When the return trip takes you through Disneyland
When the return trip takes you through Disneyland
I had an adventure coming home from France.
Many regional airports in France have been shut due to bomb scares reflecting the horrors in the Middle East. Last Thursday, I left from Toulouse, whose airport had been shut for the previous two days. I managed to make it out in the morning, before the airport shut down again for a third day.
I arrived at Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris (known by the locals as Roissy), with plenty of time to spare—eight hours before my evening departure.
We were about two hours into the transatlantic flight when the pilot came on to say one of the “ordinateurs” [French for computers] was down, necessitating a return to Roissy. So, two hours later we landed back at Roissy (okay, I nervously watched the flight attendants the whole way and they were blessedly relaxed).
A prayer of thanks for safe landing.
We were told that we could not get our luggage. Roissy was closed since it was by now well after midnight, except for pass control which took forty-five minutes to complete. With no officials directing us, we wandered around the airport for a km or two, until we found a bank of cheery Air France agents handing out bottled water and overnight kits.
Through their big smiles they assured us that they would not re-book anyone on new flights at that time, since it was French “vacances scolaires,” and every flight was full, and besides, it was a higher priority to get us to hotels for the night. In no way was I the only one with firm commitments stateside, but mine felt compelling—my theater director daughter’s show opening Friday night in north Jersey, and a family wedding taking place in Brooklyn over Saturday and Sunday.
It was by now well after 1 AM French time, inching toward 2 AM. I called my husband. While I waited for a hotel assignment, he spent an hour texting with a Delta chat bot named Desiree [I had originally booked on Delta], who assured him she could get me on a 9 AM flight the next day at no charge: Roissy-Atlanta, changing in Atlanta for Newark.
Shaking her head in disbelief, the Air France agent handling my hotel said that if Desiree’s ticket was a real thing, I should take the 6 AM shuttle from the hotel, nothing later. She had me dash through the airport (another km or so) to catch the last bus out.
All was well until I realized we’d been on the bus for close to an hour, driving through rainy, deserted, industrial parks. Wherever I was “sleeping” would be an hour from the airport minimum. Finally, we pulled up to an empty hotel, part of Disneyland Paris. The Little Mermaid sat on the counter at the front desk, and my room (which I got to at 3 AM) was a pirate’s hang out. No one at the hotel knew anything about a 6 AM airport shuttle. The creepy Halloween decorations made a perfect setting for a horror movie.
By some extraordinary stroke of luck I woke up at 4:50 AM and called the front desk. I was told there was no 6 AM shuttle; the only one leaving was at 5 AM (now 9 minutes hence). If any of you are Harry Potter fans, making that bus felt like having Stan Shunpike rescue you in the night bus.
We arrived at the airport well before daylight. Our flight took off on time. Eight plus hours later (now Friday afternoon), a safe landing in Atlanta, and time to go through customs. I was told to check on my suitcase, which unsurprisingly was still in Paris. Everyone was lovely, but I had used up a precious 45 minutes for my transfer and found myself once again dashing through an epically large airport.
I don’t know what happened on the way into Newark. It was raining and the shades were down. After the third pass at trying to land, the pilot said that the two planes ahead of us couldn’t land and were being diverted to JFK. But, lucky for us, the fourth was the trick, and we landed on rainy wet tarmac relatively on time.
Still no bag—no biggie—but Adrienne, a wonderful Delta lady, said she might be able to get it to me before we left our hotel the next day.
I arrived, overjoyed to have made a safe landing, at said hotel. We dashed off to get to my daughter’s play. This being unfamiliar territory, we got lost, and made an illegal U turn, for which two cops in a giant SUV stopped us. It didn’t take us long to realize that if either of us opened our mouth, we’d end up in the slammer for the night.
We spent 25 minutes while the two cops conferred on our punishment, before being released, ticket in hand. We made the play with 15 minutes to spare.
All thanks to the gods of transportation.
I loved Jeffrey Dale Lofton’s debut novel, RED CLAY SUZIE, a thoughtful and heart rending coming of age story about growing up gay in the rural south. I also recently read MAID: Hard Work, Low Pay, and a Mother’s Will to Survive, by Stephanie Land. If you want to know what’s it like to be a poor single mother in the richest country on the planet, read it. America can be a very tough place to live.
Finally, I was delighted to interview Jody Hobbs Hesler on her new short story collection, WHAT MAKES YOU THINK YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO FEEL BETTER for Bloom Magazine.
POSTSCRIPTS
My bag arrived at the hotel at 10 PM Friday night.
My daughter’s play was amazing.
The wedding was beautiful.
Yesterday, I called the number on the traffic ticket and spoke to Kathy. “I couldn’t enter this in the database,” she said, incensed. “It wasn’t properly written up! I’ll talk to the prosecutor tomorrow to dismiss charges. I’ll also talk to the supervisors of those police officers; they need to learn how to write a ticket.”
Truly, all thanks to the gods of transportation. And thank you Desiree, Adrienne, and Kathy.
ICYMI, here is a link to my most recent newsletter; Au Revoir Auvillar/Words from Moriel.
Wishing you good health and safety,
Martha
I’ve had some pretty dramatic travel stories to tell since Covid put pay to reliable air travel but this one takes the biscuit.
"Truly, all thanks to the gods of transportation." I'm privileged to share space on the planet with someone who expresses gratitude after everything that happened.