Overnight Flight to Paris: Arrival of the Walking Dead

I’ve traveled to France enough times that the transit process feels less like an adventure and more like established procedure. I usually take a nonstop overnight flight from Detroit, leaving the U.S. in the evening and arriving in Paris the following morning with little or no sleep. Once out of the airport, the challenge becomes staying awake until 9:00 or 10:00 pm, France time. Right out of the gate, I strive to be awake when the natives are awake and in bed when neighborhood windows start to go dark. In short order, I’m on a new schedule with only mild jet lag. However, on my most recent visit in August, a series of miscalculations laid waste to this strategy, and it didn’t help that my internal battery was at 30% before I even left Detroit.

From the get-go, the trip was different from those of the past. One reason for the voyage was to accompany my daughter, who was starting graduate school in Paris. Maman was going to hang out for a month while sa fille settled in. We wouldn’t travel together or even share the same apartment. I would get to experience French life in a Paris suburb; my daughter would be in the 14th arrondissement with me close at hand if she needed support, and we would make time for one-on-one fun, sharing our love of France. We initially planned to fly together but had to cancel my daughter’s ticket when her student visa failed to arrive in time. She would come as soon as she had it, but I didn’t want to wait.

Three other factors complicated my departure. First, I’ve long contemplated renting out my house when I travel. We live in a university town with a significant housing shortage. Visiting scholars and new professors are always moving to the area and looking to rent a house for an extended period. My thought has been that rental income could cover all of my travel expenses, and if the house is sitting vacant, why not make use of it? However, getting a house that five people have lived in for more than 20 years ready to rent is no small task. From March to early August, I triaged and cleaned (with occasional familial assistance) every drawer, closet, cupboard, shelf, storage box, and cubby hole in our attic, home, basement, and garage.

Getting rid of unneeded accumulation felt great, and most of the work was done by the end of July. But renting a home doesn’t just entail making a place clean and organized, then putting together photos and ad copy for rental listings. You need empty closets, empty drawers, empty shelves, a spotless refrigerator and freezer, pristine appliances, empty bathroom cabinets… In the two weeks before I left for France—somewhat to my family’s chagrin—I was like one of those cartoon termites that whizzes through a house and leaves it stripped bare.

A second logistical headache was that we planned to be gone until December. This meant I would need clothes for both warm and chilly weather. At the end of my stay in Paris, I would fly to Seattle, where our son lives, and my husband, Andy, would meet me there. Thirdly, there was the cat. Yes, our senior sweetheart, now aged 17, was too old to travel and very enamored with her daily routine. We didn’t want to disrupt it (as if all the commotion of the last several months, followed by the appearance of strangers moving in, would go unnoticed). But after much deliberation, we decided the best thing for the cat was to stay put. Since we still didn’t have a renter, I lined up a series of sitters. My dream of making money while out of town was being flipped on its head as I reeled from the possible impoverishment brought on by cat care bills.

Anyway, when I finally settled into my Delta cattle-class seat, I’d tied up enough loose ends to start relaxing. A glittering future lay ahead, centered on a reserved Airbnb in Saint-Mandé, a new Paris suburb for me but close to Vincennes where I often stay. The route to my apartment held no mystery, anchored by a routine I felt I’d perfected. After collecting my bags, I would walk to the RER B train station, refill my Navigo pass, take the RER to the appropriate metro station, then another train to get close to my apartment, and traverse the final kilometer on foot. So, when I landed (having failed to sleep for more than two 20-minute intervals), I went into automaton mode, executing the plan without much thinking.

My rolling bag was of the overhead variety, but the wheels are 20+ years old, and it no longer rolls very well. It weighed close to 40 pounds, and my set-to-explode backpack weighed at least 25 pounds. When seated on top of my suitcase, the added poundage increased the drag on the wheels. I figured that rolling that 65-lb load was the equivalent of dragging a 25-lb anvil. I also had a large, heavy purse. But the true butt-kicker was an extra suitcase with my daughter’s belongings inside—48 pounds worth. At least her luggage is new and rolls like a dream by comparison.

Anyway, getting to the RER station involves long corridors, an up escalator, several moving sidewalks, and two long, down escalators. By the time I got there, I was drenched in sweat and wondering if I could make it all the way to Saint-Mandé without snapping a wrist or rolling my ankle. I loaded my Navigo pass, then found a small ledge to sit on, next to a potted tree in a swarming waiting area.

