As I start this post, I am 35,000 feet over the Atlantic Ocean, on my way home from Paris. According to the moving map we are about an hour East of Halifax still which means we are, ummm… lets see… divide distance by velocity… carry the one… annnnnnd… about two more whole days from landing in Atlanta. I’m not 100% positive of the math, but I’m reasonably sure. Given that we’ve been in flight for about three days (again, that is just an estimate) and we are a little over half way, it makes sense. Thank God for noise cancelling headsets.
I’ve had a most inauspicious start to my trip home so far today. As I was getting ready to leave my hotel I looked at the time and realized that taking the train to the airport as I’d planned might cut me closer than I would like on time. The train ride should be about 40-45 minutes, but involves two train changes that are a pain with luggage, and that can add unexpected delays to the trip. So I decided to take a taxi instead just to be safe. It is a lot more expensive, but around a 30 minute trip. So off I go to the lobby to check out and have them call me a cab. After I finally got the desk clerk to appreciate that I was in a hurry, I was able to get him to call my cab before continuing with the small talk. Around 20 minutes later the cab still hadn’t shown and I was finally able to convince the clerk to call them again. Another 10 minutes passed and the cab shows up. So much for saving time by using a cab. <sigh>. About half way to the airport, traffic ground to a halt. Someone had quite inconsiderately had an accident on the road I needed to be on to get to CDG. After sitting there for over a half an hour we were again under way. Me missing my flight had just become a very real possibility.
I finally arrive at the airport with just under an hour until flight time. I rush in to the airport to check in and hit the first set of Air France counters I find. If you’ve not checked in for a flight at Charles de Gaulle airport, it is quite an experience. They have many different sets of check-in counters and each set handles specific flights, so you have to first figure out which set of counters you should be at. The set I happened upon was number two. The agents posted at the entrance of the queue asked me where I was going then told me I needed to go down to six. Since these are spread down the length of the terminal, the walk from two to six was not insignificant. It seemed even longer given my mounting apprehension at missing my flight. I got to six and told them where I was heading, and they told me I needed to go to two. If you are keeping close track, you’ll have recognized that two is where I’d JUST been. I ran back down to two and told them that six had said they were idiots and that I should have been at two all along (OK, not in those exact words, but mainly because I don’t know how to say idiot in French) and they let me in the line. I got to the security people mid-line (their equivalent of our homeland security people) and told them where I was off to and when. They looked surprised and asked if I was going to be able to get on that flight still. Coincidentally enough, I was hoping for an answer to that very same question. After conversing with the gate agent they determined that I would not, in fact, be able to make that flight. It had closed during the time I was ping-ponging between two and six. They sent me to the Delta ticket counter (it was a Delta operated flight) that was way down past one (the opposite direction from where I’d last been sent). After waiting in line, a nice lady looked me up in the computer and told me that, since I was flying on an Air France ticket, I would need to go to the Air France ticket counter that was – you guessed it – way down past six. Once there and waiting through line, I found myself at the counter of a supremely disinterested ticket agent. From the amount of typing he did, and the amount of time it took him, I was beginning to suspect he was actually just IM chatting with the agent next to him – who was also typing furiously – about ze stupid Americans, but I may just be projecting my insecurities; can’t tell for sure. Anyway, he finally looked up and told me that he could rebook me but that I’d have to pick up a 150 Euro ($200) fare difference. Given that I just wanted to get home, I didn’t argue. Then he tells me that I will be on the 8:30 am flight tomorrow… wait, what?!?!? He said that he would need to move me to tomorrow since the only flight from Atlanta to Tampa (my final destination) that departed late enough for me to make was booked solid. It was a Delta operated flight as well, by the way. I managed to convince him that, if I had to wait overnight somewhere I’d prefer to do it in Atlanta where, you know, I live. He was able to move me to the 4:10 pm flight to Atlanta, but still had me on an 8:30 am flight to Tampa the next morning.
I paid the annoying little man, and headed back down to the Delta counter to see if they could help me out. I have status with them and thought I’d try to leverage it. How important i would feel if I could pull that off, eh? =oP The nice lady at the Delta counter looked up the Tampa flight in question and informed me that it was not even close to full. There were at least 10 seats open on it. Unfortunately, she was unable to make any changes to my ticket for the same reasons as before so, back to the Air France counter I go. After some digging there the agent told me that seats in my class fare were sold out. If I wanted to be booked for one of the seats that were open, she’d have to upgrade my fare class for the low low price of around 600 Euros. Yeah. To save you the math, that equates to almost exactly $800 US. I could charter a light aircraft flight to Tampa for about $100 more than that! I honestly was considering calling the FBO in Atlanta to see if they had any small aircraft there that were available to rent for the week so I could just fly myself and be done with it. Sheesh. And, no, by the way, she couldn’t put me on standby for the flight since it was a Delta flight. So, once again, I made the trip back down to the Delta desk to see what they could do for me. The Delta rep rolled her eyes and shook her head when I told her what Air France had said, then she put me on standby for the Tampa flight. At least now I had a chance of getting home tonight.
