Bus? What bus?

There was more drama in last Wednesday's trip to the airport in Paris than desired. An early, leisurely start became a mad dash. Approaching the shuttle bus stop more than five hours before departure, I was pleased to see the Air France shuttle bus already there. Air France runs buses every half hour from the airport to downtown at a price that is more reasonable that a taxi and more comfortable than the RER.

After loading our bags and getting in line, four others and I were told there was no room. We were left with our bags to await the next bus. With buses scheduled every half hour, plenty of time until departure and complete ignorance of the future, this minor set back wasn’t of any concern.

Time passed quickly as we chatted about our trips and made small talk. More and more people gathered for the next bus. Soon over an hour had passed and no other buses had come. We took some comfort in seeing that several flight attendants were waiting with us and that they seemed unconcerned. But an hour became an hour and a half and then two. The flight attendants abandoned the line and flagged down a taxi. For those of us paying attention, this was our signal to panic.

First, two of my four original companions flagged down a taxi. Then the two others did and kindly invited me to join them. With the trunk of the taxi filled, my large bike case took the front seat, and the three of us squeezed uncomfortably into the back seat with along with a few remaining small bags. There was now less than two hours until take-off and at least a forty minute ride to the airport. As the taxi alternately raced along and sat in traffic jams, two thoughts were on my mind: Was I going to make my flight? And, having failed to ask before jumping into the taxi, how much was this going to cost me?

While pondering these, I learned that the couple were Chinese living in Finland; that they had gone to Lourdes to pray for the wife’s health; that the taxi driver was from Vietnam with a brother in Houston and many other fascinating tidbits. They were nice people and interesting to talk with. Uncomfortably pressed against the door with luggage in my lap and concerned about making the flight I confess my mind wasn’t really on the conversation.

With no idea what time it was, we arrived at the terminal and the answer to the first question was provided: $64. Unless you add the cost of the unused bus return ticket that makes it $18 more. In keeping with the spirit of the day, the taxi dropped me off as far as possible from the United counters. The long line of passengers awaiting my flight was eventually found after a mad dash. With less than an hour until take-off, it was comforting to know many others were just as late.

But comfort wasn’t part of this day’s theme. As we’ll see in the next post, with no knowledge of the future, how could I know that the taxi ride had simply been practice for the rest of my journey?