Visiting Paris (1): Going there

Europe is down there somewhere

April seems one of the best months to go on a trip to Europe, in my humble opinion.  The weather is warm but not too warm, the tourist hordes are not as great as in the summer months.  Accommodations are more affordable, and you can see the sights without looking over the heads of other tourists, or at least there aren't as many of them.  Not only that but the days are long enough and the sun is high enough for some good daylight photography.  

Traveling from North America of course poses certain problems.  Last time I chose a daytime flight, figuring I was better off to do my sleeping on the ground.  The only problem is that we arrived at Heathrow just before the last shuttle bus made its rounds of the various terminals to take me to my hotel. Arriving  half an hour later and I would have been thrust upon the tender mercies of the taxi services at the airport, who naturally capitalize on the lack of  cheaper alternative transport by raising their rates.   And as it turned out the hostel I was going to stay in the following night was actually open 24 hours, to accommodate international arrivals.  

So this time I chose to travel overnight, leaving the ground in Chicago at 6 pm. and arriving in Paris local time around 9 am the next morning.  This is good because although you haven't had a good or full night's sleep, at least the ground transportation services are up and running.  

My overnight flight in coach was miserable.  While those in first and business class were no doubt being wined and dined and given complimentary back rubs by solicitous flight attendants, and were given a seat that could recline fully so you had some chance of actually sleeping, we had no such luck.  While they were being given something really nice to eat, we were eating from a trough in the back.  A curtain was drawn so we, the underprivileged masses could not see all that maddening opulence.  We were warned not to violate the sanctity of the business class restrooms either. 

Unfortunately I find it impossible to sleep in an upright position fully clothed with my seat belt pulled tightly across my waist. The passenger next to me was an obese Afro-Frenchman of some sort (at least I'm assuming he was, as he was reading Le Figaro) who took up all of his seat and part of mine.  I had the window seat and I suppose that was a slight advantage.  I took the little pillow and stuffed in my earplugs, and bravely tried to sleep. But you know sleep is not something you can force.  Not being accumstomed to sleeping upright fully clothed, I sucked at it when I tried.  

Crossing the Irish Sea 

The video screen on the back of seat in front of me had a little map with which I could monitor our progress across the Atlantic.  It would alternate between a closer view and a broader transatlantic view.  If the clouds were not obscuring the sight of mother Earth, you could look down and tell yourself, ah, that must be Labrador, or Quebec, or Ireland, etc.   Alternatively you could watch one of maybe two or three really lame in-flight movies, I think one of them was yet another zombie apocalypse flicks, one was a story of a single mom and the good looking single man next door whom the little boy is trying to bring together (where have we seen that one before?) and the third choice so help me was the lego movie featuring animated lego toys.   The entertainment fare offered by United Airlines was distinctly inferior to the wonderful choices you got on British Airways.  Flying is not really all that wonderful, especially if you are crammed into a small seat with nothing much to do except wait for them to distribute the complimentary juice or coffee or (for a credit card charge) booze of some sort. 

Regarding the choice of airlines, since the price was the same I chose to fly British Airways to London, and Lufthansa to Paris. This meant I was actually going to fly American to London and British Airways back, and this time, Lufthansa means flying United both ways across the Atlantic.  I find this confusing and strange, but then I don't pretend to understand the complicated politics of flying internationally.  I could have flown Lot Airlines provided I didn't mind a stopover in Warsaw and I could have flown Turkish Air if I didn't mind a stop in Istanbul, but that would have prolonged the flight and to my mind increased the chance that they will lose my bag or something.

The night passed quickly in view of the fact that we were advancing 7 hours overnight, which essentially means that the night, only about 11 hours long to begin with was 7 hours shorter than that, making it by my estimate here about 4 hours.    Suffice it to say that the evening light was prolonged, the night very short and the dawn premature.  Though it was only about 2 in the morning the flight attendants were pretending that it was 9 am and time to rise and shine, have some breakfast.  I set my watch 7 hours ahead and did my best to adjust myself accordingly.  We landed on a nice sunny morning in France, and the next week was pleasant and warm for the most part.  

Arriving at the International Terminal CDG-Roissy Paris.

I had gotten myself a somewhat larger roller bag for this trip partly because I was going to be gone for 12 days, and partly because I wanted more room in the bag to take stuff back with me.  Of course the more stuff you have the more you have to keep track of and worry about.  What I would be taking from France were small digital images on tiny mini-SD cards.  I took 4 cameras, 4 lenses, more than 100 AA batteries, transformer, chargers for Li ion batteries,  I had two Pentax cameras, my old K-1 and my new K-30, and my trusty Olympus SP590uz.  I also took a camera harness that made carrying three cameras simultaneously less of a strain on my shoulders and neck and I had a photo vest with lots of pockets for maps of the city and a front zipper pocket for my wallet.

Perhaps fans of Alan Parson's album "I Robot" will remember this place:

 

Yes that is Charles De Gaulle-Roissy Airport's International Terminal.

 My bag was a nondescript black roller bag.  Naturally somebody else had one just like it.  I had given some thought of putting zebra stripes on my bag to make it distinctive but I never got around to it, and the bag made it to Europe and back in its own black nylon zippered anonymity.   Bienvenue a France!