Paris Vacation 2018
J: I like that this blog has a year on it. It implies that
there’s going to be another Paris vacation in the future. That’s important to
me.
There was almost a disaster at the beginning. On the morning
of the 14th we were basically just looking for a way to make the
hours pass faster so that we could leave for our 10:30 (PM) flight—a Lufthansa
connection to Munich, followed by a short flight to Charles de Gaulle which
would put us into Paris early afternoon on the 15th.
I practiced for
a bit, trying not dread how out of shape I’d be when I picked up the trumpet
again after 10 days off. We played the kids, who were sharing in our excitement
for the flight, except for Felix, who was sweetly oblivious.
And then at 11:30
a notification popped into both of our phone screens: Your Flight has been
delayed.
I was already a little nervous about the tight transfer
window in Munich.
Nearly two hours is plenty for a domestic transfer, but when
you’re traveling internationally you have to do a passport check again, another
security check, and sometimes get your luggage. And there’s no saying how long
you might be waiting in line for some bus or airport train if you have to
change terminals.
At first the delay was only for a half an hour. But then there
was an update, and now our flight wasn’t scheduled to get in until 3:10 Munich
time. And our connection was supposed to depart at 3:15. There was no way we
were going to make it. This time a notification about the EU bill of passenger
rights came in along with the message. The European Union loves its lists of
rights, and the ones for delayed air travelers are particularly generous. You’re
entitled to compensation and victuals if your flight is delayed even a little
bit. If your flight is delayed for more than two hours (as it looked like ours
was going to be) then you are eligible for a 600 euro payout. (Each.)
So I called a Lufthansa agent and asked about what we ought
to do. He was very kind, and a little hard to understand. He wanted to rebook us,
but said the next flight wouldn’t leave D.C. until the 15th. I asked
about keeping our original flight out of D.C. and just getting a later flight
from Munich to Paris on the 15th, and I could see several options on
the website—but he said it wasn’t possible to rebook us on any of those. They
were all completely full.
This turned out to be nonsense, but we were afraid of
getting stuck in Munich with nowhere to stay and no way to get to Paris if we
didn’t take the sure thing on the next day—and the phone agent assured us we
would be generously compensated for the delay. So we grudgingly agreed to give
up a day of vacation for a nice cash payout and a direct flight a day later.
And then I sat down to read the terms of the bill of passenger rights in all
the fine print. No matter how you sliced it, you had to be checked into the airport
and physically present to be entitled to the payout. I called again and asked
another agent about the terms and conditions. They didn’t have any answers—call
back once you’re in Europe, they advised.
Our bags had been packed. Julie had changed into her
traveling clothes, and then changed out of them when we found out we were going
to be delayed a day. She changed back into them. We were going to the airport.
The worst case scenario, I thought, was that we’d be stuck in D.C. for a day
with Lufthansa paying for our hotel and food. It would still be vacation.
The goodbyes to the kids were not what either of us had in
mind. We were discombobulated, in a hurry, and unsure of whether we might have
to just turn around and head right back to Hanover later that night. James was
urged to look after his little brothers. Owen was urged to listen to his
grandparents and use his best manners. Felix was urged to not forget us and not
to learn how to walk too soon, and to not be angry at us when we came back, and
also to sleep through the night if at all possible. And then we were on the
road.
The drive to Dulles takes an hour and a half in the best
conditions, but that easily expands to two hours whenever there is traffic
around D.C., which is basically all the time. That said, we didn’t really have
any trouble. We were both quiet—no kids, but lots to worry about and all sorts
of uncertainty about where we’d be sleeping that night and what the financial
ramifications would be. Every once in a while we’d try to remember whether we’d
packed something—it had been an irresponsibly quick dash out the door once we’d
made up our minds.
We’d paid for a parking spot at a hotel near the airport for
10 days, so we parked the car at the very back and then waited for the airport
shuttle to drop us off at the Lufthansa gate. At the airport there was a long
line of delayed passengers trying to get food vouchers and figure out whether
or not they could be rebooked. The first person we spoke to dumped a bucket of
cold water all over our vacation plans. We were no longer eligible to board our
original flight since the phone agent had put us on another carrier and that
was the extent of the compensation available to us. That’s not the song the
phone agent was singing, we argued, and a manager came out to complain that
nobody else was going to get a hotel and we were just out of luck. If we
wanted, we could talk to the booking agent, but we might have to pay the difference
in fares.
We waited almost a half an hour to talk to the booking
agent, partly over a misunderstanding over whether or not we had already been
helped, but she was worth the wait. Simultaneously juggling us and an angry
woman who was going to miss her connection in Stockholm, she got on the phone
with United and booked us out on a flight that night that put us in Paris two
hours earlier than our original itinerary at no extra charge. When she handed
us our tickets the world brightened, birds sang, and a huge weight lifted from
my luggage-laden back.
There was just enough time for us to comfortably get through
security, find our terminal, and grab a snack before our flight left. Neither
of us had eaten dinner in the rush to get out and it was nearly 10PM. We were
now heading to Portugal, albeit in the very back row of seats next to the
bathroom. We stood in line at the front of Boarding Zone 3 and eyed the list of
unconfirmed passengers (those waiting a seat assignment), grateful for our
confirmed, if slightly smelly, seats.
“Would passengers Roy and Julie Smith please come to the
service desk?”
So close…
This gate agent was also arguing with somebody, who was in a
particular huff about having to sit next to a child. (What’s wrong with
people?) We nervously approached, knowing it was probably all too good to be
true. He handed us two new boarding passes, explaining that we definitely didn’t
want to sit by the bathroom for eight hours and he had found us a pair of seats
much closer to the front.
And then we were on a plane, sitting together, tiny TV
screens at the ready, settling in for a transatlantic journey.
The dinner service didn’t come around until almost 1AM, but
we were both still awake and both still definitely hungry. We attempted to
watch The Post together, but I fell
asleep about halfway through. Julie said it had a good ending.
Neither of us really slept deeply, but there were snatches
here and there and some croissants and yogurt were passed out about when my
watch said 5:30AM. (Who knows what time that was locally.)
From the air, Lisbon looked amazing. It’s right on the ocean—a
city dotted with beautiful old red roofs and soccer stadiums. We walked, went
through passport control, went through security again, and had just enough time
to use the bathroom before checking into our Air France flight to Charles de
Gaulle. A young man was checking all boarding passes at the gate and instructed
us to wait until all other passengers had finished boarding since we were going
to be next to a passenger who would be traveling on a stretcher. We waited with
a dozen or so others until everybody had checked in, and then were flagged as
we headed down the jetway by a gate agent who asked for our luggage tag.
We didn’t have a luggage tag.
They had no electronic record of our luggage. They had no
way to guarantee that our checked suitcase was going to make it to Paris. (This
was probably because of the carrier change.)
“What does your suitcase look like?”
“Well, it’s big and red, and we left from IAD.”
She went to go look for it. We kept one eye on her and one
eye on the door of the plane, just to make sure it stayed open for us. She
reappeared a few minutes later and gave us the blessing to board. The suitcase
was down below.
We didn’t get to sit together on this flight, and both of us
dozed some more. The stretcher passenger was laid out over three rows of seats
to our right, with her face just inches below the baggage compartment. Any
comfort gained from lying down was lost in the claustrophobia.
It was just two hours and then a descent, a landing, and the
captain’s voice on the intercom:
“Mesdames et messieurs, bienvenue a Paris!”
