I woke up feeling mercifully better, rested but still sad, of course, to be leaving Paris. I dressed and strolled down to one last Parisian breakfast buffet, almost hoping no one from my group would be there so I wouldn't have to say goodbye. (I hate goodbyes!) I found Edna (my pal for so much of the trip), John (probably the only tour mate I hadn't spoken with), and Joyce (who was continuing her vacation with a hiking trip through France) and made lighthearted small talk with them while I ate. Then I finished my packing and headed down to the front desk to check out and wait for my 9:30 shuttle.
By 9:20 I was waiting in the hotel lobby, then on the sidewalk, taking no chance of being abandoned by Blue Van a second time. I watched Anne and Dave and John leave in their respective taxis, followed by Joyce in her Uber, until I was the last one standing. By 9:45 I was starting to panic. Then, right on cue, as if I'd sent the bat signal, Louis inexplicably - but not altogether unexpectedly - strolled up to my rescue. I explained that I'd tried calling a phone number on my confirmation sheet but was connected only to a recorded French message (which I couldn't decipher). For Louis that was no problem at all. He simply made the call, listened to the message, made another call, and thoroughly reamed out the gentleman who answered (in French, of course).
Finally at 10 a.m. - after I'd considered taking a taxi instead (again!) - a white van (!) pulled up from Blue Van. The driver jumped out, argued with Louis over pickup time (insisting it was 10 am, despite my confirmation sheet that said otherwise), and then finally - after a heartfelt thank you to Louis for all his trouble - I was off to the airport. By then I was so anxiety-ridden, I felt sick, uncertain if I would puke or pass out (maybe both) during the long ride to Charles de Gaulle.
As it turned out, I desperately needed those lost 30 minutes. Instead of having extra time to relax at the gate (not to mention exchange my euros, shop for souvenir gifts, eat, and use the bathroom), it was hurry up, wait forever in interminable lines (to check in and hand over my overweight bag), and then run like a lunatic to find security and my gate (which took considerable time and effort). The whole day of flying followed suit, trying to calm myself by insisting I'd make each flight, alternated with persistent gnawing fears that I wouldn't. My first flight was lined up and ready to board when I finally arrived at the gate. I ran to a nearby bathroom, filled my water bottle, then dug out my passport again, which I needed to show before I could board.
Finally, I did. The first flight was uneventful. Then I was in Dublin, where I ran the same gauntlet (plus US preclearance and customs for bonus fun), waiting interminably in a connecting-flights line before I showed my passport and answered a kind Irish woman's queries (How long in France? Traveling alone? How did Paris treat me?) before I was off to preclearance, where I went through another round of security and used a kiosk to scan my passport, answer questions, and have my photo taken (ugh) before I finally reached my gate, where once again the passengers were gathered in a sort of unruly mob and waiting to board. Thankfully I made the flight and ordered a chicken meal on board because I hadn't had an opportunity to eat before departing on the seven-hour flight. I watched Manchester by the Sea, read The Paris Wife, and listened to music using the airline's free entertainment system, all of which made the long flight less painful.
I arrived in JFK at 6 pm (NY time) and used the air train, JFK jitney, and numerous escalators to reach my gate, which moved three times (fortunately within the same terminal). Plus another round of security (my third for the day). This time I had an opportunity to exchange my euros (70 for $59) after I picked up my checked bag, used the bathroom, refilled my water bottles, and ate dinner before my final flight home.
I nodded off on the plane (my bio clock by then beyond warped), as I did on all three flights, but was inevitably spent by the time I arrived at my hometown airport at 11:30 p.m. I knew I'd be in no condition to drive home, so I'd booked an airport hotel for the night. But when I checked in, I was dismayed to walk into my room and find an unmade bed (the sheets and pillows thrown on a nearby couch) and a dirty bathtub. I'll confess I briefly considered staying in the room, though it gave me the creeps (all I wanted was to get into a bed - unmade or otherwise, though preferably clean - for the night and lose consciousness), but I walked out and gently asked the front desk clerk for another room. It was the right choice. She was furious, but not at me (apparently the room has bad juju and never seems to stay clean), and rewarded me with "an upgrade": a room with a separate living room, couch, and extra TV, none of which I used, though I appreciated the gesture.
All I cared about was that large, clean, neatly-made bed. Once I got into it, I felt truly relaxed, for the first time all day. I'd wake up the next day uncertain for several moments exactly where I was and have to slowly, painfully adjust to life after Paris. But for that moment, at least, it was good to be home (or close to it).
