Moria Security

We had escaped unscathed through Customs, or so we thought.

We followed the path that left Customs. It led us between a wall or barrier, and a huge luggage claim area. At the end of the path was Gandalf. He had cleverly concealed his true identity with an official uniform of some sort. He sat at a lofty desk as if it were some regal tribunal. 

Before the incognito Gandalf stood an older couple. They both seemed quite tall, or maybe we just seemed small. He asked them if they had any luggage. They said that they did, but that it was not with them. He said, "You shall not pass!" Or words to that effect. 

The tall ones responded that their luggage was being transferred to the domestic flight, and they did not need to get their luggage.

He said, "Without your luggage, you shall not fly, you fools!"

They said the airline had told them that they would not have to pick up their luggage from the international flight; it would be transferred automatically.

He said, "You shall not pass!"

After watching this little scenario play out about three times in succession, with Gandalf refusing to let them pass, and the oversize travelers insisting that they did not need to retrieve their luggage, all the while watching time tick away, knowing that our flight was supposed to board soon, but not knowing how far we would have to go to find it, I asked if we could pass. He asked if we had any luggage. I said that we didn't. He let us pass.

As far as I know, the lofty voyagers are still there today insisting that they do not need to get their luggage, while Gandalf refuses to let them pass without it. 

From there, we passed through the cavernous wasteland that is the San Francisco Airport. It seemed like many nights and days that we traveled in our search for the portal that would take us from this strange land. Eventually, after much trial and hardship, our faces suffering from the fierce breeze of the air conditioning, and our legs and feet numbed by the endless yards of smooth and level tile broken only by great moving sidewalks, we arrived. 

We had to go through security again. This caught us by surprise. We still had full water bottles that we had filled at the Paris airport. This discovery drew groans from the people in line behind us. Everyone knows that you can't take liquids on the plane--except you can if you fill them after you get through security. My wife had purchased these water bottles specifically for the trip so that we could do just that: take them empty through security and then fill them so we would have water on the flight. I took the time to empty my bottle into the garbage can at the suggestion of the security guard (drawing more groans from the people in line behind us). My wife just tossed her bottle into the trash. Of course, she regretted it. Probably, she mostly regretted me telling her that she should've done that...

We made our gate just in time...just in time to find out that our flight would be delayed for a couple hours. Every flight that we had had into or out of SFO had been delayed; it was a perfect record.

Next time: The Last Jet I...

Return - and my wife finds a husband

Our flight was scheduled to leave at 9:00 a.m. We planned to be at the airport by 7:00 a.m.

I received a notification before the chickens (or us either for that matter) were up, that the flight from Paris to San Francisco would be delayed... A little later, another notification...and then another...and then another...Anyway, the flight wasn't leaving until sometime in the afternoon. So, we no longer had to hurry. Instead we got to the airport, where we learned the flight wouldn't leave until even later. We spent 5 hours at the airport waiting for the flight.

I think my wife took this picture at the airport.

When the time to board our flight finally did arrive, my wife and I were pulled from the line and grilled about our backgrounds, jobs, purpose of our trip, etc. I thought there were several other individuals who appeared more deserving of a hasty interrogation...but we were the lucky ones. 

I don't know if our answers mattered, or if the procedure was just to ask the questions and, absent some confession of planned wrongdoing, to let us go on our way. So we never got to be strip searched, or grilled beneath a bright light in a room that smelled of coffee, stale cigarette smoke and fear by a guy with a moustache and an eye-patch, reeking of Brute cologne. (Which makes me wonder, if he were really tough, would his moustache have its own eye-patch, or would his eye-patch have its own moustache? No his cologne would be so strong that it had its own moustache and eye-patch!)

We break now for something completely different:

Just a moment ago, my wife sang our excitedly, "I found a husband!"
For a brief instance I was nonplussed (and I wasn't doing any other exercises in arithmetic either), before I asked hopefully, "Can he support us both?"
She explained that the discovery wasn't for herself; she was doing some family history research, and had found the elusive information on a husband to one of her ancestors. 
No gravy train there. Oh well. Maybe next time.

