Flying North

I’m feeling a little better when I trail my bags outside and order an Uber. Terminal 2, I need.

The traffic is still anarchic and intense, even this late. And just as undisciplined. Which is scary as we’re going pretty fast – around 100 kph. A crash at this speed wouldn’t just result in a small dent.

Check in is pretty quick. It’s passport control and security that take the time. Why the fuck is the airport so crowded at 1:30 AM? It’s over an hour before I’m done. Leaving me 30 or 40 minutes in the lounge.

It’s easy enough to find. But my heart drops when I see that it’s a Saudi Airlines lounge. I correctly assume that there will be no booze. Not being hungry, it’s just and orange juice and a water for me.

On the way to my gate, I spot somewhere selling miniatures. I get myself a couple of Jack Daniels.

“Will you drink these on the plane or in the airport?”

What’s the right answer to this? Pretty sure you aren’t allowed to drink your own spirits on a plane.

“In the airport.”

Apparently, that is the correct reply.

I get to my gate at exactly the right time: as they’re just finishing boarding zone 1. And nearly ready for zone 2, where I am.

The legroom isn’t great. Meaning I can’t get in a good position to sleep. Which is what I’d hoped to do on this first leg. I try continuing to watch House of the Dragon. It doesn’t work. I can’t concentrate properly, but aren’t really falling asleep. Great. The worst of both worlds.

After the lights are dimmed, a make a valiant effort to sleep. Is it a partial victory? Or almost a total defeat? It feels like the latter when the lights come back and breakfast is served.

A breakfast of omelette, fruit, croissant, yogurt, tea and orange juice.

Compared to KLM economy class food, it’s haute cuisine. There’s an omelette, fruit, orange juice, yogurt, a croissant, a roll, butter and jam. Accompanied by tea. Into which I surreptitiously slip my two miniatures of whiskey. That should wake me up, shouldn’t it?

When we land, it’s very foggy. And not yet light. Not exactly cheerful.

A foggy runway at Charles de Gaulle airport.

Charles de Gaulle is as charming as ever. There’s some walking, a shuttle ride, lots of walking, security and passport control. Then lots more walking.

When I’ve completed the obstacle course and reached terminal 2F, it’s time to find the lounge. Luckily there’s an information board. According to which, the Air France lounge is two minutes to the right. So off I head.

No sign of a lounge after a couple of minutes’ walking. I head back and notice signs pointing to the lounge being in the opposite direction. I wander that way. After a while the signs stop. With no sign of a lounge.

Where the fuck is it? After a bit more wandering around, I spot an airport employee of some sort. “Where’s the Air France lounge?” I ask.

“Fifty metres in that direction.”

The exact opposite of what the fucking stupid information screen said. That disinformation machine made that more fucking complicated than it needed to be.

I’m feeling more lively when I finally enter the Air France lounge. Ooh look, there’s a bottle of whisky. It would be impolite not to give it a try.  Even though it is 7 AM.

The booze table in the Air France lounge.

My flight is just after eight. It will probably start boarding around half seven. How many whiskies can I get down in half an hour? Sounds like a challenge to me.

I start with a decent-sized measure. It’s very warming. I’m feeling even better than before by the time I’ve got it down. Time for another, I think. With a side order of orange juice. I’m very health conscious, you know.

When I’ve finished off the second whisky, I check the departures screen. My flight has just started boarding. Time for just one more. Just a smallish one. No more than a triple. Or so.

The gate isn’t too far. It doesn’t take that long to get there. They’re already quite a way through boarding. A woman is sitting in my seat. She’s really been assigned the middle seat. Cheeky git, trying to nick mine.

The plane is ready to leave. Except there are two no-shows. With checked bags that need to be unloaded. Great. It sets us back more than half an hour.

We’re fed a single biscuit. Plus a drink. It’s OK. Not being long since I had a decent breakfast.

Obviously, we arrive late. Not a worry for me as all I need is a taxi to continue my journey. More so for those with connecting flights. Of which I assume there are quite a few, judging by the rush with which some disembark.

I have to wait quite a while before my flight’s bags are unloaded. Exactly what I didn’t want.

My bag is one of the first out. Soon after, I’m in a taxi speeding through the rain. Outside is a grey and green blur. With cars staying in their fucking lanes. So comforting.

At home, Dolores is waiting for me. With tea. As always.