Douglas, MA. -- Last Saturday (just last Saturday?!) we said au revoir to Drea, her apartment on rue Poliveau and trudged our bags downstairs to await our shuttle pickup. Drea had come by about 11 a.m. and the three of us went through the formalities of letting go of our home, a proposition that would turn out to be somewhat more melancholoy than we expected.
We had no sooner taken our bags outside than the driver from Blu-Van shuttle service walked up and asked if we were going to Charles de Gaulle and we said yes. He turned and disappeared around the corner and then a few moments later returned with the van, loaded our bags and off we went down the streets we had walked so often in the past eight months.
Traffic was light and less than 30 minutes later we were pulling up to Terminal 2B, home of British airways, our air carrier of choice. Sad to say but CDG is not our airport of choice -- confusing in it's layout, poorly designed and showing it's age (whatever it is), but the staff were helpful and we zipped through passport control, and dropped our bags off (after a flurry of agent confusion over where we were supposed to check-in) at a fast-drop desk (we had printed our boarding passes and checked in online the night before).
No gate was posted for our flight since we had arrived a bit early (OK a lot early) and in any case we soon discovered that at CDG you have to know your gate to go through security and once you've done so guess what? No bathrooms! Yes that's right folks, the same country that gave us the mind of Victor Hugo, the drama of the Eiffel Tower and the eyes of Edouard Manet, also gave us the idea that once a person passes through security all bodily functions cease until the aircraft has reached a comfortable cruising altitude.
To pass the time we found a cafe at one of the ends of the terminal where we had a baguette sandwich of "jambon/emmenthal", our last in Paris and indeed in France. It was accompanied by a perky little white wine from the previous Wednesday's vintage. Not the best meal to have in Paris -- but then again maybe it was exactly the right meal to have, one way of easing ourselves from the place we have called home to wherever home may be.
Eventually we boarded the aircraft, found our seats, buckled in, took off and it was time to land! The trip to London only took about 45 minutes -- although we circled the city twice before landing -- and soon we were on the ground at Terminal 4.
Miracle of miracles! Every time we have flown through Heathrow we have had to switch terminals (usually from 1 to 4 and of course back again) but not this time. We landed at T4 and took off from T4.
Of course we had to go through British security -- frankly not terribly secure we discovered aside from all the serious looks and harrumphing going on around us. A little knife as well as several small vials of liquids (Oh no! NOT LIQUIDS!!) in our carry on bags had actually gone through the scanner. Not to worry though. I'm sure eventually they will be strip searching everyone, you know, just in case. . .
We had time enough for one glass -- or rather half bottle actually -- of champagne before we headed off to the gate. (They stick the flights to the US out at the end of the Victor Zone which looks rather like the main terminal at Da Nang and was about as comfortable. But hey they had two large-screen TVs blaring gibberish so not all was lost!)
The flight left the gate on time but sat on the tarmac for an additional 45 minutes while the air traffic controller came back from the WC and we eventually became airborne, remaining that way for about 6 hours and 45 minutes.
The flight was uneventual, food not bad (I had ordered the vegetarian which was an Indian dish that was quite tasty with lime pickle in fact!) and Susan had the chicken curry. She swore it was good and frankly it looked it. The meals were accompanied by a white wine from Bordeaux, a light, dry, fruity, innocuous one with no hint of chalky lactation.
Susan watched Breaking and Entering and I tried rewatching Casino Royale but switched to surfing the channels. Later in the flight I did settle down with the very funny Stranger than Fiction.
At one point Susan got my attention and pointed out that the flight data software, which one accesses on channel 1 of the in-flight entertainment system, a software package that hasn't been updated for more than a decade (same static, boring graphics) had us arriving at 9:10 p.m. local Boston time -- even though our original ETA was 9:35 and we were already running at least 45 minutes late! Hmmmm. If this stuff isn't giving us cattle in the back the right data what about the people driving this bus?
Not to worry of course because they got us to Boston just fine, found the airport OK even though it was dark, landed the place smoothly. And about a half hour late.
The good news was we disembarked quickly and moved through the maze of hallways quickly until we reached the place where the doors of the United States remain shut tight until everyone is screened for terrorist leanings, funny headgaear, acne, whatever. We ended up waiting in the US resident line for nearly an hour to go through passport control. As we inched forward we couldn't help but notice the "other" line for non-residents of the US. Everyone was being photographed and finger-printed like a common criminal -- the assumption being of course that we are all criminals until we can prove otherwise.
I know there are many folks in the US that feel OK about such procedures because it makes them feel safe and secure:
"Here Mr. Customs Man with the gun take my 16-year-old daughter and strip search her if you need to. I just want to feel secure."
But where do we draw the line we wonder?
Yet not one terrorist has been caught through such draconian methods. No sirreee, in fact what catches terrorists is really good intelligence: three words that are oxymoronic in the present administration.
Well we got through unscathed and picked up our bags, found our way to the exit (we actually knew where it was) and there was Dick, Susan's brother, waiting patiently for us to arrive.