As I went through security to check in for my new flight I discovered that the French have a thing about large shoes, it would seem. Pretty much every French official in any capacity I ran into had me take off my shoes. And I’m pretty sure one of them was actually just a skycap who was bored, but I don’t read French well enough to be sure what his nametag said. It seems that the standard French airport greeting is “Bonjour monsieur. May I ‘ave your shoes please?” Three times in one check-in. There was the ‘pre-screening guy’ before the actual security checkpoint, the actual security guys, then the security guy actually at the gate, who was doing random checks as you started to board; all three of them made me take them off. Since I seemed to be the only one getting this special treatment, I finally asked to what I owed the honor. I was told that since my shoes were large, they wanted to check them. I’m not sure what that means. I’m reasonably certain a size 9 chock full of C-4 could blow up a plane just as easily as a size 16, but what do I know? To make matters worse, I was wearing hiking boots (more on why in a moment). You know, the ones that you have to fully unlace the top half of each time you want to remove them? edit: when I got to Atlanta they made me take them off again in the security screening area you have to pass upon entering the country. Sheesh. Next time, I’m wearing flip-flops.
But, aside from my rather interesting trip home, the rest of the time in Paris was pretty cool. I walked somewhere in the neighborhood of 30-35 miles during my time there – which is why I elected to wear hiking boots. Each day I would set out before sunrise and take some early morning pictures then wander around and shoot until mid to late morning. Then I’d go back to the hotel and nap for an hour or two before heading back out in the middle of the afternoon to take some more pictures. I would wander around, stopping for the occasional photo until well past midnight before heading back to the hotel. Somewhere in the midst of all of that I would work in dinner at one of the approximately 14,000,000 restaurants in Paris.
Both my camera and I enjoyed the alone time for most of the trip. I’ve travelled for business for long enough that travelling alone doesn’t bother me like it once did, with one exception: dinner time. Particularly in places like Paris, where you are seemingly the only one there that is not with someone else. I guess it is because dinner time is the only time where I am stripped of my diversions and am left to just sit there and stare stupidly at the passing crowds while waiting for my food – and in Paris, that is often a very long wait. As I’ve probably said before, for me, at least, there is something infinitely more lonely about being among thousands of strangers than actually being alone.
I had several days and nights that were pretty much uneventful. I wandered around soaking in the city and taking the occasional photo, but there was nothing out of the ordinary; at least not until the last night there. That night was rather eventful. For starters, I got a pleasant reprieve from the dreaded dinner time solitude. I was sitting in the outside seating area of a quaint little bistro and had just ordered my food. They’d sat me at a six place table and, since there were two seat tables available, I suspect they were just trying to emphasize my aloneness but, again, I may be projecting. Anyway, so there I was, trying to come up with names for my four new imaginary friends required to fill the empty seats, when a boisterous group of teenagers descended on the cafe. They were all wearing matching shirts – clearly they were some kind of tour group. As they filtered into the open tables several of them remained standing because they’d filled all the available seats. Seeing their predicament, I offered to vacate my table so the rest of them could sit down; I could just eat inside. They were appreciative and said that I needn’t go inside if I didn’t mind them just sharing the table. For the reasons I mentioned above, it occurred to me that it might be a pleasant diversion. And it was. They were from just outside London and were there for a few more days. Four of the youth and one of the chaperones joined me and it made the meal much more enjoyable. They were fresh and funny and, well, I would happily listen to someone read the phonebook if they did it with a British accent. =oP
I mentioned in the last post that being in a country like Finland, where the language is radically different, is more disconcerting. Little did I know when I wrote that that, every now and again, being able to decipher the language a bit is more disconcerting. Such was the case that night. I was at Notre Dame Cathedral at a bit past midnight taking some photos when I heard a couple of police cars stop pretty close by. I wasn’t so concerned, though, since the police had been pretty active all evening responding to rowdy teens and such. So I kept on shooting. Imagine my surprise when I finally wrapped up and headed for the metro stop only to discover that the police had stopped on the road that defines the back end of the square in front of the cathedral. But the police cars really weren’t so much what interested me as the large red very official looking truck. I’d had headphones in listening to music most of the time so I guess I’d missed that additional vehicles had shown up. It didn’t take a linguist to determine that the large words on the side of it said that they were a chemical and radioactive materials unit. Hmmm… So I was watching with mounting interest (and apprehension) when another truck pulled up. It was also large and red, but I couldn’t decipher the writing on it – which was no big deal since they were towing a most recognizable bomb containment vessel and the men who got out were dressed in rather bulky, cumbersome clothing. Now I was really curious about what was up. Not being dumb, however, I decided to be curious from a little further away. But I wasn’t so far away that, when the truck marked Central Laboratory (in French, of course) showed up I couldn’t decipher it. and along the way a few more police vehicles showed up. So they now had, in American terms, perhaps half a dozen police cars, HAZMAT, the bomb squad and CSI on the scene. None of them were moving in any particular hurry, which I found comforting in a way until I realized they were French. They tend to be like that all the time. And my money says that, had it been lunch time, they would have thrown up some yellow tape and gone to have lunch. Anyhow, coincidentally, at about the same time I really registered the mix of vehicles there and the potential implications, I also decided at that the Eiffel Tower – which is well over a mile away – really needed to be photographed. Right then. I was still curious, but I was beginning to think there was some truth in that old saw about curiosity killing, and not just cats.
