And please don’t let something like work keep you away. It is precisely because of work worries and all the other daily irritations of life that you need a vacation. Do it! Do it now!
This article backs up my statement:
http://msn.careerbuilder.com/custom/msn/careeradvice/viewarticle.aspx?articleid=616&SiteId=cbmsnhp4616&sc_extcmp=JS_616_home1>1=6891&cbRecursionCnt=1&cbsid=2ca9f031ab0948f59ba69df35de7c06b-181646946-tu-1
But before you do, please read on for yet another overly detailed rant about my vacation of a lifetime. I’ve included several traveling tips for those who wish to see London or Paris and I’ve divided it by day for convenience.
Day 1-2 – Tuesday, September 20 and Wednesday, September 21, 2005
The day has finally arrived! The trip that I’ve planned for, dreamed of for almost a year is about to start. My friend Joy organized this trip as a fun getaway while also planning to attend a colleague’s wedding in London. She figured, “why not add Paris to the mix and invite some girlfriends along for to the ride.” I’ve wanted to go to London since I was a child. I knew I’d get there someday. Joy decided that this would be the day.
‘Course, this isn’t such a big deal to her. Joy’s job as manager within a multinational computer company has her traveling all over the world on their dime. She’s been to both cities before as well as Cairo, New Delhi, Thailand, Sydney … the list goes on. Aletha and I have never been to Europe so believe me, we were excited enough for all three of us (and a few more people besides). And what better guide than Joy to make sure we get the full experience?
Since Joy is the World Traveler, she set the dates and made all the hotel arrangements, including directions from the airports. We had decided to meet at her home in Smyrna to take one car to the airport.
First though, I had my own last minute things to take care of. I’d managed to get rid of my youngest kid by having my former manager (and Beata’s grandmother) watch her for the week (thanks again Cindy!). That left me with arranging care for the other two (will someone please explain to me why I have three kids!?!). I dropped them off at the vet early in the morning then headed into the office to make sure Yvonne’s head didn’t explode as she filled in for me (more on that later). Because of my extended stay in the office, I made it a little late to Smyrna but no matter. Joy had given us plenty of time to help her drop off her car at the mechanic before we piled into Aletha’s car for the trip to the airport.
Once we got through security and checked our big bags, we ate a late lunch at the food court near the gate. Well, it was lunch for me and Joy. Aletha has been on this radical diet and hasn’t eaten anything since May. She lives on supplements and power bars. This concerns me. We’ll be doing a lot of walking and both Joy and I have blood sugar issues that require us to eat pretty regularly. And, we are going to Paris. She tells us not to worry, that she’s spoken to her doctor about the trip and she’s all set. She’ll be able to eat small meals in the evening and she’s been exercising to prepare for the trip. Still, Joy and I vow to keep an eye on her. Joy says that the only thing worse that being sick is being sick in a foreign country.
Because Joy has wracked up the frequent flyer miles from work, she is taking a different flight than we are. Her direct flight to Gatwick will have her arriving ahead of our flight which has a layover in Paris (weird I know) before we get to Heathrow so she’ll bus to our airport and take us to the hotel. We part ways and Aletha and I get on our plane. We booked separately and were unable to get seats together so I was near the front while she was in the back.
First problem, I have an aisle seat. I hate sitting on the aisle. People have no consideration when traipsing past seated passengers and will easily hit you in the head and not even notice it. Second, I’m seated next to a couple of retired schoolteachers with big mouths and small bladders. Don’t get me wrong, they were a nice couple. But having them spend most of the night climbing over me to get to the bathroom was not helping me get any sleep or adjust to the 6 hour time difference between the US and France. I also like to spend my flights in solitude so I wasn’t too keen on anybody jabbering at me all night. During dinner of a very nice beef bourguignon with cheese for desert and free wine (could you tell we were on an Air France flight?), the wife told me that they were part of a group of about 30 older folks who were on their way to Athens (another dream destination of mine) with a quick stop in England. Again, a nice couple but I could have done without all the small talk.
Breakfast (croissant, yogurt, a banana, and a thin slice of chocolate cake) was served at 5 am France time – way too early and doubly weird seeing that it was only 11 pm Eastern time. I had gotten about 3 consecutive minutes of sleep amidst the people climbing over me, the discomfort of having my knees pressed up against the seat in front of me (especially since the guy in that seat practically had his head in my lap) and the constant bouts of turbulence (the captain had to tell us to sit down after every jostle – in English, French and Spanish – making the interruption even worse). The three of us played musical chairs twice until I ended up where I wanted to be in the first place – by the window – just about an hour before we landed.
Exhausted and a little disoriented, I deplaned and waited for Aletha. And waited. And waited. And damn is it cold in France at 6 in the morning! We had disembarked outside and my jacket was packed in my carryon. The plane had been almost stiflingly hot with the only cool air coming from behind the curtain that separated first class from the rest of the herd. The brisk breeze was a relief but only for a second. The other passengers were being directed to a waiting bus and I was almost ready to join them just to get out of the cold when Aletha finally came down the ramp.
