It was smooth flying until I reached NYC's (insane) JFK. I had a couple hours before my connecting flight to Dublin, which I needed just to navigate from the Delta terminal to Aer Lingus's terminal 5, which required multiple escalators, a large shuttle bus, an air train (that took approximately forever to locate), a visit to the check-in counter to pick up my boarding pass, and a panic-inducing walk through security, during which my carry-on roller bag was confiscated and searched - first by hand (a burly male TSA agent literally pawed through my panties), then by stick - before my bag and I were deemed fit to travel.
My second flight - to Dublin - was lengthy but otherwise good. It wasn't as long as expected (that time zone change always throws me off), but I (foolishly) didn't realize when booking the flight that I wouldn't be flying overnight (by NY time). I slept for maybe 90 minutes total during the six-hour flight (spending most of the flight reading and listening to music - Tori Amos, Sara Bareilles, The Script, and Jeff Buckley) and arrived exhausted in Dublin at 5 a.m. (11 p.m. NY time), where my first task was to set my phone up with an international travel plan.
My third flight - Dublin to Paris - was a quick, uneventful 90 minutes. I arrived in Paris, which is precisely when my problems began. I'd gate-checked my roller bag, which required a 30-minute wait at baggage claim for its appearance. By then, the extra time that I'd planned to spend eating and leisurely strolling Charles de Gaulle had evaporated, along with my calm. My shuttle - which I'd reserved and paid for online - was scheduled for a 1:30 p.m. pickup, but I still hadn't eaten or found my way to a restroom. I had meeting-spot instructions on my confirmation sheet, but how to get there?
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| CDG - scene of multiple panic attacks |
At approximately that point, I gave up on the shuttle (or he gave up on me) and resigned myself to being stranded at CDG. I bought a salad at McDonald's (I managed that much at least), plopped down at a table, and wept in despair. I allowed myself a few minutes of miserable self-pity before I pulled myself together (forcibly) and plotted my next move for exiting the airport. My surest bet for ever reaching my hotel was a taxi, which I decided was worth the expense, so I walked outside (following the helpful "Taxis" sign) and handed my hotel address to a French-speaking driver. (I felt like an Amazing Race contestant, hoping my driver knew where to go and would take me there despite our communication barrier. Thankfully he did, at a cost of 50 euros (plus the 30 I'd lost on the no-show shuttle).
All I wanted was to collapse in my room and never leave again. For that moment, I didn't even care that I was in Paris. (Part of me, I'll sadly confess, wished I was home.) But I pushed myself to unpack before I collapsed on my new bed and stole 30 minutes of desperate sleep before my alarm roused me to wake for a 5:30 p.m. orientation with my tour group. Downstairs in the hotel lobby, I was delighted to find a small group of 14 friendly fellow Americans plus one lovely British gent and a hunky French guide. (I was, by now, following that afternoon's traumatic airport escapade, exceedingly grateful to have expert assistance for the rest of my Parisian stay.)
After receiving our updated program guides and schedules, we strolled down the street to our 7 p.m. welcome dinner at Les Barjots, where I feasted on an extravagant three-course meal (the first of many), plus bountiful bread and wine. Just as enjoyable was the company of my tourmates: the British instructor/guide and Nanette, Lisa, and Edna. We ate, talked, laughed, ate more, and thanked the universe that we were in Paris that night.
