Day 9 -- Wednesday, September 28, 2005
No sleeping pills + noisy hotel = no sleep for Daphne.
Why didn’t I bring more pills? I used up my supply of pharmaceutical bliss the night before and it didn’t even occur to me to buy any more while we were out. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I tossed and turned on the futon from hell for about an hour while the ladies read. Feeling supremely uncomfortable and frustrated, I finally gave up the ghost and got dressed. It was only around 11:00 and we had planned on getting up at 5:30 to get to the airport. It was going to be a looooooong night.
I took my magazine and the room key and headed for the landing between the lobby and the rooms. I sat there for about half an hour before realizing that it was just too cold without my jacket. I trudged up the 4 brutal flights of stairs, tried (unsuccessfully) to get the door open in the dark without disturbing anyone, got my jacket and went back downstairs. I sat some more until my butt was completely numb and prompted me to get up and stretch my legs.
2:00 am. I go down to the cyber café and find the desk clerk, in casual clothes, sitting behind a computer. “Can’t sleep?” he asks. “Nope.” “Want a cappuccino?” Glad for the hospitality but a little confused (a massive infusion of caffeine is supposed to help me sleep?), I say no and cop a squat at a chair on the other side of the room. I’m reading and all is going as well as it can be until the typical Frenchman behind me decides to light up. I’m already tired and cranky. The last thing I need is a case of Parisian emphysema. I get up to find another spot for my insomnia.
Damn this country to hell!
4:00 am. After wandering into the empty dining room attached to the lobby (the TV was still blaring a western even though no one was watching) I find myself back on my bench on the landing. I’ve been nodding off for hours now but every time my head droops too far forward, I wake up again. Nice way to spend my last night in Paris.
5:25 am. I’ve been watching the clock for hours now and the last few minutes have been the hardest. I can’t wait any longer. I drag myself up the stairs and sit outside of the door to our room. I’m trying my best to allow the ladies as much sleep as I can but … I REALLY NEED TO GET OUT OF THIS HOTEL.
“Up and at ‘em, ladies! Time to hustle.” Joy is decidedly not happy to have me turning on lights and urging her up before the alarm goes off. But we do have a couple of planes to catch. While they are trying to adjust to cruel consciousness, I check the room for the last of my things and start hauling my crap back down those hideous stairs. By the time they’re up and moving their suitcases to the lobby, I’m already sitting back on my bench waiting for them. Joy does the checkout thing just as our cab pulls up. After the longest night in recorded history, we are on our way back to Charles De Gaulle ...
... where the waiting continues. We’re at the airport so early because Joy’s flight to India is before ours. We part with Joy and then try to find out which gate we need … which we can’t do because it’s too early. The departure screens haven’t updated with our information yet. Aletha parks herself while I hunt for some grub. We have at least an hour wait near the ticketing booth before we learn our gate number. Now all we have to do is find it.
Easier said than done which leads me back to my tip from way back on day one: NEVER GO TO CHARLES DE GAULLE AIRPORT. See, it had lured us into a false sense of security when we flew in from London but now it was back to its old tricks. Our gate was located down a series of winding halls and confusing signs. When we finally get to the gate, after waiting there for several more hours, the staff don’t quite know how to get us to the plane. We all line up at the ticket booth (the terminal had gotten very crowded by this point) so they can check us in and get us onto (God help us) a bus. But here’s the problem: there are too many people and not enough buses. Now, shouldn’t they have known beforehand how many people were going to get on the plane so they could plan accordingly? Aletha and I just look at each other and roll our eyes.
We miss the first two buses and have to wait for a third. As we worriedly look at the clock, we are told that the plane will not leave without us. This time when we get on the bus, we actually have some breathing space. The trip takes about ten minutes and then we meet the plane on the runway. But Charles De Gaulle is not done with us yet. Several of the passengers are questioned about their carryon luggage. They are asked if they want to check some at the plane before getting on board. Aletha and I ignore them and climb on board.
And now, a suggestion. If you decide to go to Paris (which I highly recommend), do something, anything to avoid this airport. Try something different; try flying into nearby Bordeaux and taking the train into Paris. Doesn’t that sound romantic? You’ll get to watch the French countryside fly by while you’re on your way to the city of lights. Just heed my warning: save yourself the stress and aggravation by staying away from Charles De Gaulle.
Aletha and I part as we get on the plane as she is sitting way in the back. I pass through the amazingly roomy first class and find my seat. Hurrah! I have a window seat in the first row after the partition that separates the sardines from the people who actually have money. This means: no one lying in my lap for the whole flight and a blessed amount of leg room. I am thrilled as I settle my stuff down. After being up all night, I’m ready for several hours of blissful sleep.
Then I find out who will be sitting next to me: a woman and her infant.
“Lord, why you gonna do me like that?” I spend the next few minutes just fussing with God. He knows that I haven’t gotten much rest during my entire stay in Paris. What’d I ever to do Him (other than being a heathen, of course)?
But, to the mother’s credit, the kid wasn’t much trouble. She sat next to me and occasionally touched me but other than that she was really quiet. Thank goodness. I was finally able to get some sleep. It almost made me weep with joy.
A few hours later I was awakened by the food cart. The flight had two meals and drink service so I manage to stay awake for the rest of the flight. The row I sat in, since there were no chairs in front of it, had retractable TVs that came out of the arms. Cool. There was an Angelina Jolie double feature of Mr. And Mrs. Smith (I’d already seen it and didn’t like it the first time) and Lara Croft. I ate my vegetarian pizza snack while half-asleep.
Deplaning back in the good old USA, I proudly told Aletha that I finally got some sleep. She tells me that she didn’t get any, instead staying up to watch movies. We claim our bags and then have to give them up again as we go through customs. Loopy, but okay. We found Aletha’s car, split the parking bill and headed back to Joy’s.
It was strange being behind the wheel of a car after a whole week. Oddly enough, I did not miss driving. I did miss the tube though. That was fun. The whole trip was amazing and as I drove back to fair Woodstock, I still couldn’t believe that it had happened.
I had to pick up my dog and cat from the vet and, once I recovered from the heart attack over seeing that bill, drove home and unpacked all my goodies. I am thrilled to report that the tea set I bought in London survived the plane ride (I still haven’t mounted it to the wall yet but I will eventually get around to it). I dug out the tea, postcards, souvenirs, and my lovely new backpack and just basked in the memories in the few short hours I had before returning to the daily routine.
Thanks to Europe I have picked up a serious tea habit and an overwhelming desire to return. All things I hope you all will get a chance to experience. Hope you enjoyed this overly long account of my adventures.
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