Or something like that. My ancient French has gone the way of the rest of my little grey cells. We got a lift to LAX from Chuck and Alice (thankee, guys) so we didn’t have to worry about a cab or shuttle picking us up in time. We pulled up to Terminal 2 and saw a line out the door and down the pavement. Urk. On closer examination, it was for some other airline we’d never heard of, queuing for the adjacent counter. Air France was nearly empty. Guess it pays to get there 2 1/2 hours early. We made the weight limits easily. Actually, we really tried to cut down on the stuff we packed, knowing we had washing facilities at hand in the apartment. Boarding passes issued, we dropped the bags at the xray line and went on to the security check line. It, too, wasn’t too bad, although the one we selected (natch) ended up being the line where they brought special needs passengers, who, of course got priority ahead of us. Forgot to take off my belt, as usual, but we passed through and re-dressed on the other side. At least there were plenty of benches to sit on. (Are you listening, Southwest?) We settled in at the gate for the 1 1/2 hours before boarding was to commence. Yeah, it’s still on-time!
This AF flight had four classes: First, business, super-economy, and cattle. No need to guess which one we were in. The top three got priority boarding, and the front 2/3 of the plane. The remaining 50% of us got the back 1/3. You do the math. It would be heaven for amputees, but we limbed types were wedged in with no place to go. The seat pitch was 31”. That’s not the smallest aloft (Ukraine Air and Air Malta are 30”), but it’s right there with the worst of the major carriers. By comparison, the poshes in Premium Economy got 38”. So, no leg crossing for the next 11 hours. Embolisms, anyone? At least there was enough space available in the overhead bins that we could get our carry-ons out of the way. Right on schedule, we pushed back at 3:30pm and we were on our way.
The seat griping aside, I really can’t cobble up any complaints about the rest of the flight and service. The FA’s were polite and attentive, the food actually was quite edible, both dinner and breakfast, and more than enough to fill you up. It certainly didn’t hurt that you got complimentary wine AND after-dinner cognac or Pear William. Go, France! Dinner was a chicken dish with rice and veggies, with an edamame/corn salad with a slice of ham, pudding cup, and chocolate cake (the only dud: too dense and dry). Breakfast was nice as well, with yoghurt, muffin, sliced meats, and fruit cocktail.
AF also had a pretty good entertainment setup. Dozens (!) of movies to choose from, in both English and French (with subtitles). I watched a pretty funny one in French, then just had to re-watch “Fargo,” one of my favorites. Those ate up four hours or so, and magazines, a crossword, and a book gobbled the rest. Neither of us slept a wink. I never can on a plane, but surprisingly Loni didn’t either. We will have been up for 34 hours by the time we crash tonight.
There was nothing but cloud cover when the sun finally came up as we were beginning to pass over the British Isles. We could track our flight path progress on one of the channels that was on the entertainment system. England was clouded over, as was the Channel, but when we got close to landing, the clouds thinned out and we got our first view of the countryside. Not bad at all.
Another neat feature of AF’s video system is a nose camera so you can watch the landing. It cuts out, though, when you get close to touchdown. Hmmm. Interesting to watch, nonetheless. That’s our runway, I hope, straight ahead.
The landing was nice and smooth, but our gate was occupied by another plane, so we had to wait on the tarmac for about twenty minutes. That doesn't sound like a lot, but when you’ve been cooped up like a Perdue Farms chicken for 11 hours, you just want to get on with it. We finally made it to the gate, unloaded our stuff, and walked (oh, blissful walking!) into the terminal. It was easy to follow the crowds and signs to the immigration checkpoint. All the guy did was to glance at the passport, stamp it, and hand it back. That was it. On the the baggage area where we lucked out as our bags were among the first to come down the ramp. This was too easy. That changed.
We had pre-booked (and paid) with ParisShuttle to get into the city, at 20 euros each it was a decent deal. You have to find a FranceTelecom phone to call them once you get your luggage. I tracked one down and it’s a pretty nice system. Certain types of numbers do not require any change. You just dial the number given by the shuttle company and you are connected without charge. Nice. I tried my French on the lady, gave her my name, and she switched to English. Hmpf. So much for my efforts. She said to wait by door # 8, which I saw was just down from us. We wheeled our bags out on the free carts provided by the airport (are you listening, LAX?) and took up our position in front of door 8. And waited. And waited. And, well, you get the picture. We amused ourselves by watching the lady in the Range Rover that was illegally parked curbside. She was half blocking the rather narrow lane, forcing a lot of vehicles to work hard to squeeze by. Didn’t faze her. She just sat there, waiting for someone. No gendarme came along to tell her to move. Finally, a cab driver got out and went up and started berating her, and she half-heartedly pulled up a little ways, but finally moved out when another cabbie started towards her. Anyway, we were going nowhere fast, so I went in, found another phone, and asked where the shuttle was. She asked me which terminal we were in. I didn’t know, but I could see # 3 across the way. The line went dead. I went out and looked at the building and saw we were in # 2. Back in, re-phoned, told her the terminal, and she said the driver was looking for us at # 4. What? I think it was bay ess, as the French would say, but she was sticking to it. 15 minutes later (and over an hour late in total), the guy pulls up and we’re off. To terminal 4. Then terminal 3. Then back to, you guessed it, terminal 2, picking up new passengers at every stop. Sheesh.
Anyway, we had a nice chat on the way in with couples from New York and L.A. (!) who were respectively starting and ending their trips. I borrowed the driver’s cell phone and called our apartment manager, Keith, to let him know we were running late. We had some luck as we were the first to be dropped off. I tried to recognize streets from my internet walkabouts on Google street view, but was hopelessly confused. Fortunately, the driver had a GPS and delivered us to our doorstep. It looked just like it did on the internet! We got our bags out, waited for the driver to hang up his phone, tipped him (although, after the hour delay, I was tempted not to), and waited by the front door for Keith, the local manager, to show up and let us in.
We were already just a bit after the appointed time, but 15 minutes later, still no Keith. I walked across the street and looked up at what I thought were our top-floor windows, and a head appeared, looked down, and pulled back in. Hmmm. I hollered up, “Keith! Keith!” Out came the head. It was him. I shouted up that we needed to be let in. He looked puzzled, but came down. Turns out that he thought I was calling from my own phone, and when he heard the shuttle drive up, he had called that number. He had been giving the entry code directions to the driver, thinking he was talking to me. I guess the driver didn’t have a clue who he was, so he didn’t say anything about it. As Strother Martin said, “What we have here is a failure of communication.”
Keith took care of schlepping Loni’s bag up the six flights, so that saved me a trip. Going up with my bag was all I wanted to handle. The old ticker was pounding, and the legs were throbbing at the top of the 114 stairs. Keith showed us the ropes, gave us a bottle of champagne, and was off. We have arrived!
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