The journey
Where Stunt Girl rambles and correctly uses semi-colons...
This entry is dedicated to the fact that it's sometimes better to travel that to arrive. Not that I had a particularly great journey to and from Paris or that I didn't do anything while I was there (although I was there for a conference so spent most of my time around people in suits), but in the end a story is a story and can earn you some drinks.
I flew to Paris. For the first time ever I went from London City airport. I had known about it but always assumed it was a joke, or for rich private jet owners only. But actually I've become rather a fan. It's literally in the lobby of the Docklands Light Railway station, which is so much more convenient than other London airports with miles of trekking. It is very small so you don't get lost. And it's eerily quiet. There is the low murmur of people quietly talking into phones, but no children. I didn't see one. Instead there was a pervasive odour of expensive cologne, the type of fragrance that is subtle on one person but rather obvious on 300.
As we sat at the tiny bus stop sized departure gate my limited French allowed me to determine that the man opposite was reading about Sun Tzu - clearly the kind of man who likens business to WAR. Come the last minute checks, a list of names was called out for the people they were missing, and his was one of them. It amused me to think that for all his advice about tactics, Sun Tzu clearly didn't have any advice for dealing with airports. However, for all its greatness, London City airport couldn't guarantee the plane would be on time, and we sat on the tarmac for half an hour.
It was about 11pm that I finally made our hotel. It had been booked for me by a work colleague (who'd travelled out a few days previously) and I had the fax as proof of booking. So why, when I turned up, was I not immediately shown to my room? Unfortunately my colleague had got the dates mixed up and I'd actually been booked in for a day early. So they said I had to pay for an extra day. Worse was to come though, although they said I could pay at when I checked out, I still had to put down a credit card for deposit. But only a few days before I had been the victim of crime, losing my entire bag: keys, phone, wallet, latest book... consequently I couldn't give the man anything. It was a stand off. I told him that Jonathan (who'd booked the room) would pay. He looked incredulous, and wisely so because when he rang Jonathan I gather he got a bit of an earful, "What do you mean, pay for someone else's room. I'm asleep, go away!" Some sweet talking was required and Jonathan agreed to cover my bill.
But if the journey out was stressful, it was nothing to the journey back. I was again travelling alone, with only a smattering of French and no cards to bail me out should I need more money. It's a very exposed feeling actually, and not entirely pleasant I must say. I left the conference with about two and a half hours to get to my flight; there was a direct train from the station at the conference centre - a good start. After establishing that I had indeed got the right train (some friendly french commuters helping me out, pushing my language skills to the max) I settled down. But it the train crawled... meandering through the capital, stopping for 10-15 mins at some stations, eating up my time. I tried to identify another person going to the airport, lugging bags or holding airline tickets, and I'd hang out of the doors to see if I could hear or see anything that would tell me why we weren't moving. Other trains would pull up at the same station going in the same direction and then head off again. But I know from bitter experience that impulse is the enemy of the traveller; do not change trains or leap on the first one you see because you're running late. You don't know where you might end up! So I sat tight, and gradually the train crept around the tracks, a guy with suitcases got into my carriage and we seemed to be heading in the right direction. I started to relax. We got to Orly station with just over an hour til take-off, and I followed my new friend and his suitcases onto the bus to take us to the terminals. Fortune was smiling on me and of the two possible terminals to alight at I followed him off the bus to the right one (zen navigation at its best).
Another delayed flight back, and a busy one. Both seats next to me were occupied. The white man nearest the window was clearly not happy about something as he was sitting with his head in his hands and fingers in his ears. Was it the whine of the engines? Were they moans he was emitting? Was he hung-over? He and his black friend between us refused food and drink (NEVER refuse free booze! Something must be up...). I, on the other hand, took the little tray of canapes and asked for a G&T. They didn't have any G, so red wine it was.
I opened the bottle and had only taken a few sips when the guy by the window ominously reached into the pocket of the seat in front and pulled out the sick bag. My heart sank! His mate patted him on the back as he noisily emitted what he needed to. Then he took his friend's sick bag and did the same, and then mine... and then took some of the extra ones the amused flight attendants handed out. He filled 5 or 6 in the end. "I was alright until I turned around and got a whiff of that wine," he said between vomits. I asked his mate, "Is that food poisoning or hangover." "Hangover," he replied. "I did my throwing up last night." This man is clearly a proponent of the tactical vom, and very pleased I was to learn that. "At least you have something to tell your friends now," he added, and he was right.
So I have learned many things, most importantly:
1) Don't let your friends book hotels for you without checking and double checking the rooms reservation
2) Airline sick bags are really very good and keeping in both liquid and, for want of a better word, aroma
Anyway, what with the stress of losing all my stuff, the tiring journey and time in Paris, and general work stress I totally burned the weekend. Apols to all I stood up, particularly the often cute kittie_goth who will make a lovely 30-year old I'm sure. However, this is my last week at work - I have a week off then start a new one on June 5th - so things should be easing up a bit now!
Addendum:
Because Jonathan paid my bill while I was still in bed he refused to pay for the additional day. I hadn't told him about that, and he told them in no uncertain tones that I clearly didn't understand French and was so tired I would have agreed to anything so stop taking advantage, so they did. One-nil to us.
