In Paris Again, part 2

Wait, you say, there's more wonderfulness to be told of this trip? Ah, I must confess that while the happy recollections are all made, the story is not yet fully told. The full story must include the arriving at and departing from the fair city.

I have two methods by which I can travel between Geneva and Paris, by plane or by train. The train is noted for it's consistency; SNCF runs trains with varying speeds and numbers of stops between Paris and Geneva daily, regular as clockwork and with prices equally independent of the convenience of the train. Regardless of the day of the week or the time of the day, the train costs about 80 euros (~$105) and will take four hours to get between the cities. Traveling by air is shorter in time and more variable in price. In particularly, a Friday morning flight to Paris on EasyJet cost about $60 when booked in advance, while the return flight on Sunday night cost about $100. So I opted to fly, thinking at least then I would spend less time confined in a seat for the same amount of money.



The flight out to Paris was uneventful beyond the normal hassle of getting to the airport early enough for a 6:30 a.m. flight. For the flight back to Geneva, I retraced my path through the Paris metro and commuter trains to the airport Sunday night. I arrived at the Orly airport just before 8 p.m. to get through security and to my gate by 8:30, well in advance of the 9:15 final boarding call or 9:45 take-off. However, as of 9 p.m., no flight information had been posted at the gate and in particular boarding for the flight had not begun. There was no plane at the gate. At this point, my fellow passengers began congregating around the counter and asking questions, in French. I was rather tired to attempt to follow the conversation, but from the tones of voice in evidence it was not happy news. I was lucky enough to find one of the passengers who spoke both English and French and agreed to keep me updated. Angry French people speak significantly faster than normal French people, and I find even the normal ones speak too fast for me to pick out more than a word or a phrase at most.

Shortly after 9, the display screen was updated to show flight information, with the phrase "vol retarde," or flight delayed, prominently displayed. The announcement was made that the flight from Geneva to Paris on the plane meant to take us from Paris back to Geneva had never taken off. It takes about an hour to fly between the two cities, so this pushed the departure time of my flight from 9:45 to somewhere in the vicinity of 11:15, though that time was a vague guess at best on the part of the airline. So we had to wait for more information.

The problem at this point becomes that airports actually do close. The flight control staff, the people in the control towers guiding planes through take-off and landing, go home. At the Orly airport, this happens at 11:30; at the Geneva airport, this happens at midnight. Thus, even if the plane could turn around with a new set of passengers in time to take off from Orly, it might not necessarily have been able to land in Geneva. It was possible that the flight might only go as far as Lyon and then use a bus to get the passengers to the Geneva airport.

Around 10 p.m., we passengers received the hopeful news that the Geneva airport had agreed to remain open longer to try and accommodate our flight, and that similar permission was being sought from Orly air traffic control. The flight in Geneva had taken off. It appeared our flight would actually happen after all, though Easyjet would need all the passengers to board as quickly as possible. This was a task we were all most willing to undertake.

I also observed during this time that despite the fact I was far too tired to attempt French, I was following many of the main ideas of the French conversations around me. I guess the volume of conversation going on was conducive to my comprehension, even if it seemed to consist primarily of complaining. While, I suppose complaining is an important part of learning a language.

So I waited and watched as airplanes from several airlines taxied to gates and disembarked their passengers. 11:00 p.m. approached and everyone made sure their luggage was close at hand, the better to be prepared for a quick march aboard the plane. However, instructions to board were not forthcoming.

A flight cancellation notice was. The incoming flight was not landing, there was no plane to take us home, EasyJet's apologies, and if everyone would please follow the line to the baggage claim and the EasyJet ticket counter efforts would be made to accommodate us for the night and rebook our tickets for the following days' flights.

I was stuck in a closing Paris airport, with no phone or phone numbers, no internet access, no way to get home, and a control room shift at CERN at 3 p.m. the next day.

So I followed the crowd to baggage claim and into a very long line at the ticket counter. The list of ways to get home was short: book a seat on a flight the following day when available, or abandon the idea of flying and take an available train the next day. Some of my fellow passengers were banding together to pack into a taxi and split the cost of being driven to Geneva. Instead of the normal "au revoir" or "bonne soiree," people were wishing each other farewell with "bonne chance" or "bon courage." By the time I made it to the front of the line for plane tickets, after midnight, the first available flight was leaving at 8:30 Monday night. Not good enough--I opted to take my chances with the train.

EasyJet did book the stranded passengers into one of the hotels adjacent to the airport, and I had a much larger room for the remainder of the night than I had had in Paris, as well as a free breakfast. I also owe a debt of gratitude to the kind hostess who checked me into the hotel, wishing me a pleasant stay with a sympathy that indicated she was aware of the irony of the phrase. At least the hotel had (French) computers available to its guests, so I could alert my colleagues that my travel plans had changed. I turned in at 1:30 a.m.

I woke up at 5:20 to check out and eat my free breakfast before catching a taxi with other passengers to Gare du Lyon, the train station for Geneva-bound trains. I was helped with finding the ticket counter and the lady behind it who spoke English, who booked me onto the first train to Geneva, which departed twenty minutes later at 7:10, reliable as clockwork.

I have never been so happy to see CERN's ugly yellow water tower as I was this morning when the train passed through Satigny shortly before 11 a.m. Then it was just a tram and a bus ride to CERN to alert the concerned parties I had made it in time for my shift.

When in doubt, trust the punctuality of the trains.