Paris to Basel: A Mad Dash and the Flug (Flight) that Almost Wasn’t

So there we were, Bianca and I. Neither of us had slept that night for whatever reason, much to our chagrin. We awoke at 5:00 am as planned, but little did we know we should have woken up at 4:00 am! We packed our final few belongings and piled on layers for our the walk to the train station, forgot to take our key out of the light box (instead of a light switch, you put your key card in a box on the wall that turns on the light), squeezed into the tiny elevator for the last time, checked out, paid, told the front desk we’d forgotten our card in the light box (they were good-natured about it!), and set out for the train station!

We left around 5:40, giving us a solid three hours to make our 8:40 am flight, even allowing time to take a couple of wrong turns along the way. It took us an hour to get to the hotel from the airport; it should take only an hour to return. Or one would be inclined to believe…

We found our way to the train station with minimal difficulty, but when we arrived and tried to buy our ticket, we discovered the machine was out of order. The sign posted on the screen said to go across the bridge and buy a ticket from the metro station. OK, merely a hiccup in the plan. We still had plenty of time. So across the bridge we walked, found the ticket counter, and were repeatedly belittled by the attendant. Even with Bianca speaking French, she kept giving us information that didn’t help us. Eventually, she directed us to a kiosk and told us to get the ticket ourselves, although we were still a bit confused about which kind of ticket to buy and whether the ticket we got would be valid across the street at the train station, or if we needed to start from the metro and somehow get to the train station from there.

Anyway, we got the ticket we thought we needed (although I’ve never had anyone check my ticket for local trains or trams in Poland, France, Slovakia, Czech Republic, Turkey, or Switzerland, so how they enforce tickets is beyond me!), and we walked back over the bridge to the train station again. No big deal. We walked down the only stairs we saw (or I saw, at least), and I put my ticket in and went through. Then Bianca pointed out we needed to make sure we were on the right side first… there’s no way to get from one side of the tracks to the other once you’re in. Oh well. We figured out (by asking someone) we needed to be on the opposite platform, of course, so I went out, we walked up and around the outside, I crawled under (again, how do they enforce anything? Perhaps Americans are simply not willing to trust our own folks…), and we waited 10 minutes for the next train because we’d missed the first one by about 30 seconds. =)

So, on the train we go! We knew we needed to switch at St. Michel/Notre-Dame station, but when we got there, it was unbelievably unclear which train to take! We asked a couple of people, and they told us a couple of different things, neither of which was right. There was a big board showing all the train stations, and in anticipation of the next train, the stations where it would be stopping had a light come on next to the name of the station. None of the trains appeared to be going to the airport! As it was, we decided to push our luck and take the advice of someone who seemed to know what they were talking about and go to another station (one that’s busier, where we thought we’d have more luck getting clearer direction). At that station, we encountered people with red jackets and nametags, seeming to be train station employees. Surely they would know!

The guy we talked to said we’d need to take a train to a station several stops away and take a shuttle to the airport from there. Seemed easy enough. By now we’d used up nearly two hours of our time, and we were getting nervous! So we got on the designated train, fretted about the fact we had NO idea how long the train or the shuttle would take, and got off at the end of the line with everyone else—apparently the other travelers were in the same boat as us and just as uncertain of where to go or what to do! Thank heavens for my iPhone. I was able to get to my check-in e-mail with the flight info in it—boarding time, flight number, terminal, etc. We squeezed into the shuttle with what seemed like 200 of our closest friends and all their luggage. The shuttle took about 20 minutes or so, and the driver was so very slow! An Air France stewardess allowed us to strike up a conversation with her. She was also late for her flight, and we asked her if she could tell us the fastest way to get to terminal 2G. When we told her what flight we were on and what time it would leave, she got this stricken look on her face and said, “Oh. I think you miss your flight.”

Great.

She also said we needed to take a bus, then a train, then a shuttle to the terminal. WHAT?! We were at the airport already, waiting to get off the shuttle, and we needed to take how many more modes of transportation? I thought Europe was supposed to be efficient! Apparently not at the Paris Charles De Gaulle airport!

When the bus driver FINALLY opened the doors to let us off the shuttle (at 8:20), Bianca and I sprinted into the building and tried as we might to find the next step in our sojourn. This is where things begin to run together for me! Bianca’s small rolling suitcase was quite the hindrance to her, and at one point we were both holding it and running together, but that didn’t last long. We decided if I could run ahead and hold things up for her, that would be best. So I ran ahead. I think we asked someone where to go, and the pointed us toward the shuttle to Terminal 2G, and somewhere in there we asked the lady at the information desk if she could call our gate and tell them we were there and enroute to the plane. Of course she said that was “not possible,” which is what I expected, but it still got on our nerves! We ran to the shuttle, Bianca told him we were about to miss our flight, but he didn’t seem to notice we’d said anything, much less hurry to the terminal.

Confession: Were the situation reversed, I would absolutely be thinking, “Too bad, you should have been early like everyone else, then you wouldn’t be in this situation. Your emergency is not my problem.” I will be more sympathetic in the future, starting now.

So, we finally got to Terminal 2G. We made it! Now we needed to check in and go through security. The attendant helping people check in was the kindest person we’d encountered all day! We tried to use the barcode in the e-mail on my iPhone to check in, but it kept on not working, so she let us through! At the security check, they let us go through the priority checkpoint, again, letting us go through even though the barcode wasn’t scanning properly. (The lady was obviously not happy about it, but thankfully she gave into peer pressure from the others who took pity on us poor, frenzied girls!) I got through the metal detector fine, but needed to be reminded to take off my scarf and coat (you don’t have to take off your shoes for all flights in Europe). Bianca set off the alarm with her shoes, so she had to come back through and put those on the conveyor belt. My bag had to be screened and searched because I forgot to take out my liquids (which you don’t always have to do, but apparently that’s a sticking point for European airports!), so that slowed us down a bit.

When Bianca and I FINALLY recombobulated ourselves, we once again sprinted in the direction people were pointing. We found out from a nice person who works for Air France that we needed to go to gate 21. So off we went! Bianca hollered for me to go ahead and hold the plane. I hollered back that I’d do my best! Running, running, running. Turn the corner into another hallway. Running, running, running. Running on the moving walkway. “Pardon!” I exclaimed in my best French accent. Running, running, running. Running on another moving walkway. Running, running, running. Too many people; running beside the moving walkway. Turn the corner. Down another hallway? Running, running, running. Another hallway! Running, running, sweating, running. I saw people coming up a hallway that I was running down, and I thought surely they were coming directly from this fabled gate that was supposed to be coming any moment now. But as I spied yet another hallway, I couldn’t stop the exasperated and LOUD sign of frustration that emanated from my weary self.

Running, running, running! Must keep going! Must stop the plane!

At long last, I made it to Gate 21! Forget the escalator, I flew down the stairs! Upon arriving, winded, at Gate 21, the gate attendants there calmly said not to worry. Not to worry? Ok. Breathless, I looked up behind me and saw Bianca hurrying down the stairs. We’d made it! The attendant tried to scan our tickets using my iPhone, but again, it wasn’t working! I don’t think we ever actually checked in, but they let us through anyway! Whew!

When Bianca and I finally sat on the plane, we looked at the time—8:34. Six minutes to spare! Woohoo! We laughed in relief and disbelief. We made it!

What an adventurous end to a fun-filled Parisian adventure! Lesson learned: Pay double the price of the train and take the direct shuttle from your hotel to the airport. =)