When choosing to visit France, there’s a certain amount of risk you assume that everything you want to do will be closed that day due to strike. Strike, protest, violence, terrorism— just pick one. But it still came as a surprise when, the day my flight left for Morocco, the airport was closed.
“The airport is closed? What if I take a taxi there? Are you sure it’s not just this train?” That was me. I was at Anthony station on the RER, where you catch the tram to Orly. Since the day before it was St. Patty’s day and I was celebrating in Paris, I was running late, had a pounding headache, and was in no shape to comprehend this. Then, I round the corner to find the other masses of people waiting to go to the airport and the TV. The police have closed the airport due to a man being shot down after stealing a guard’s gun. Sure enough, the airport was closed. Now, originally, they told us it would be open at noon. Perfect. I mean, with all the luck in the world, the trains would start running again at 11:30, the airport would open at 12, and my flight would leave on time at 12:20. That’s what I thought. 20 minutes later, the announcement was made that it just wasn’t opening.
On my way to teach English in Morocco for just a week and a half, I was devastated. I knew I cut it too close. Flights don’t go to Morocco every day, and the program would be over before I got there. I was calculating how much a plane ticket would have to cost for me to say no to this dream. If it was too expensive, I would take 4 trains and a ferry if I had to. I was getting to Morocco. So I got back on the same train in the opposite direction to Charles de Gaulle airport. So proud that I thought to use the same ticket and not waste money. And that I thought to ride to CDG. But if you can imagine riding an outer-zone line from end to end, you’re right, it’s not fun. And it takes about 2 hours. Ugh.
Once I arrived at CDG, bathroom first. Rest, wash, water, and panic. I asked at information for a ticket to Morocco, and they pointed me to the third party window that worked for Royal Air Maroc, my original flight. “Go to Hall 1. At 14:00, they will be checking people in for a 16:00 flight.” Really?! Best news I heard all day. They started landing all RAM flights at CDG instead of Orly, and had booked another couple flights out that night for those who missed. And since I was the first of the misplaced persons at Orly, I was going to be first in line and get on that flight. Wrong.
Apparently, I needed to call my ticketing agent and have confirmation of my new ticket. I guess intuition doesn’t get you on a replacement flight. Since this is also the first time in my life I booked through a third party, I was now kicking myself for that mistake. Call Expedia about my Royal Air Maroc flight from France? Yeah right. I tried, and tried again. Actually, my Dad tried as well. I was supposedly on a flight at 21:40 that night. Once it became clear that I didn’t catch the 16:00, I was happy with 21:40. But I was continually confused, as every agent at the airport said 20:40, and my only option was now to go to Casablanca, not Rabat.
Ok. As long as I’m on a flight and that flight is free and that flight is within the next 24 hours, and that flight lands anywhere in Morocco. Oh, how my reasoning changed. But it was true, all I cared about was that I got there, found Rabat, and found Samad, my Moroccan contact. New plan, get into Casa in the middle of the night, sleep at the airport, and take the morning train to Rabat. Really, a great plan. Jumping ahead to Casa, when the last re-booked flight lands in Casa at 01:30 and everyone exits customs, there is no one at the airport—absolutely no one. So much for trying to blend in.
Back to CDG airport… Once I had some news I might make it, I found a sandwich and devoured it. Sat, moved, waited. Bathroom, phone charging, water. Repeat. About every 45 minutes, they would change the gate we were to check in at. And it became clear that no one was making any flight but the 20:40 flight, which was really booked for 21:40, and which really departed at 22:50. We shuffled and shuffled. I find it interesting that me, a seasoned air traveler in the US, was doing everything an amateur would do. Instead of relaxing and waiting seated, I stood, and moved, and stood, and moved, and carried my 30-pound backpack. I, along with 50 other people, needed to be first in line.
Check in time, okay, one. more. line. Me and the misplaced persons shuffled. Check in counter, e-mail confirmation, passport scan—it doesn’t work. In a broken French conversation, I understood that I needed to call my booking agent so she could talk to them. I called, I stood, I waited on hold as the entire line checked in. I waited as he waited on hold with Royal Air Maroc. My new ticket, had the old flight number on it, “Our mistake.” F. I waited until everyone, I mean everyone in line checked in during the two hours I stood in front of this nice ticketing woman on the phone. Finally, she called Royal Air Maroc. Finally, I found my actual ticket number, and finally, she scanned my passport and told me to hang up the phone. Finally.
Two hours later, I was boarding the plane to Morocco. Over 900 people were on that flight. Me and 900 misplaced persons. And a certain fondness grows, in a very short time, for those people who are now like you. I had conversations with over 40 strangers that day, no doubt. The man I first came to in French and English at CDG. He was first in line, he was savvy, and he was gone by 16:00. The two girls I joined in line for the first 4 hours at the airport, knowing they were on the ‘Orly flight’. The family, wrapping their luggage that assured me I didn’t need to wrap mine. The tall, tall sub-Saharan who I could not understand, but so desperately wanted to. The woman at the vending machine, who gave me money when mine wasn’t working. The security man I told about a lost child, who came back to thank me. The woman who saw me cry, when I was finally seated right in front of boarding, after 24 hours on my feet and no sleep. The bathroom attendant in Casa, who’s heart warmed in the morning when she realized I had spent the night there. The American woman on work in Casa who wrote the train schedule down for me. The young boy who walked me to the opposite platform just to ask directions for me. And the teenage Moroccan couple who found me a seat on the train on the last leg to Rabat. Broken French, English, Arabic. Words, smiles, nods. Language is really the last thing we need to communicate.