I got to the tower a few minutes later and took a couple of cute pictures with Burple and Boop (Courtney’s and Justin’s stuffed animals). Just as I was finishing them a wind came up from nowhere. Within seconds it was strong enough to blow over trash cans and anything else not tied down. It was odd, but not the end of the world. A few moments later, however, it started to rain. The drops were approximately the size of cantaloupes, and there were lots of them, so I quickly stowed my bag and yanked out the bag’s rain tarp and the pocket umbrella I keep in there all the time. It keeps you head dry at least. Thank goodness I was wearing waterproof hiking boots. The wind was still strong enough that it took all my effort to keep the umbrella from flipping inside out. As the few hundred people still milling about bolted for cover and the metro, I gathered my gear and wandered that way. I hopped the train back to the area of my hotel since it was not exactly pleasant weather for a stroll.
I got off the train with several dozen people and headed for the street. As I headed out into the rain, umbrella in hand, I noticed a very young girl – perhaps 13 or 14 – standing just inside the cover of the metro. Everything about her, from her immaculate hair to her too formal (and rather expensive looking) clothes, down to her small heels suggested she’d been at some formal event. She was balefully staring out into the rain and it occurred to me that she was probably waiting for it to let up before going out into it. I’d watched the weather earlier that evening and knew that the rain was not likely to let up for hours. It had arrived earlier than predicted, but the radar images had shown a substantial squall line when I’d seen it. So, I trekked back in and asked her if she was OK and if she had far to go. Her English was bad, and my French non-existent, and she was understandably a bit apprehensive, so it was a bit of effort to determine that she was, indeed, waiting for the rain to let up. Evidently she had a reasonably long way to go. I offered her my umbrella, which she initially wouldn’t accept because she had no money to pay me for it. It was really sweet, actually. I couldn’t figure out how to convey that it was only worth a couple of Euro and I really didn’t need money for it. Finally I just sorta pushed it into her hand and stepped away, waving. She finally smiled and said thank you before heading out. Last I saw her she was heading down the street, presumably toward home. I’d love to know where she’d been and why a girl so young was out alone so late, but I guess I never will. I pulled my coat up over my head and walked the few blocks back to my hotel lamenting what an odd evening it had been.
You know, as much as I enjoyed the trip, I was very ready to get home when the time came. As I went through the Atlanta airport I saw the same slacker employees that are always there, but looked at them in a whole new light. Here I was among a crowd, more than half of whom were not from the US, and realized their first impression of the US was that of these “Out of the Hood Program” rejects (search “Bon Qui Qui on youtube if you didn’t get that) and I was suddenly embarrassed to be standing in the US passport line. There was the young woman in passport control who was pacing back and forth between the lines, looking bored enough to be French, repeating in a droning monotone that those with US passports should be in this line, all others in that line, making barely perceptible hand gestures to each as she did so. The problem was, she was on her third repetition before I, a native English speaker, could figure out what she was saying. Then we got to the customs baggage carousel where the young man, who was supposed to be arranging all the suitcases so they fit in the available space, stood in his cordoned off area at the end of the baggage chute texting back and forth with someone furiously. During his occasional wait for answers, he would sometimes grab a bag or two and turn them the right way. At one point there was a prolonged break in the flow of baggage so a couple of people inquired rather he might know what was going on. Unfortunately he couldn’t be bothered to even look at them, much less respond to them. This kid was getting paid to text evidently. Then there was the group of employees in the concourse on the way out, standing in a small group with various implements of their jobs still in hand, laughing loudly and telling stories that were littered with expletives. I just shook my head and moved on, trying my best to look like a foreigner.
