Our plan for the morning was ill-conceived from the start: “We’ve got PLENTY of time… another croissant, a second cup of coffee, sure, why not… let’s try and wade through the French newspapers – that’s always a speedy chore.”
Finally off to l’Aeroport Paris-Roissy Charles De Gaulle. Wow… this place is big. There’s like, three separate airports here. Which one do we go to? Well, since we spent last night logged in at the hotel confirming our flights, locating the proper terminal and planning out where one finds a gas station and how one returns a rental car, we’ve got it all figured out. Wait, we drank a bottle of wine and went to sleep? Wow, we’re in trouble.
After at least two laps around the entire CDG complex with nary a filling station in sight, we finally pulled the family truckster into a *tiny* parking area outside what appeared to be the departures desk. Now the challenge – getting everything into the hands of the airline employees. I quickly commandeered a luggage cart but while hurrying back to the van was stopped by a man in a blue warm-up jacket, who seemed to be telling me that the cart belonged to him but that he would gladly carry my bags for me for a mere 5 euro. I chuckled and thought, “this guy’s going to get a good tip if he gets this all in.” Upon seeing our beast of overburden, he called for backup. Once we were properly inserted in the “passengers needing special assistance line, “ Blue Coat turned to me and demanded 90 Euro. 5 euro per bag. Wow, woops. I’m going to have to hit you back after I find an ATM. Right now, I need to go return the car or I’m going to miss this flight.
I managed to find the correct garage and I could see the signs indicating the spots in which one is to park one’s rental car. I could see them. Right there… right, past, the, barricades. No matter which aisle I drove down, there were the empty spots, beckoning me on the other side of very solid looking barriers. After managing to dash the wrong way through an open gate before it swung closed, I parked the car, left a massive wad of wind-shredded blue tarp, duct tape, and twine in back of van and sprinted to the rental return counter back in the terminal whereupon I encountered a wholly disinterested desk attendant engaged with a wholly exercised British man who was quite upset about something.
Meanwhile, I’d left Amy in conversation with the ticket agent to negotiate the 10 pieces of luggage, 8 carry-ons, 2 car seats and a stroller, the cost of the overweight pieces and the extra pieces. Good thing the kids were perfectly well behaved. Yeah, right. They’re like dogs – they sense fear. In the end it was a big smile, an “I was told this” with proof in writing, a huge MERCI BEAUCOUP, a manager that took pity on them and who crossed off one exorbitantly high priced bag and said “I’m only going to charge you this (re-writing) put the rest to the kids college accounts.” Clearly, things were going better for her than for me.
The Brit having finally resolved himself to accept that the French counterman was genetically incapable of enlightenment regarding whatever it was that had him so exercised, I stepped forward, announced my intention to return the van, provided the general location within the garage in which I had left it, and was promptly handed a printed receipt and sent on my way. I stood dumbfounded for a nanosecond before dashing away to rescue my family.
I returned to see Amy with strollered cherubs, carry-on items, and an official-looking CDG employee (the aforementioned charitable manager) standing just outside the corridor to the departure gates… none of them looking particularly patient or calm. “We’re all set,” Amy told me, “let’s go!” Apparently, we were to be rushed to the gate, our luggage already theoretically en route to the belly of the plane. I stepped in line, thanked the manager for what I could only assume was some massive bending of standard operating procedure, slung two carry-ons over my shoulder and plowed ahead. As we were about to pass through an initial security check to access the gate areas, my old friend the Blue Coat came up to me, again demanding his 90 euros. I turned to Amy and promptly threw her to the wolves with a “you haven’t paid them!?” I turned back to Blue Coat pulled out all the money I had in my pocket, handed it to him and, looking him directly in the eye, said, “it’s all I have. I’m sorry. Thank you” and I put out my hand. Something clicked in him… be it the look in my eye, the circus of an entourage that I was leading, or the memory of some hopeless situation he may have found himself in with his own family because he shook my hand, and said, “okay. Bon voyage.” And with that last example of the French proving their miserable stereotype backwards, we were off, up the escalator and to the gate. It would all be smooth sailing from here, for sure.
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