Escaping Paris

The French are remarkably relaxed when it comes to customer service. By this I mean that maybe, if you enter a store dressed to the nines and chirp an enthusiastic "Bonjour, Madame!" immediately upon entering, an uber-stylishly-dressed-and-tastefully-accessorized Parisian saleswomen may agree to assist you. If Jupiter is perfectly aligned with Mars, that is. If you do manage to buy something, consider yourself the fortunate party, and not the establishment. That seems to be les attitudes des les shoppes Francais. And don't even think about touching any merchandise before you buy it. Seriously, that would be tres gauche. Having spent a week in Paris, I am now an expert on these matters.

The French are equally laid back about punctuality. Stated opening and closing times are merely suggested possibilities. Thus, when Iris and I arrived at the airport on Monday morning, after having dragged ourselves out of bed at 5:30 in order to arrive early, only to be cheerfully informed that our plane "May be about ten minutes late, but otherwise, C'est non problem," we were not shocked.

We hauled ourselves over to the gate with me lugging a fifty-pound carry-on, as there was no way I would risk checking my camera, Agnes, with her assorted heavy lenses, my computer, or the 6 or 7 books I'd brought with me.

By our slated departure time, nary a sliver of a plane had yet to be sighted at our gate. Iris inquired of the agent only to be politely told of a slight delay. "Mais, c'est non problem, Madame!" 

Thirty minutes later... Hurrah! We spied a plane sliding into our slot. An hour later, said plane still sat, no resultant action from its arrival having yet occurred. Passengers started nervously milling about the desk, straining to gain a clue from the whispered banter of the agents. A half-hour later, an announcement came over the PA in that delightful lilt of spoken French that I have come to love so much. A happy patter, like music. Curiously, the announcement ended with two English words: 49, our flight number. Even I got that much. "What did they say?" I asked Iris, our token French speaker. 

"Our flight has been cancelled."

"What? Cancelled, not delayed or rescheduled?"

"Yep."

"What do we do now?"

"No clue. They said to wait for more information."

Ten minutes later another announcement trilled. It made my translator chuckle, though a sad type of chuckle as you might expect from a clown who'd just tripped over his enormous shoes. "They said they do now know how they are going to handle this situation. We are all supposed to go reclaim our luggage while they try and figure something out."

"Well, that's reassuring. Don't they have procedures for this type of thing?" 

"Apparently not."

Thus began our two-day odyssey featuring five hours of waiting in various lines which would make glacier melting seem quick, as well as a stay at the airport Hilton where we feasted upon a lunch of salmon aspic served with baked salmon and a dinner of boiled chicken breast with crushed tomatoes and plain spaghetti. Not exactly the fine French dining we'd come to expect, but the only choices offered our merry band of a hundred or so misplaced passengers of flight 49. Unless, of course, we wanted to part with tres euro, which we did not. Though I did spring for a six-euro beer. Desperate times call for desperate measures.


Our adventure also included nine hours of carefree romping in the airport terminal while we waited for various bits of information to be revealed (who doesn't love a good mystery), three cancelled flights, four rescheduled flights, and one missed flight due to a separate delayed flight which involved us spending three hours parked on the runway awaiting de-icing during which we were firmly instructed to stay in our seats and not go traipsing about the cabin to the restrooms. Upon hearing this, I was instantly seized with a desperate need to pee, a thought which hadn't even occurred to me beforehand. Basically, we tackled every conceivable type of flight dysfunction and made it our own.

Did I mention the ultra-rare Tuesday morning Paris snowstorm, for which the airport has absolutely no equipment, and our unexpected jaunt to Chicago? Or my adventure running through said Chicago terminal dragging my non-wheeled fifty-pound carry-on behind me on a leash as it whipped wildly around corners? It felt like we were contestants on The Amazing Race. Iris and I made a good team, secretively managing to foil all of our competitors to claim the two remaining seats on the prized earlier flight out of Chicago. (I'm sorry for lying to you, nice older couple from Austin.) All told, our trip, which should have taken fourteen hours, took nearly forty-eight. 

Silver lining: they serve free wine with dinner on international flights.

Silver lining number two: Despite ingesting approximately five hundred pounds of French baguette, I managed to lose two pounds. Perhaps this was due to speed walking ten hours a day trying to cram in every single tourist attraction. I think a big reason Parisian women don't get fat is that they walk so much. Hardly anyone owns a car there.

Happy thought: Paris is spectacular. I'll be back one day with Quiet Guy. There is so much I want to show him. Maybe we will even get a sales clerk to wait on us!

Happy thought number two: I am home now, and home is the best place of all.