Julian in Frankreich: JFK-CDG
The blog is now in English. But don’t worry, this is just temporary. The reason: I am in Europe – and right now at the Paris airport, typing these letters.
Yesterday: I left work earlier, went home, picked up my suitcase and bags and took the subway to the airport. This all sounds easier than it really was because right now there is so much construction going on in Queens that – of course – there were problems with the 7 train. Without any announcement the train skipped the stop where I had to change for the E train, so I had to change at Broadway Junction and take the train back to Jackson Heights. All this is not really interesting if you don’t live in NYC and can follow my path, and even if you are in NYC, this might not be that interesting to read. So, let’s spare you all the details.
On the airtrain to JFK I met Mike, a hustler whose “home” is the airtrain. Basically he starts small talk, then mentions that he has no where to go and that’s why he is just hanging out at the airport. And he likes coffee very much, and since you (meaning I) now leave, I probably do not need my spare dollars. Sorry, bro, you asked the wrong homie.
My flight left more or less on time, the food was good, the movies mediocre – I started with “Little Miss Sunshine” but was then bored and decided to try to nap, which did not work out and so I watched “The Queen” for a bit which, surprisingly, entertained me – and all in all I was happy with Air France.
We landed more or less on time and I was positive about being soon on the connection plane to Dusseldorf. One hour time between flights is tight, but doable. But then we were waiting, and waiting, and … you can imagine the rest. For some reason, the doors could not open. We were standing for 45 minutes. Once we finally were able to leave the plane, I was still optimistic. Some airport personal was waiting for us with signs “Dublin,” “Geneva,” “Madrid,” and yes, there it was “Dusseldorf.” OK, no one spoke any English and there was some confusion and screaming (as if this every helps), but as we were told, a shuttle brings us directly to the gate and we will make the flight. Or at least this was the plan.
The bus driver got lost with her shuttle bus (no, I won’t write anything about women-drivers) while speaking on the phone with a friend about a certain birthday party – convinced that all these tourist don’t understand a word of what she was saying – and when we arrived at the terminal, she just left us without any instructions where to go.
But I know Paris airport, known as CDG – the French equivalent to JFK – and I can make it. I know I can. I ran, zigzag, upstairs, downstairs, I am as quick as the Flash and Superman combined, gate F21, I can make it, another passport control, another security check, I run, run, Julian, run, and there I see the gate, the people just enter the bus, the door is still open, it just took me 7 minutes, this must be an absolute record, but wait, what is this, the door closes, I knock, and they see me, I am sure they will open the door again, why shouldn’t they, the woman comes to the window and says “no, monsieur, you are too late.” The end of my illusion. (OK, I admit, as a German I am very in favor of being on time and not to support people who are late, but this is France and sometimes you have to be flexible and take the circumstances into consideration.)
It takes me 20 minutes until I find someone who can speak English and can help me re-booking my flight. A few hours wait in Paris, and as compensation a two-course meal including drink and a phone card. Not too bad.
I go to the restaurant – a copy of a famous art noveau place in the Marais quarter – and am surprised about the options: Steak tatar (raw meat with a raw egg), mussels or ham sausages. Those who know me well, will know what I ordered. Yes, I was positively surprised, but I guess for the average non-European traveler who just missed his/her flight, such a menu must be the continuation of a nightmare.
The waiter was very confused that I really wanted the steak tatar. Yes, I know what this is. And since the service is slow, the waiting time is not too bad. My friend Peti asked me to bring him a laptop from New York – apparently it is cheaper than in Budapest – and so I have now a computer to type, and this is what I am doing. My steak tatar is coming.
Julian in Europe, to be continued…
Yesterday: I left work earlier, went home, picked up my suitcase and bags and took the subway to the airport. This all sounds easier than it really was because right now there is so much construction going on in Queens that – of course – there were problems with the 7 train. Without any announcement the train skipped the stop where I had to change for the E train, so I had to change at Broadway Junction and take the train back to Jackson Heights. All this is not really interesting if you don’t live in NYC and can follow my path, and even if you are in NYC, this might not be that interesting to read. So, let’s spare you all the details.
On the airtrain to JFK I met Mike, a hustler whose “home” is the airtrain. Basically he starts small talk, then mentions that he has no where to go and that’s why he is just hanging out at the airport. And he likes coffee very much, and since you (meaning I) now leave, I probably do not need my spare dollars. Sorry, bro, you asked the wrong homie.
My flight left more or less on time, the food was good, the movies mediocre – I started with “Little Miss Sunshine” but was then bored and decided to try to nap, which did not work out and so I watched “The Queen” for a bit which, surprisingly, entertained me – and all in all I was happy with Air France.
We landed more or less on time and I was positive about being soon on the connection plane to Dusseldorf. One hour time between flights is tight, but doable. But then we were waiting, and waiting, and … you can imagine the rest. For some reason, the doors could not open. We were standing for 45 minutes. Once we finally were able to leave the plane, I was still optimistic. Some airport personal was waiting for us with signs “Dublin,” “Geneva,” “Madrid,” and yes, there it was “Dusseldorf.” OK, no one spoke any English and there was some confusion and screaming (as if this every helps), but as we were told, a shuttle brings us directly to the gate and we will make the flight. Or at least this was the plan.
The bus driver got lost with her shuttle bus (no, I won’t write anything about women-drivers) while speaking on the phone with a friend about a certain birthday party – convinced that all these tourist don’t understand a word of what she was saying – and when we arrived at the terminal, she just left us without any instructions where to go.
But I know Paris airport, known as CDG – the French equivalent to JFK – and I can make it. I know I can. I ran, zigzag, upstairs, downstairs, I am as quick as the Flash and Superman combined, gate F21, I can make it, another passport control, another security check, I run, run, Julian, run, and there I see the gate, the people just enter the bus, the door is still open, it just took me 7 minutes, this must be an absolute record, but wait, what is this, the door closes, I knock, and they see me, I am sure they will open the door again, why shouldn’t they, the woman comes to the window and says “no, monsieur, you are too late.” The end of my illusion. (OK, I admit, as a German I am very in favor of being on time and not to support people who are late, but this is France and sometimes you have to be flexible and take the circumstances into consideration.)
It takes me 20 minutes until I find someone who can speak English and can help me re-booking my flight. A few hours wait in Paris, and as compensation a two-course meal including drink and a phone card. Not too bad.
I go to the restaurant – a copy of a famous art noveau place in the Marais quarter – and am surprised about the options: Steak tatar (raw meat with a raw egg), mussels or ham sausages. Those who know me well, will know what I ordered. Yes, I was positively surprised, but I guess for the average non-European traveler who just missed his/her flight, such a menu must be the continuation of a nightmare.
The waiter was very confused that I really wanted the steak tatar. Yes, I know what this is. And since the service is slow, the waiting time is not too bad. My friend Peti asked me to bring him a laptop from New York – apparently it is cheaper than in Budapest – and so I have now a computer to type, and this is what I am doing. My steak tatar is coming.
Julian in Europe, to be continued…
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