Back to the regularly scheduled tedious travelogue:

The flight was exactly that for which one hopes when flying over an ocean, or over anything else for that matter: uneventful. Thinking about that, I was about to write that it was both long and monotonous, which recalled to mind Verlaine's Chanson d'automne, which seems fitting (but not because we were hitting the beaches of Normandy):

Les sanglots longs
Des violons
De l'automne
Blessent mon coeur
D'une langueur
Monotone.

Tout suffocant
Et blême, quand
Sonne l'heure,
Je me souviens
Des jours anciens
Et je pleure

Et je m'en vais
Au vent mauvais
Qui m'emporte
Deçà, delà,
Pareil à la
Feuille morte.

Our arrival at SF was more eventful. First we had to do the customs thing. We rushed. I especially rushed to get in front of two ladies dragging suitcases. I just knew that they were going to delay us; it was just a feeling I had. We had another flight to catch that was leaving in less than an hour. I really didn't want to miss it. 

We had to deal with a machine that demanded to scan our passports, which had to be held just so; and it also had to scan our faces; one had to stand just so. The first time I did it, I got the scanning of the passports and faces switched (mine for my wife's), and had to do it over. It went much more smoothly the second time. We did that, and answered a few questions about the purpose of our trip and what we had brought back. It seems like they asked something like, "During your stay abroad, did you abscond with any children or historical artifacts? If so, does the value exceed $200.00?" 

Then we got to wait in line again to see an actual human who would review the answers given to the machine. Can you guess who was immediately in front of us in the line? The two ladies with the big suitcases. They were very nice. I joked that I had seen them earlier and had made a special effort to get ahead of them; apparently they were much faster on the machine, not having had to scan everything twice. They were very nice. When they learned that we were trying to catch a connecting flight set to depart soon, they insisted that we go ahead of them in the line. 

After we got through customs, we met Gandalf. 


Next time: Gandalf at the bridge, and more airport fun

The Bowels of Charles DeGaulle

The title refers, of course, to the airport, not to the guy after whom the airport is named.

We were headed to terminal one. And that sentence reminds me of these lines from ELO's "Here Is The News": 
"Ten Eurotechnicians were today sentenced
By the justice computer to be banished for life
To the prison satellite Penal One..."

(The "one" is repeated two more times, as can be heard here.)

Like two hobbits returning a cursed ring, we entered the dark recesses of the terminal--but without the elven cloaks and glowing sword. I saw a sign that said something about the red zone rental car return, and the green zone car return. Naturally, I had no idea which zone I needed to chose. Why was this decision suddenly being thrust upon me? Who were they to insist that I chose a zone? Could I chose to be zone neutral, or elect to be fluid in zone? Apparently not. Sometimes choices are binary. 

I made a command decision. I can't remember now which zone I chose; I can't remember what factors I used to reach the decision. Like many of life's decisions, it was based upon incomplete information, a quick assessment of facts and the inferences to be reasonably drawn therefrom, previous life experience, common sense, and that nebulous je ne sais quoi sometimes called intuition, or gut instinct. Like many of those other decisions in life, I wouldn't know immediately if my decision had been correct.

I backed the car into a tight parking spot. I congratulated myself on an excellent parking job, and got out to go find the desk. Before I got more than a few steps, a man told me that I couldn't park there. That was the parking area for X brand rental cars. The Europcar return area was deeper within the terminal. Back in the car. 

I had chosen the correct zone, I had just parked in the wrong area. We found the Europcar area and parked. There was a young woman dealing with four older Americans (who apparently spoke no French) and their car load of stuff. We waited until she finished with them. Then I approached her, asking in French if she was the person to whom we needed to speak about the return of the car. She said that she was, and directed me to move the car (again) to her location. I did. She inspected the car and pronounced it free of damage...even ignoring the pre-existing damage marked on the rental agreement from the Europcar Compiegne branch. It was quick and painless, except for that whole trying to find the right zone and parking place. 