I was wiped out but rationalized that at least there was no need to rush. I had time to think things through. My hosts had said dropping off the bags early wasn’t possible. So I needed to find a place to store them for several hours. They recommended a nearby storage locker, but it had to be reserved a day in advance, so that was no longer an option. After Googling, I found a service called Bounce—where local merchants agree to store your items. I can’t say the brand name Bounce instilled a feeling of trust, but their reviews were positive. For my storage depot, I chose a Franprix (a popular grocery chain) near the Porte de Vincennes. It was 0.8 miles from my apartment, but the closest option I could find.

I texted Andy, who should have been asleep but had been texting me. I told him how tired I was and that I was worried the baggage was too much to manage. He heartily endorsed my desire to hire an Uber. Sadly, Google told me that to get picked up, I needed to go all the way back to the baggage claim, where I’d been 40 minutes earlier, and beyond, following signs for VTC (voiture de tourisme avec chauffeur), an acronym for arranged rides of various stripes. Adding to the physical challenge was the elusiveness of VTC signage. I might as well have been trying to spot a snow leopard in the fog.

Luckily, the route to Porte 16 was relatively straightforward. Once there, I pulled out my phone to order the Uber. No one was around aside from a scattering of nicely dressed men. Some appeared to be chauffeurs; others, customers looking for their ride. But generally, the expansive hall was empty. I had to update the Uber app, and then, since I hadn’t used it in a long time, I decided to follow their tutorial. As I stood fumbling with my phone, a trim, Franco-Algerian-looking monsieur, shirt unbuttoned like an extra from Saturday Night Fever, wandered over and asked if I needed a ride.

I said oui and told him I was ordering an Uber. Of course this was a mistake. I never should have opened my mouth because the fact I was ordering an Uber was simply code for I’m your best prospect for as far as the eye can see. He was a driver and, of course, wanted my business. He feigned interest in wanting to help, peering at my phone and then my face, repeatedly offering his services. Non merci was hardly a deterrent, but it was all I could muster after each of his attempts. Even in the best of mental states—when I was rested and on top of my French-speaking game—I would have had difficulty conveying the message that was really in my mind: I won’t be getting in a car with you because I have no idea who you are or how my loved ones would ever track you down if you were to rob and murder me after we left the airport.

After making it through the tutorial, while shooing off my pursuer, I scheduled a ride and saw that pickups were only allowed at doors 5 through 8—doors I’d already passed twice, once on my way to the RER station and once on the way back. Disco man was back, and he eagerly confirmed the direction I needed to go. His prediction of a 10-minute walk didn’t buoy my spirits, but didn’t deter me either, as he might have hoped.

My ride was 8 minutes away. Suddenly, I had the energy of a bulldozer, moving my 100+ pound load at what might be considered a brisk pace. When I re-crossed the crowded exit area outside the baggage claim, the wandering horde only slowed me slightly. I was a woman with momentum, and luckily, distracted travelers moved out of my way before I clipped their stroller or Pomeranian.

I reached Porte 8 in 5 minutes, but as I swung my load 90 degrees to turn toward the exit, I saw it was taped off with a huge sign FERMÉ. I re-aligned my trajectory and rushed to Porte 7, only to find it didn’t exist. Instead, an elevator shaft dominated the space where Porte 7 might have been. Apparently, uniform spacing and predictability play little role in CDG’s avant-garde design. Sweat beading on my forehead, I trudge-trotted to Porte 6. Again, taped off and FERMÉ. Oh mon Dieu! On to Porte 5 and voilà, I was finally outside. At least my French was starting to pick up.

Sitting in the back of the Uber, I wondered how I’d kill time for the next five hours. Du courage, I told myself. This is the French way of saying hang in there. But in English, when an American says hang in there, the sense is that it’s only a matter of time and all will be well. When a French person says du courage, however, my interpretation is you’re pretty much screwed, but feel free to call me when it’s over.

The Uber driver’s puzzled expression did nothing to bolster my confidence when he dropped me off in front of the Franprix. After closing his trunk, he watched skeptically as I hefted my laborious cargo across the cobblestones and over the curb onto the trottoir, the sidewalk where I wouldn’t be doing much trotting.

To be continued…