Monsieur Charles de Gaulle, I Do Not Like Your Airport

One year ago, I was in France.

Isn’t it intriguing how a drop in temperature of a mere five degrees can elicit memory? The cooler weather, after the rain last night, tucks me into a cashmere shawl-a pashmina- my mother brought me from Prague.

I sit on the damp swing in the cool morning. The wood of the deck is carpeted with pinestraw and pinecones eaten down to the cob. I imagine squirrels sitting in trees–their teeth travel along the length of the cone, shear scales, before the typewriter dings and the head is returned to the next row. Perhaps I watched too many cartoons as a child.

But this is not funny: Last year I missed my flight from Paris to Trondheim. It cost me a new airplane ticket, two extra nights in a hotel, more expensive meals in France, and much wringing of my hands and my own neck.

I like to think of myself a s a savvy traveler, not a globetrotter, but one who can negotiate trains, planes, and foreign destinations. But at about this time last year, I was on a taxi headed to Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris, feeling very confident and proud. I had negotiated with the taxi driver to drive me–and my heavy suitcase and computer I was tired of lugging up and down metro steps–from the heart of Paris to the airport for the same price as a train fare. I was feeling very cocky.

Big mistake. Never feel cocky, for the saying is true: Pride goes before a fall. Somehow, even though the taxi driver checked in his book for the right terminal for Scandinavian Air, I still ended up in the wrong one. When I at long last found the Scandinavian counter, after winding my way around in the cricular design, I got in a long line.

When it was my turn to step forward, the woman smiled and said “You are in the wrong line. You need to be over there” and pointed me to the next counter. So..I got in line again with my little blue bag on rollers and patiently waited while the clock ticked away. I still had thirty or so minutes until my flight.

Imagine my crestfallen expression when I arrived at the counter and was told it was too late. They had closed off the checkin five minutes before.

At this point I knew my options were very slim. There was only one other flight that day and it was full. So was the single flight the next day, a Sunday. The helpful lady at the information desk looked online at other airlines and flights but none were available. I would have to wait for two days and then buy a new ticket at full price, money I just didn’t have.

Somehow, I made it to my destination: a fjord and monastery in Norway. I found a cheap hotel near the airport and rested and licked my wounds. I got a free breakfast and made it last throughout the day. I called the sisters and arranged for a new taxi at the train station. I purchased a second ticket by additional and sacrificial funds from home–after convincing the credit card company that no, the card was not stolen.

One thing I hope to remember if I am able to travel again. Take lots of money! No matter how frugal your spending and carefully you plan, something will always go wrong. It is not fun to travel on limited funds, period, and travel is just plain expensive, double period. Especially with the euro/dollar exchange rate last fall. A cup of coffee/cafe cost three dollars, a lot to pay even if it is au lait and tres bon.

Charles de Gaulle, the great military leader during WWII and former president of France in the 1960’s, spent time as a prisoner-of-war in Germany during WWI. He wrote his first book while there: L’Ennemi et le Vrai Ennemi ( The Enemy and the True Enemy). I haven’t read his book, and probably never will, but I know about the Enemy and the True Enemy. And I do not like his airport.

Sometimes the enemy is a complex system of terminals and confusing signs. Sometimes the enemy is limited rersources and long lines. But the true enemy is often me..us.

We are often our own worst enemy. We fuss and banter with ourselves, we doubt our judgement and douse our dreams. We plan too little or too much. We are slow. We are fast. We go back and forth in our convictions and wander through terminals unsure and looking for direction. We miss the damn airplane.

But the Good News is, there is always another.

The God of Grace is the God of Second Chances. The God who keeps pointing us in the right direction no matter how turned around we become. The God who always has enough funds no matter the exchange rate to see us home. The God who helps us forgive all our enemies–the hardest being ourself.

I will travel again. I know it.

And when I do, I will take an even smaller and lighter bag and a much larger and deeper pocketbook.

And I will fly direct to Germany, Belgium, Switzerland, Spain, Italy, the Netherlands..Prague–anywhere but the Charles de Gaulle Airport–and I will take a train to Paris.