“Where is everybody going?” she asked. I shrugged as we started for the bus. She paused to ask one of the attendants where we were supposed to go but was rather brusquely told to head back the other way. We piled into this really crowded bus with no clue as to where we were going and definite doubts about whether we would make it to our connecting flight.
Traveler’s tip #1: NEVER GO TO CHARLES DE GAULLE AIRPORT. I’ll explain why. Thirty minutes of rough stops, people nearly fainting in the sardine-like atmosphere of the hot bus, and a circuit around half the airport and we are finally able to leave the French bus ride from hell. But have we reached our gate … noooooo! Dragging our carryon luggage behind us, Aletha and I consult a couple of signs and people before we are guided to yet another bus(!) which will take us to our gate. Are you kidding me? We only had about an hour between flights and even though our plane got in on time, we had already lost a half hour just getting to this point. We deplaned at gate E which meant that our gate, F, would be the next stop. Right? Nooooooo! On the bus’s electronic sign, the order of the bus stops was marked A B C F E. Huh? Aletha and I check our watches and look at the sign again. There is no way we will be making our flight.
Well, since we’d already seen half the airport when we arrived, it only seemed fair that we see the other half. We’re sitting in this nearly empty bus growing more and more frustrated and concerned since we had no way of contacting Joy. We get to our gate too late to catch our plane and are guided by a smelly Frenchman to a line where we can arrange for another flight. The next flight was scheduled for 9:00. But did we catch that flight? Noooo! We stand in line for at least 20 minutes before we even get to the desk and then it’s another 10 minutes for the attendant (Parlez vous francais?) to book us for the 10 am flight. Why did that take so long? You know the woman had to speak English – Air France is a division of Delta – so why was she wasting our time by fronting? And why couldn’t we get the 9 am flight? Aletha and I were not happy as we made our way to our gate.
We sat down in this lovely glass-roofed terminal and Aletha tried to contact Joy. Her Blackberry still showed Atlanta time. “It’s 2:10 in the morning and the sun is coming up,” she remarked. Pretty trippy.
I had sat long enough on the 8-hour flight so I decided to go on walkabout before I had to sit again. Plus I needed some water and Aletha asked me to scout around for an internet connection. I’m walking around and already I can see that France has a serious smoking problem. Not that I didn’t know this before I got there but there’s a big difference between knowing and seeing (and smelling). There are smoking areas in the airport that are right out in the open (like that smoke is just going to stay in their little area). There were a couple of shops, souvenir stands, and restaurants that only took euros (no more francs). Last exchange rate had the dollar at about 87 cents to a euro. If that was the case either the airport was extremely over-priced or we were in trouble. There were also little areas set up where you could get a massage or a facial, ice cream or coffee but alas no water fountains. It seems the French are very accommodating for everything else as long as you have the money to pay for it. I returned to Aletha and told her that I could find not a single link to the internet. She’d been unable to contact Joy so we just hoped that she was still waiting at the airport since we had no idea where the hotel was.
This second flight was quick (once we finally got on it). They served a snack of these funky little tomato crackers and, before we even got settled, we were flying into Heathrow. We sincerely hoped that the airport would be easier in London than it had been in Paris as we got off the plane (and didn’t relish the thought of going back).
Since Joy is the World Traveler, she set the dates and made all the hotel arrangements, including directions from the airports. We had decided to meet at her home in Smyrna to take one car to the airport.
First though, I had my own last minute things to take care of. I’d managed to get rid of my youngest kid by having my former manager (and Beata’s grandmother) watch her for the week (thanks again Cindy!). That left me with arranging care for the other two (will someone please explain to me why I have three kids!?!). I dropped them off at the vet early in the morning then headed into the office to make sure Yvonne’s head didn’t explode as she filled in for me (more on that later). Because of my extended stay in the office, I made it a little late to Smyrna but no matter. Joy had given us plenty of time to help her drop off her car at the mechanic before we piled into Aletha’s car for the trip to the airport.
Once we got through security and checked our big bags, we ate a late lunch at the food court near the gate. Well, it was lunch for me and Joy. Aletha has been on this radical diet and hasn’t eaten anything since May. She lives on supplements and power bars. This concerns me. We’ll be doing a lot of walking and both Joy and I have blood sugar issues that require us to eat pretty regularly. And, we are going to Paris. She tells us not to worry, that she’s spoken to her doctor about the trip and she’s all set. She’ll be able to eat small meals in the evening and she’s been exercising to prepare for the trip. Still, Joy and I vow to keep an eye on her. Joy says that the only thing worse that being sick is being sick in a foreign country.
Because Joy has wracked up the frequent flyer miles from work, she is taking a different flight than we are. Her direct flight to Gatwick will have her arriving ahead of our flight which has a layover in Paris (weird I know) before we get to Heathrow so she’ll bus to our airport and take us to the hotel. We part ways and Aletha and I get on our plane. We booked separately and were unable to get seats together so I was near the front while she was in the back.
