(no subject)
The ultra-modern terminal F at Charles De Gaulle has three WiFi networks. Despite memberships with five different wireless providers between us, neither J. nor I can get online. We're not, technically speaking supposed to be here. Our flight from Budapest was delayed, and the connection between flights was tight, so we're now in CDG for an unexpected four hours. Which would be excellent time to get some work done, except for the fact that there is, as I mentioned before, no WiFi.
Neither J. nor I appear to be particularly excited about th idea of travelling to Tunis. J. keeps threatening to leave the airport and settle into a comfortable hotel room in Paris somewhere for the next three days. If I thought I could get away with it, I'd join her. But we both know it's an idle threat. We're enroute to Tunis. Now we'll be arriving in the middle of the night, hoping to take a complimentary bus to our "official summit hotel", hoping that another bus will take us 10km out of town to the "official summit location".
Mostly, I'm hoping not to have the clandestine literature tucked into my bag seized by the "official summit police". Giving a workshop on freedom of expression in a nation not known for its celebration of this particular freedom seems like a somewhat dicey proposition.
The cruel irony - we're trapped in Paris for a few hours and this terminal doesn't seem to have a single restaurant. There's a snack bar downstairs, with sandwiches packed in plastic, but it hardly seems right to travel to France and eat mediocre food. I may insist that we go raid the deli of the duty free store and eat paté and good cheese, rather than bad food...
J. is now strolling the terminal, Thinkpad in hand, trying to find a better wireless signal.
It's grey in Paris, and raining. It was grey and raining in Budapest as well, and J. husband told me this morning that it's grey and raining in Tunis.
I'm trying hard to see the upsides right now, something I'm usually fairly good about doing when I'm on the road. I'm largely failing, though. This would be a good day to make soup, make a fire, fall asleep on the couch.
Instead, a night flight, immigration, baggage claim, the trip to the hotel...
Neither J. nor I appear to be particularly excited about th idea of travelling to Tunis. J. keeps threatening to leave the airport and settle into a comfortable hotel room in Paris somewhere for the next three days. If I thought I could get away with it, I'd join her. But we both know it's an idle threat. We're enroute to Tunis. Now we'll be arriving in the middle of the night, hoping to take a complimentary bus to our "official summit hotel", hoping that another bus will take us 10km out of town to the "official summit location".
Mostly, I'm hoping not to have the clandestine literature tucked into my bag seized by the "official summit police". Giving a workshop on freedom of expression in a nation not known for its celebration of this particular freedom seems like a somewhat dicey proposition.
The cruel irony - we're trapped in Paris for a few hours and this terminal doesn't seem to have a single restaurant. There's a snack bar downstairs, with sandwiches packed in plastic, but it hardly seems right to travel to France and eat mediocre food. I may insist that we go raid the deli of the duty free store and eat paté and good cheese, rather than bad food...
J. is now strolling the terminal, Thinkpad in hand, trying to find a better wireless signal.
It's grey in Paris, and raining. It was grey and raining in Budapest as well, and J. husband told me this morning that it's grey and raining in Tunis.
I'm trying hard to see the upsides right now, something I'm usually fairly good about doing when I'm on the road. I'm largely failing, though. This would be a good day to make soup, make a fire, fall asleep on the couch.
Instead, a night flight, immigration, baggage claim, the trip to the hotel...