled something about putting my luggage in the bin but since I don’t speak French I ignored her. I take off my shoes, belt, and sweater but I set off the metal detector anyway. Of course, I do. They check my hands for what? Gunpowder residue?
Ha, Ha
Maureen calls out to me, “They want our passports”. She’s standing with two women. Of course, they want our passports. “Just a minute,” I say. I slowly reassemble myself and walk over. The stupid @#$#% takes a picture of my passport for her report I guess. Then we are escorted to a flight of stairs and she says, “Go and exit, exit, exit!” (She said exit 3 times. I don’t know why.) “You come with us.” I barked. “No!” “Yes!” “I can’t!” she yells. So we go before they throw us into the Bastille. But that burnt down, didn’t it? Ha ha.
Trip to Senegal
We are relieved because, after that thing with security, we figure that they above all people should know and that we are really on the right track this time. But, there’s just one thing. Before we exit, we have to go through customs…again. We get into a very long line of people who have just come from Senegal. This took 30 minutes. It took a little longer than usual because we were chosen to stand in another line so that we could have our luggage x-rayed. Thank you so much. You are so thorough. I so appreciate your attention. THEN we exit Paris International Airport hell.
The Gauntlet
(I was just about to take a picture of the pretty black beret with gold insignia when this man stepped in front of my shot. I didn’t get another chance. You can’t be too obvious.)
But, we haven’t actually stepped outside to feel the freezing night air on our faces. We’ve made a reservation at the Holiday Inn Express. We call the hotel to see if they have a shuttle and she says, “Go to Terminal One.” Compliant being my middle name, we start out for Terminal One. It was quite the hike. When we neared Terminal One, we encountered a phalanx of special ops in khaki uniforms and black berets with gold insignia. Nice. There were 4 on each side as we walked the gauntlet. Thankfully, nobody kicked, poked, or punched us on our way through. But, really, I wouldn’t have been surprised if they did jab at us just for being so stupid. We deserved it.
Keep Walking, Maureen
Right after the gauntlet ended, Maureen said to me, “Is that blood?” I had already noticed this. I looked down as if seeing it for the first time and said, “Yes, it is Maureen. Keep walking.” There was a long blood trail that just so happened to be going in the same direction we were. Nice. Then, the clouds parted and angels started to sing, I saw a sign that said “Terminal One” and “Shuttles”. It was the end of the marathon. We finally made it. I made a beeline for the shuttles. “No, Madame.” somebody said in my ear. “What?” I asked totally floored. Can this really be happening? “No, Madame.” The police officer ushered me away from the shuttles. “Why?” I asked. He stood there with pen and pad looking down and just shook his head.
I Bark Once Again
Unable to believe I was so close and then cruelly denied my just reward of Terminal One and the Shuttles, I sunk back into the crowd like a beaten dog, my eyes taking in the cop, the sniffer dog, the other cops, and more special ops. But, before I did, I asked him how long we would have to wait. “About half an hour,” he said. Oh my god. No. I can’t. I said to Maureen, “Let’s go.” She said, “Wait a minute let’s wait the half hour.” I later found out that she thought the cop was cute and that’s why she wanted to stick around. I started to think what if there really is a bomb or some terrorist threat about to happen? “Let’s go!” I barked.
Grab your Belt
We walked back along the trail of blood, through the gauntlet of machine guns, and just caught a cab. Never mind the shuttle. To add insult to all the injuries sustained on this day, the cab driver didn’t want to take us. He was upset because we were only going to an airport hotel. He yelled something at the guy in charge and the guy in charge made a hand gesture as if to say, “Off with you!” The cab driver threw himself into his seat and I felt like saying, “Grow up, buddy.” How would you like to spend 3 hours trying to get out of a stupid airport? He speeds off into the dark night and pouring rain.
The car made an annoying dinging sound because someone did not have their seatbelt on. He grunted something at us through the rearview mirror and we both showed him our belts were on. Then he reaches over and starts grabbing at the passenger side seatbelt. The dinging continues. He is half-crazed by now and speeding down the highway in the rain grabbing at the seat. Jeezuz. I’m pretty sure it’s him. He doesn’t have his seatbelt on. Just as I am thinking this, he reaches for his seatbelt and puts it on. Wow. What a maniac.
We found refuge that night and I got a glass of ice from the bartender in the lobby.
0 Comments