Did I mention how nice the journey is from London City airport into London? You see the Thames barrier, the Dome, Canary Wharf and all sorts. Particularly if you sit in the front seats of the DLR, and who wouldn't?! Will this image work? Hhhmmm... nope, but you can see if you go here:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/53555673@N00/151879504
This entry is dedicated to the fact that it's sometimes better to travel that to arrive. Not that I had a particularly great journey to and from Paris or that I didn't do anything while I was there (although I was there for a conference so spent most of my time around people in suits), but in the end a story is a story and can earn you some drinks.
I flew to Paris. For the first time ever I went from London City airport. I had known about it but always assumed it was a joke, or for rich private jet owners only. But actually I've become rather a fan. It's literally in the lobby of the Docklands Light Railway station, which is so much more convenient than other London airports with miles of trekking. It is very small so you don't get lost. And it's eerily quiet. There is the low murmur of people quietly talking into phones, but no children. I didn't see one. Instead there was a pervasive odour of expensive cologne, the type of fragrance that is subtle on one person but rather obvious on 300.
As we sat at the tiny bus stop sized departure gate my limited French allowed me to determine that the man opposite was reading about Sun Tzu - clearly the kind of man who likens business to WAR. Come the last minute checks, a list of names was called out for the people they were missing, and his was one of them. It amused me to think that for all his advice about tactics, Sun Tzu clearly didn't have any advice for dealing with airports. However, for all its greatness, London City airport couldn't guarantee the plane would be on time, and we sat on the tarmac for half an hour.
It was about 11pm that I finally made our hotel. It had been booked for me by a work colleague (who'd travelled out a few days previously) and I had the fax as proof of booking. So why, when I turned up, was I not immediately shown to my room? Unfortunately my colleague had got the dates mixed up and I'd actually been booked in for a day early. So they said I had to pay for an extra day. Worse was to come though, although they said I could pay at when I checked out, I still had to put down a credit card for deposit. But only a few days before I had been the victim of crime, losing my entire bag: keys, phone, wallet, latest book... consequently I couldn't give the man anything. It was a stand off. I told him that Jonathan (who'd booked the room) would pay. He looked incredulous, and wisely so because when he rang Jonathan I gather he got a bit of an earful, "What do you mean, pay for someone else's room. I'm asleep, go away!" Some sweet talking was required and Jonathan agreed to cover my bill.
But if the journey out was stressful, it was nothing to the journey back. I was again travelling alone, with only a smattering of French and no cards to bail me out should I need more money. It's a very exposed feeling actually, and not entirely pleasant I must say. I left the conference with about two and a half hours to get to my flight; there was a direct train from the station at the conference centre - a good start. After establishing that I had indeed got the right train (some friendly french commuters helping me out, pushing my language skills to the max) I settled down. But it the train crawled... meandering through the capital, stopping for 10-15 mins at some stations, eating up my time. I tried to identify another person going to the airport, lugging bags or holding airline tickets, and I'd hang out of the doors to see if I could hear or see anything that would tell me why we weren't moving. Other trains would pull up at the same station going in the same direction and then head off again. But I know from bitter experience that impulse is the enemy of the traveller; do not change trains or leap on the first one you see because you're running late. You don't know where you might end up! So I sat tight, and gradually the train crept around the tracks, a guy with suitcases got into my carriage and we seemed to be heading in the right direction. I started to relax. We got to Orly station with just over an hour til take-off, and I followed my new friend and his suitcases onto the bus to take us to the terminals. Fortune was smiling on me and of the two possible terminals to alight at I followed him off the bus to the right one (zen navigation at its best).
Another delayed flight back, and a busy one. Both seats next to me were occupied. The white man nearest the window was clearly not happy about something as he was sitting with his head in his hands and fingers in his ears. Was it the whine of the engines? Were they moans he was emitting? Was he hung-over? He and his black friend between us refused food and drink (NEVER refuse free booze! Something must be up...). I, on the other hand, took the little tray of canapes and asked for a G&T. They didn't have any G, so red wine it was.
I opened the bottle and had only taken a few sips when the guy by the window ominously reached into the pocket of the seat in front and pulled out the sick bag. My heart sank! His mate patted him on the back as he noisily emitted what he needed to. Then he took his friend's sick bag and did the same, and then mine... and then took some of the extra ones the amused flight attendants handed out. He filled 5 or 6 in the end. "I was alright until I turned around and got a whiff of that wine," he said between vomits. I asked his mate, "Is that food poisoning or hangover." "Hangover," he replied. "I did my throwing up last night." This man is clearly a proponent of the tactical vom, and very pleased I was to learn that. "At least you have something to tell your friends now," he added, and he was right.
So I have learned many things, most importantly:
1) Don't let your friends book hotels for you without checking and double checking the rooms reservation
2) Airline sick bags are really very good and keeping in both liquid and, for want of a better word, aroma
Anyway, what with the stress of losing all my stuff, the tiring journey and time in Paris, and general work stress I totally burned the weekend. Apols to all I stood up, particularly the often cute kittie_goth who will make a lovely 30-year old I'm sure. However, this is my last week at work - I have a week off then start a new one on June 5th - so things should be easing up a bit now!
Addendum:
Because Jonathan paid my bill while I was still in bed he refused to pay for the additional day. I hadn't told him about that, and he told them in no uncertain tones that I clearly didn't understand French and was so tired I would have agreed to anything so stop taking advantage, so they did. One-nil to us.
Did I mention how nice the journey is from London City airport into London? You see the Thames barrier, the Dome, Canary Wharf and all sorts. Particularly if you sit in the front seats of the DLR, and who wouldn't?! Will this image work? Hhhmmm... nope, but you can see if you go here:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/53555673@N00/151879504