We took the shuttle (the same one or two car train we had taken from the airport to the train station when we had arrived) from the terminal to our hotel. We didn't know it at the time, but we were headed for the worst meal of our entire stay.

Next time: Hamburger surprise

Early to be late

If you're not early, you're late...

That's why we arrived at the airport at 10:00 a.m. The flight was scheduled to depart at noon. Things began most auspiciously when we got to go through the TSA pre-check security line, instead of the general strip-and-cough-for-the-x-ray-machine line. It was quick and almost painless.

When we located our departure gate, I recognized the petite woman at the counter from my previous flight with this airline some nine months earlier. That flight had been delayed; I had spent a great deal of time in lines and on the telephone trying to re-book alternate flights for the missed connection in Chicago. That time, my flight had not actually been delayed; the flight to San Francisco had been delayed, and the airline then cancelled my flight and used my plane to fly those people to SF. Ironically, when I was done with re-booking, my new flight plan took me via SF...several hours later. On this flight, we were already scheduled go via SF.

Not only was Rachel petite, she wore her dark hair in a short bob (I realize a bob cut is short. I'm not being redundant; her hair was cut in a short bob, as opposed to a long bob or a medium bob--which reminds me of my cousin Bob; he's rather a medium Bob; although his hair isn't long enough even for a bob; although it is long enough for him, and he is a Bob). But back to Rachel; she looked like a French girl to me. About an hour from the scheduled time of departure, Rachel made an announcement over the loudspeaker about the flight. At the end of the information, she coyly slipped in that our "wheels up" time would be 1:54. We were all momentarily stunned. We were like the pre-teen boy blissfully playing on the playground equipment whose friend points out to him that his arm is bleeding; he has no idea what caused the wound, and has felt no pain until the blood is brought to his attention. As with the child, after the stun, the crying began. Our departure would be nearly 2 hours late. Rachel never did mention the word "delay"...until people asked for clarification. Then she admitted that our flight would be 2 hours late because of some repairs to the runway in SF. Apparently with the runway restrictions in SF, we could not be cleared for departure until SF gave the okay because of the critical importance of being able to land once we arrived at SF. So much for the auspicious beginning.

Naturally, I began to think about the connection problem. A two-hour flight to SF would have us landing at exactly the same time that our connecting flight to Paris would be taking off. I decided, as had several others, that I needed to talk to Rachel about this. (For clarification, the several others didn't decide that I needed to talk to Rachel; they had decided that they needed to talk to Rachel). The guy in the line ahead of me told Rachel that he was on flight number X to Paris from SF and could she please solve for Y. No. Actually, he gave the flight number and asked about the likelihood of still being able to make the connection. I overheard him, and quickly interjected myself into the conversation, stating that I was also on flight X to Paris. Rachel told us that they would probably hold the plane to Paris for us as there were other passengers from other delayed aircraft making connections with that flight. The word "probably" bothered me. It bothered me a great deal. It's one step up from "maybe" toward "yes," but it's still uncertain. Imagine a Venn diagram of two overlapping circles with "yes" on one side and "no" on the other, would the overlap be "maybe" or "probably"? Is it both "yes" and "no"? Is it both "yes" and "no" until someone opens the box to see if the cat is alive? Maybe.

Rachel explained that we could re-book the connection from SF. There were no other direct flights to Paris from SF, but flights via Frankfurt, or Munich, or London, or some other place could be used. However, all of those options except the one to Frankfurt would result in the loss of another day traveling. She told us to wait until we had more information about the SF flight before re-booking. So we waited...until someone finally opened the box...the cat was dead. New departure time: 2:55. They weren't going to hold our flight to Paris for an hour for just the four of us. We re-booked via Frankfurt.

On the bright side, we did get to meet Jim and Nancy, the other couple flying to Paris. Thanks to Jim's dogged determination (read harassment), Rachel booked us all with seats together on the overseas flight, and gave us seats nearer to the front on the flight to SF; our original seats had been in the very back of the plane in the "expendable" section.

Next time: Our adventure at the SF airport, and the reveal on whether we had flowers in our hair.