First problem, I have an aisle seat. I hate sitting on the aisle. People have no consideration when traipsing past seated passengers and will easily hit you in the head and not even notice it. Second, I’m seated next to a couple of retired schoolteachers with big mouths and small bladders. Don’t get me wrong, they were a nice couple. But having them spend most of the night climbing over me to get to the bathroom was not helping me get any sleep or adjust to the 6 hour time difference between the US and France. I also like to spend my flights in solitude so I wasn’t too keen on anybody jabbering at me all night. During dinner of a very nice beef bourguignon with cheese for desert and free wine (could you tell we were on an Air France flight?), the wife told me that they were part of a group of about 30 older folks who were on their way to Athens (another dream destination of mine) with a quick stop in England. Again, a nice couple but I could have done without all the small talk.
Breakfast (croissant, yogurt, a banana, and a thin slice of chocolate cake) was served at 5 am France time – way too early and doubly weird seeing that it was only 11 pm Eastern time. I had gotten about 3 consecutive minutes of sleep amidst the people climbing over me, the discomfort of having my knees pressed up against the seat in front of me (especially since the guy in that seat practically had his head in my lap) and the constant bouts of turbulence (the captain had to tell us to sit down after every jostle – in English, French and Spanish – making the interruption even worse). The three of us played musical chairs twice until I ended up where I wanted to be in the first place – by the window – just about an hour before we landed.
Exhausted and a little disoriented, I deplaned and waited for Aletha. And waited. And waited. And damn is it cold in France at 6 in the morning! We had disembarked outside and my jacket was packed in my carryon. The plane had been almost stiflingly hot with the only cool air coming from behind the curtain that separated first class from the rest of the herd. The brisk breeze was a relief but only for a second. The other passengers were being directed to a waiting bus and I was almost ready to join them just to get out of the cold when Aletha finally came down the ramp.
“Where is everybody going?” she asked. I shrugged as we started for the bus. She paused to ask one of the attendants where we were supposed to go but was rather brusquely told to head back the other way. We piled into this really crowded bus with no clue as to where we were going and definite doubts about whether we would make it to our connecting flight.
Traveler’s tip #1: NEVER GO TO CHARLES DE GAULLE AIRPORT. I’ll explain why. Thirty minutes of rough stops, people nearly fainting in the sardine-like atmosphere of the hot bus, and a circuit around half the airport and we are finally able to leave the French bus ride from hell. But have we reached our gate … noooooo! Dragging our carryon luggage behind us, Aletha and I consult a couple of signs and people before we are guided to yet another bus(!) which will take us to our gate. Are you kidding me? We only had about an hour between flights and even though our plane got in on time, we had already lost a half hour just getting to this point. We deplaned at gate E which meant that our gate, F, would be the next stop. Right? Nooooooo! On the bus’s electronic sign, the order of the bus stops was marked A B C F E. Huh? Aletha and I check our watches and look at the sign again. There is no way we will be making our flight.
Well, since we’d already seen half the airport when we arrived, it only seemed fair that we see the other half. We’re sitting in this nearly empty bus growing more and more frustrated and concerned since we had no way of contacting Joy. We get to our gate too late to catch our plane and are guided by a smelly Frenchman to a line where we can arrange for another flight. The next flight was scheduled for 9:00. But did we catch that flight? Noooo! We stand in line for at least 20 minutes before we even get to the desk and then it’s another 10 minutes for the attendant (Parlez vous francais?) to book us for the 10 am flight. Why did that take so long? You know the woman had to speak English – Air France is a division of Delta – so why was she wasting our time by fronting? And why couldn’t we get the 9 am flight? Aletha and I were not happy as we made our way to our gate.
We sat down in this lovely glass-roofed terminal and Aletha tried to contact Joy. Her Blackberry still showed Atlanta time. “It’s 2:10 in the morning and the sun is coming up,” she remarked. Pretty trippy.
I had sat long enough on the 8-hour flight so I decided to go on walkabout before I had to sit again. Plus I needed some water and Aletha asked me to scout around for an internet connection. I’m walking around and already I can see that France has a serious smoking problem. Not that I didn’t know this before I got there but there’s a big difference between knowing and seeing (and smelling). There are smoking areas in the airport that are right out in the open (like that smoke is just going to stay in their little area). There were a couple of shops, souvenir stands, and restaurants that only took euros (no more francs). Last exchange rate had the dollar at about 87 cents to a euro. If that was the case either the airport was extremely over-priced or we were in trouble. There were also little areas set up where you could get a massage or a facial, ice cream or coffee but alas no water fountains. It seems the French are very accommodating for everything else as long as you have the money to pay for it. I returned to Aletha and told her that I could find not a single link to the internet. She’d been unable to contact Joy so we just hoped that she was still waiting at the airport since we had no idea where the hotel was.
This second flight was quick (once we finally got on it). They served a snack of these funky little tomato crackers and, before we even got settled, we were flying into Heathrow. We sincerely hoped that the airport would be easier in London than it had been in Paris as we got off the plane (and didn’t relish the thought of going back).
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