I had a brief scare at the gate where the Tampa flight was boarding. Aside from the fact that they’d moved it from gate A2 (at the END of the concourse – around 1/4 mile) to gate A19 (right next to where I’d just gotten up from eating before walking to gate A2) without announcing it anywhere but in the gate area, they were right on schedule to begin boarding shortly. As I arrived at the gate I heard the gate agent tell someone just ahead of me that the flight was checked in full. I checked the standby list on the monitor and my name wasn’t on it. Great. And I wasn’t even on a Delta ticket. Having nothing to lose, I decided to ask anyway . The gate agent never actually answered me, but started typing furiously on her keyboard, and continued to do so for quite a while. I suspect she was IM’ing that French guy, but I have no way of proving it. A couple of minutes later, while waiting in the awkward silence as she typed I glanced up at the standby list and, there I was, first on the list. Again, without a word she handed me my boarding card. Exit Row! Yes! It was a middle seat, but beggars can’t be choosers.
As my seatmates and I settled in, the young guy in the aisle seat pleasantly struck up a conversation. To be honest, I wasn’t in the mood to talk – I know shocking, huh – after the 174 hours I’d spent in planes, trains and automobiles that day (just a guesstimate) but, not having it in me to be that guy, I started chatting with him. He was obviously military, and said he was on his way to Tampa from Galveston. As we took off he made some offhand comment about flying that made me think he was a pilot so I asked him if he was. He told me he was, and that he owned an RV8 experimental and had gone up for an hour or so just that morning. He asked if I was and we ended up talking about planes and swapping stupid pilot stories. He made reference to several aerobatic maneuvers he’d flown in his RV8, but then he offhandedly mentioned one that I was sure an RV8 couldn’t do. Hmmm. So, I asked him if he flew in the military as well – he looked like he could have walked straight out of central casting for the part. “Yeah,” he said, “I fly an F18.” !!!!!!! O – M – G, Becky!!! Did you HEAR that, Becky? <fans self and calms down> I think I just ovulated…
Anyhow, further discussion revealed that he not only flew an F18, but was one of the Navy’s demo pilots. You know, the guy who goes to various air shows to show what the plane can do – read “all the REALLY COOL stuff they don’t normally get to do” – in hopes of suckering hoards of young men into signing up, only to find themselves flying a desk or fixing latrines shipboard. It worked on me; they got me to sign the papers when I was 17. I never actually ended up going in, but that is a whole other long story, and I digress. So there I was, sitting next to my hero. It felt a little like I’d just discovered that the guy I’d been discussing Newton’s laws with for the last half hour turned out to be Einstein. Or like I’d been unknowingly discussing flying model rockets with Neil Armstrong. I don’t fly, this guy flies! He insists he has more fun flying his RV8, but I am approximately 109% certain he was just lying through his teeth to make me feel better. That would be like someone saying “Oh? The Diablo? Yeah it’s mine, but I’d rather drive that <gestures to a ‘72 Corolla with faded paint>. THAT is REAL driving…” Ummm, yah. I was a little embarrassed when, after that, he asked if I had any pictures on my laptop from my crash landing (“Sorry, dad, I wrecked the Corolla”). I did and I showed him, then I quickly changed the subject to photography, which he knew nothing about. Nah, I’m kidding, I shamelessly pumped him for cool F18 stories. I’m pretty sure he was waiting for me to ask for his autograph as we got off from the way I was acting. I didn’t, of course, since I couldn’t find my pen. I’d have done one of those arm’s length photos – a la myspace – of he and I, but I didn’t think of it in time. Rats. Oh well, I’m reasonably certain he wouldn’t have done the two finger salute, nor the puckered lips required to make those type photos really work. Can’t win ‘em all, I suppose.
So, anyhow, as I finish this post, I am back home in Atlanta. We had a great week in Florida for spring break where we went out on a pirate ship and fed giraffes (two separate events, btw. Giraffes on pirate ships would be WAY too 60’s), among other things. I’ll post up some pics of that later on. I’m off this Saturday for San Francisco to speak at the RSA conference. Yikes! I am still beyond nervous. That is THE biggest show in my industry, drawing around 20,000 attendees. Not that I have to get up in front of the whole group, mind you, only a subset of them, but I’m already well into stage fright. Speaking to a few hundred people doesn’t bother me at all, but when you tack on another zero, and a stage and lights are required, I begin to get a little (read a LOT) nervous. If I don’t throw up – on stage, I mean, the rest is up for grabs – I’ll consider it a success. Wish me luck!
/g