The seven us left the terminal (Susan, Dick, me and four bags) and a few moments later we were whizzing around downtown Boston, heading for the peace and quiet of Douglas, Massachusetts.
The next leg begins.
We had no sooner taken our bags outside than the driver from Blu-Van shuttle service walked up and asked if we were going to Charles de Gaulle and we said yes. He turned and disappeared around the corner and then a few moments later returned with the van, loaded our bags and off we went down the streets we had walked so often in the past eight months.
Traffic was light and less than 30 minutes later we were pulling up to Terminal 2B, home of British airways, our air carrier of choice. Sad to say but CDG is not our airport of choice -- confusing in it's layout, poorly designed and showing it's age (whatever it is), but the staff were helpful and we zipped through passport control, and dropped our bags off (after a flurry of agent confusion over where we were supposed to check-in) at a fast-drop desk (we had printed our boarding passes and checked in online the night before).
No gate was posted for our flight since we had arrived a bit early (OK a lot early) and in any case we soon discovered that at CDG you have to know your gate to go through security and once you've done so guess what? No bathrooms! Yes that's right folks, the same country that gave us the mind of Victor Hugo, the drama of the Eiffel Tower and the eyes of Edouard Manet, also gave us the idea that once a person passes through security all bodily functions cease until the aircraft has reached a comfortable cruising altitude.
To pass the time we found a cafe at one of the ends of the terminal where we had a baguette sandwich of "jambon/emmenthal", our last in Paris and indeed in France. It was accompanied by a perky little white wine from the previous Wednesday's vintage. Not the best meal to have in Paris -- but then again maybe it was exactly the right meal to have, one way of easing ourselves from the place we have called home to wherever home may be.
Eventually we boarded the aircraft, found our seats, buckled in, took off and it was time to land! The trip to London only took about 45 minutes -- although we circled the city twice before landing -- and soon we were on the ground at Terminal 4.
Miracle of miracles! Every time we have flown through Heathrow we have had to switch terminals (usually from 1 to 4 and of course back again) but not this time. We landed at T4 and took off from T4.
Of course we had to go through British security -- frankly not terribly secure we discovered aside from all the serious looks and harrumphing going on around us. A little knife as well as several small vials of liquids (Oh no! NOT LIQUIDS!!) in our carry on bags had actually gone through the scanner. Not to worry though. I'm sure eventually they will be strip searching everyone, you know, just in case. . .
We had time enough for one glass -- or rather half bottle actually -- of champagne before we headed off to the gate. (They stick the flights to the US out at the end of the Victor Zone which looks rather like the main terminal at Da Nang and was about as comfortable. But hey they had two large-screen TVs blaring gibberish so not all was lost!)
The flight left the gate on time but sat on the tarmac for an additional 45 minutes while the air traffic controller came back from the WC and we eventually became airborne, remaining that way for about 6 hours and 45 minutes.
The flight was uneventual, food not bad (I had ordered the vegetarian which was an Indian dish that was quite tasty with lime pickle in fact!) and Susan had the chicken curry. She swore it was good and frankly it looked it. The meals were accompanied by a white wine from Bordeaux, a light, dry, fruity, innocuous one with no hint of chalky lactation.
Susan watched Breaking and Entering and I tried rewatching Casino Royale but switched to surfing the channels. Later in the flight I did settle down with the very funny Stranger than Fiction.
At one point Susan got my attention and pointed out that the flight data software, which one accesses on channel 1 of the in-flight entertainment system, a software package that hasn't been updated for more than a decade (same static, boring graphics) had us arriving at 9:10 p.m. local Boston time -- even though our original ETA was 9:35 and we were already running at least 45 minutes late! Hmmmm. If this stuff isn't giving us cattle in the back the right data what about the people driving this bus?
Not to worry of course because they got us to Boston just fine, found the airport OK even though it was dark, landed the place smoothly. And about a half hour late.
The good news was we disembarked quickly and moved through the maze of hallways quickly until we reached the place where the doors of the United States remain shut tight until everyone is screened for terrorist leanings, funny headgaear, acne, whatever. We ended up waiting in the US resident line for nearly an hour to go through passport control. As we inched forward we couldn't help but notice the "other" line for non-residents of the US. Everyone was being photographed and finger-printed like a common criminal -- the assumption being of course that we are all criminals until we can prove otherwise.
I know there are many folks in the US that feel OK about such procedures because it makes them feel safe and secure:
"Here Mr. Customs Man with the gun take my 16-year-old daughter and strip search her if you need to. I just want to feel secure."
But where do we draw the line we wonder?
Yet not one terrorist has been caught through such draconian methods. No sirreee, in fact what catches terrorists is really good intelligence: three words that are oxymoronic in the present administration.
Well we got through unscathed and picked up our bags, found our way to the exit (we actually knew where it was) and there was Dick, Susan's brother, waiting patiently for us to arrive.
The seven us left the terminal (Susan, Dick, me and four bags) and a few moments later we were whizzing around downtown Boston, heading for the peace and quiet of Douglas, Massachusetts.
The next leg begins.
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