It's the Parisian holiday season, and -- like most people around here -- I am feeling the fatigue that comes from half a year's non-stop hard work, and the lethargy that accompanies the warmer (and finally sunnier) summer months. As a result, this blog has been rather neglected, so I thought I'd post something that was written a while ago, en route to the Dolomites at the beginning of July, but which I never got around to posting. Enjoy!
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There’s something to be said for routines.
I hate packing. I always have. For some reason, the final
stages of preparation for a trip – packing and getting to the airport – have
always upped my anxiety to a rather unpleasant level. So over the years I have
developed a finely tuned routine of packing and tidying my apartment (I hate
returning home to a mess) that has never let me down.
To the outside observer it would probably seem rather
frantic and chaotic. Packing is always left to the last, with organizing and
tidying taking priority, and is always done on the day I’m travelling. Far from
being stressful, during this last-minute packing spree I am calm and organized,
with a mental to-do list of important things ticking away seamlessly in my head.
It’s as if the travel anxiety channels itself into efficiency. I budget my time
well, ensuring adequate time for packing and organizing, and plan my travel
such that I arrive at the airport about an hour before my flight. And then I
usually rush and leave 10 or so minutes early, just in case.
This strategy works well if my flight is in the afternoon or
evening; even a lunchtime flight will afford me enough time to get everything
done in the morning, if I get up a bit earlier. An added advantage is that I’m
always packing with a rested brain. For my last trip to Italy, my flight was
scheduled for departure at 9:50am from Charles de Gaulle, which is about an
hour away from my apartment by public transport. Figuring I couldn’t wake up
quite early enough to allow for same-day packing, my routine needed to be
adjusted, and packing would have to be done the night before.
Pressure removed, this led to a leisurely evening of packing
interspersed with organizing, dinner, TV watching and the like. No ticking
to-do list in my head, no travel-day efficiency; no need.
Waking at 7am on travel day, I start slowly, knowing that everything is
packed and organized and ready to go. Mid-shower, I start to remember forgotten
things, such as checking in online and printing my hotel reservation, which I do
hurriedly whilst dressing. I set off 10 minutes earlier than expected, with a
nagging feeling I am forgetting something. But I figure it's just my
sunglasses that have been overlooked.
On the metro, something still doesn’t feel right. I check my
passport; it’s where it’s supposed to be. *Relief!*
6 metro stops later, I remind myself to get cash out at the
airport, not knowing whether I will have much access to cash machines in Sesto,
which is a very small town and very much in the middle of nowhere. I check my
handbag for my wallet; it’s not in the front pocket (but my sunglasses are;
woo!). I check the back pocket. No wallet.
WHAT??!!
My heart briefly stops before realizing the error of its
ways and ramping up to twice the normal pace as a cold panic washes over me and
my own voice resonates in my head: “You’re not going to make it.”
I briefly pause to consider the crazy notion of flying to Italy without my wallet, before realising that aside from my money, credit cards and the like, my wallet contains my residence card, which is the document which allows me to travel freely around Europe. Disaster!
So I jump off at the next stop, switch platforms, and mentally will the
metro driver to put his foot down. I check my phone quickly for driving
directions to CDG – 30 minutes. This might be possible.
At my home metro, I jump off the train, race up the stairs
and break out into super-power-speed walking down the road to my house. Panic
is still running cold in my veins. Back at my building, I sprint up the stairs,
burst into my living room and check the desk, where I assume my wallet is
waiting for me. No wallet. Where is my
wallet??? Frantic searching ensues, before I finally find it hiding under a
cushion on my sofa. Phew!!
And we’re off again.
Quick stop at the ATM, then the taxi stand. Thank goodness
my apartment is so well connected. I switch on my phone’s navigation to check
the transit time. ETA: 9:02am. Bag drop off closes at 9:10. This might work. I’m
so glad I checked in online.
Traffic is light and we make good time, until what should be
5 minutes away from CDG terminal 2, when we stop. Gridlocked traffic as far as
the eye can see. Minutes are flowing away faster than we’re making up
kilometers, and my window for bag drop is closing. Panic rises again. My cab
driver is great, though, winding through the traffic, swearing at all the inept
drivers, and assuring me we are almost there.
Arriving at the terminal, I throw money at the cab driver
and fly into the terminal building, bags in tow. I hurriedly scan the info board – check-in 9 – on the
other side of the building.
Run!!
We now interrupt
this blog post for a brief public service announcement: if you are in
the airport and you see a frantic lady sprinting with her bags down the
terminal, use your common sense and clear
out the way!! She’s clearly about to miss her flight, and will risk
knocking over small children to get where she’s going.
(Note: no children, small or large, were injured in the making of this
blog post.)
Check-in 9 reached, I apologise profusely to the steward for
my lateness. Lovely man that he is, he insists I’m not late and jumps me to the
front of the queue, to the chagrin of other stressed travellers who’ve been
waiting ages. The check-in lady tells me we’re boarding immediately in gate 72. I
breathe a sigh of relief. I’m good with security checkpoints; I almost never set off the
metal detector, and get through quickly (following another finely-tuned
routine).
Breathless, stressed, exhausted, I arrive at the gate 5 minutes after the
scheduled start of boarding, ready to rush onto the plane and be whisked away
to sunny Italy, actually half expecting to be one of the last to board the plane.
And my flight is delayed 20 minutes.
