Paris - Travel Day

Occasionally, I’ll have a dream in which there’s a place I’m trying to reach, and no matter how hard I try, I keep getting farther away from my destination.  I wake up exasperated and thankful it was just a dream.  We were living that dream yesterday as we used a full day and every form of transportation known to man in order to reach Paris.

The focus of the day was a forty-five minute flight from London Gatwick to Charles De Gaulle in Paris—forty-five minutes.  The day started with our last breakfast in the Stepney Green flat, and we did our best to use up all the food we had accumulated over the past two weeks.  Our flight was scheduled for 2:30 in the afternoon, so we took our time sweeping up, stacking towels and linens, and packing at a leisurely pace.  

If one pays to be a “premium boarder,” our designated airline, EasyJet, is lenient when it comes to carry-on baggage.  If one is a loser, “pauper boarder,” like the members of my family, one is limited to a single carry-on bag, and it better, by God, meet the measurement guidelines.  No extra backpack, no purse, no shopping bag.  EasyJet is a budget airline with tight schedules, and we’re aware of the guidelines, but we still had some packing problems to solve.  We’re each packing in a forty-liter bag that meets all carry-on restrictions, but we have a few extra items that require the use of a purse and a daypack.  So, how did we stick it to the man and fight the power, you’re wondering?  Raincoats.  Joseph and I brought our trusty, Troop 133 raincoats on this trip, and those suckers have some big pockets, which we filled with all of our travel-size liquids, nalgene water bottles, and our many medication vessels.  There were a few leftover items that wouldn’t fit anywhere; so I put them in a daypack, tightened it against my body, and covered it up with my bulging raincoat—take that EasyJet.

The flat was tidy, and we finished with our subversive packing by 10:30, thirty minutes ahead of schedule, so we sat for a bit reminiscing over our time in London.  We finally bid goodbye to our English home and took a relaxed walk to the underground where we discovered that the Stepney Green station was closed for engineering work and a large section of the District Line was shut down for the day.  Here we go...

We had to wait twenty minutes for the Replacement Bus, which we rode for fifteen minutes to the next open underground station, Tower Hill.  We took the subway to Victoria Station where we had to locate a machine that would grant us a refund on the leftover train fare on our Oyster transport cards which would then be used to pay for the Gatwick express train to the airport.  Flush with cash, we rushed to the line to buy train tickets where we waited in queue for thirty minutes—our time cushion for the airport was dwindling, and I was sweating in my overstuffed raincoat.  Tickets in hand, we ran to the platform and barely made the express train where an elderly gentleman wearing linen trousers and a classic blue blazer moved his luggage and made room for me to sit and patted me on the back once I did.  I wasn’t aware that angels wore blue blazers and penny loafers.  Once in the south terminal after a thirty minute ride to the airport, we discovered that our flight would be leaving from the north terminal. This correction required another train ride across the industrial landscape of London Gatwick.  We were finally where we needed to be with about an hour to spare—with the security protocol still looming.  

We made it through the line fairly quickly, and as usual, my whole family skated through the x-ray machines while the security corps mistook  me for Osama Bin Laden’s wayward brother.  I had to remove most of my clothing, empty my pockets, and take off my beloved knee brace. I proclaimed to the young security lady, “Okay, I think I’m empty now.”  She replied, “I like that in a man, now go hobble on through the machine.”  I was still trying to figure out what the heck she meant by that during my second trip through the x-ray when I was moved off to the side and felt up good by a burly bloke who meant business.  Geez, at least in the US they tell you ahead of time that you’re about to be violated.  Once it was determined that I was no longer a threat to national security, I was able to rejoin my family and run to the departure area thirty minutes before our flight only to discover there was no gate information yet.  Deena stayed with the luggage while I ran off with the kids to find food and beverages.  We wolfed down some chicken and stuffing sandwiches (also a thing here), watched the board until gate 101 popped up, and then we were off and running again.  Once at the gate, we were in queue waiting to have our boarding passes and passports checked again. We muttered under our collective breath as the premium boarders smugly walked past and entered the aircraft first carrying their stupid extra bags.  Well, the joke was on them as the rest of the riff-raff boarded, and the whole lot of us waited for an hour on the tarmac as take-off was delayed due to a direct command from Satan himself.  To top it off, the smarmy wench in front of me told me to stop knocking her chair when it was the kissy couple next to me that actually did the deed.  By the time the plane finally took off, we were exhausted and dehydrated, but that was offset by the pleasure we felt by getting away with our baggage scam—goodbye England.

Forty-five minutes later, yes forty-five minutes, we touched down in Paris and made it to our gate in about fifteen minutes.  Thirty minutes later with freshly stamped passports, we were in an Uber car on the way to our apartment in south Paris where the “modest” people live, according to our friendly driver who was enjoying practicing his English on us.  By “modest” he meant “poor.”  We arrived at 6 Rue De Madagascar where our host, Franck, was smiling and waving to us from the second-floor apartment window.  Franck met us at the front door and walked us upstairs where we got the grand tour of our glorious home for the next six days:   two bedrooms, a kitchen, and a bathroom that we have all to ourselves—hallelujah!

The kids got settled in while Deena and I walked to the nearby market to get something for dinner and stock up on provisions for the next couple of days.  Since France is the wine capital of the world, and good wine can be bought here inexpensively, we decided a bottle was in order after the travel day we had endured.  On top of the groceries, we splurged on a 2 euro bottle of merlot that turned out to be soft, jammy, and the perfect compliment to our pasta dinner.  At that price, we figured that we could have good wine in Paris at every meal...theoretically.

What a day, but we’re here in Paris, and our second-floor apartment is amazing with its two balconies and private amenities.  Tomorrow will bring a big day for the Southern Cross Academy, but tonight we’ll enjoy the deep sleep of the traveler with the reward of the destination firmly underfoot.