waiting to greet me. I followed everybody to passport control. Where there was no line. I do not mean there was nobody waiting. On the contrary: There were about six thousand people waiting. There was just no line. So it took quite a while until the passport control guy scanned my passport and let me into the country. Actually he was very handsome, but there was only one of him. Then it was off to baggage claim.
Baggage claim at CDG is a lot like passport control. Which is to say it is not the most organized place. They give out luggage carts for free, so everybody takes one. Many people take two. It’s like a big game of bumper cars, only played in about sixteen different languages.
Given the crummy seat I got on the planes, it will come as no great surprise to you that my bag was one of the very last ones out. At least I had no trouble spotting it. Let us say that not everyone flying to Paris has a big pink carpet-bag suitcase.
I hauled my bag into the main terminal, which is even less organized than passport control and baggage claim. Then I really started to worry. Fret. Panic. Not just in little flashes, either. Full-blown panic. Because somebody was supposed to be meeting me—only there was nobody. Instead of saving a movie, I was in the middle of mayhem, without a clue how I might actually get to Paris on my own if I had to, or where I was even going. I was beginning to feel like Kiefer Sutherland on 24, with a big digital clock ticking away my time. Okay Kiefer Sutherland faces somewhat weightier matters on 24, but you get what I mean. To make matters worse, everything was in French.
And I do not speak French.
Just when I was trying to decide whether to cry or scream, I found the driver. He was standing off to the side smoking a cigarette. Lots of people in the terminal were smoking. Which right away told me I was not in Kansas anymore. Anyway, the driver was wearing a Niketown sweatshirt and big hip hop sneakers. I thought they looked silly on this somewhat middle-aged little Frenchman. Still, he was my savior.
I am not suggesting any religious connotation when I say he was my savior. Although it did seem pretty miraculous to me. In the midst of all that bedlam, I found him. And he had a sign with my name on it.
Even if it was the tiniest little sign.
“Excuse me,” I said. He looked up from his cigarette. I pointed to the sign. “That’s me.”
“Zat’s you?” he asked. I’m not making fun. He really said it that way.
“That’s me.”
I guess he believed me. Because he immediately grabbed the handle of my mother’s big suitcase, and off he went, running madly through the airport, weaving in and out of the huge crowds. Only he obviously knew his way around this airport, and I didn’t. Plus he already knew where he parked his car, and I didn’t. So in about ten seconds he was gone, my suitcase was gone, and may I remind you that my Grandma’s dress was in that suitcase.
Now I was absolutely sure I wanted to cry. But I didn’t. I heard somewhere that if you are lost, you should stay put so they know where to look for you. I probably heard that on a news story about hikers lost in the Himalayas or some such. I’m not sure the same rules apply when you’re in the middle of a million people in Charles de Gaulle airport. But I stayed where I was anyway. Finally the driver came back and found me. He looked annoyed, but I didn’t care. Because he still had my suitcase. Grandma’s dress was back. I was rescued. Saved.
We got to his car. Which was not a big Lincoln Continental. It was just a car. A Renault, which is a French car. Not a very large one, either. It’s a good thing my Mom’s suitcase was not one inch bigger. Because the suitcase would’ve had to ride in the back seat and I would’ve been in the trunk.
The instant we were out of the airport, the driver started to drive very fast. I do not generally mind driving fast. But this car was very small. And it sure felt like we were
Baggage claim at CDG is a lot like passport control. Which is to say it is not the most organized place. They give out luggage carts for free, so everybody takes one. Many people take two. It’s like a big game of bumper cars, only played in about sixteen different languages.
Given the crummy seat I got on the planes, it will come as no great surprise to you that my bag was one of the very last ones out. At least I had no trouble spotting it. Let us say that not everyone flying to Paris has a big pink carpet-bag suitcase.
I hauled my bag into the main terminal, which is even less organized than passport control and baggage claim. Then I really started to worry. Fret. Panic. Not just in little flashes, either. Full-blown panic. Because somebody was supposed to be meeting me—only there was nobody. Instead of saving a movie, I was in the middle of mayhem, without a clue how I might actually get to Paris on my own if I had to, or where I was even going. I was beginning to feel like Kiefer Sutherland on 24, with a big digital clock ticking away my time. Okay Kiefer Sutherland faces somewhat weightier matters on 24, but you get what I mean. To make matters worse, everything was in French.
And I do not speak French.
Just when I was trying to decide whether to cry or scream, I found the driver. He was standing off to the side smoking a cigarette. Lots of people in the terminal were smoking. Which right away told me I was not in Kansas anymore. Anyway, the driver was wearing a Niketown sweatshirt and big hip hop sneakers. I thought they looked silly on this somewhat middle-aged little Frenchman. Still, he was my savior.
I am not suggesting any religious connotation when I say he was my savior. Although it did seem pretty miraculous to me. In the midst of all that bedlam, I found him. And he had a sign with my name on it.
Even if it was the tiniest little sign.
“Excuse me,” I said. He looked up from his cigarette. I pointed to the sign. “That’s me.”
“Zat’s you?” he asked. I’m not making fun. He really said it that way.
“That’s me.”
I guess he believed me. Because he immediately grabbed the handle of my mother’s big suitcase, and off he went, running madly through the airport, weaving in and out of the huge crowds. Only he obviously knew his way around this airport, and I didn’t. Plus he already knew where he parked his car, and I didn’t. So in about ten seconds he was gone, my suitcase was gone, and may I remind you that my Grandma’s dress was in that suitcase.
Now I was absolutely sure I wanted to cry. But I didn’t. I heard somewhere that if you are lost, you should stay put so they know where to look for you. I probably heard that on a news story about hikers lost in the Himalayas or some such. I’m not sure the same rules apply when you’re in the middle of a million people in Charles de Gaulle airport. But I stayed where I was anyway. Finally the driver came back and found me. He looked annoyed, but I didn’t care. Because he still had my suitcase. Grandma’s dress was back. I was rescued. Saved.
We got to his car. Which was not a big Lincoln Continental. It was just a car. A Renault, which is a French car. Not a very large one, either. It’s a good thing my Mom’s suitcase was not one inch bigger. Because the suitcase would’ve had to ride in the back seat and I would’ve been in the trunk.
The instant we were out of the airport, the driver started to drive very fast. I do not generally mind driving fast. But this car was very small. And it sure felt like we were
Similar Books
