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Leaving Paris
Nov. 14th, 2021 11:00 amKent and I are sitting in reasonably comfortable chairs at gate D41 at Charles DeGaulle waiting for our Aegean flight to Athens. After a restless night in a very different time zone Kent woke suddenly at 8am - an hour later than we expected to be downstairs eating a leisurely breakfast before departing for the airport. We rushed about madly, I got one cup of coffee of poor coffee and some buns, and made it out to our taxi right on time for our 9:30am reservation.
Our driver was from Ghana - NOT Guyana - and seemed surprised that I knew the difference. He told me Ghana was a former British colony. I told him I was from the US which was also a former British colony. This surprised him enormously. He spent several years in New York City but had never heard that. Whatever his experience in NY, he knew the Paris airport well. He whizzed past a long barely moving queue of cars waiting for Terminal 2B, whipped through Terminal 2C, and buzzed right into 2B by the back entrance. He even knew where the Aegean counter was, and gave us directions while snagging a cart and piling our luggage on it. And that was the end of fast and efficient for the morning.
There were only two gentlemen in the line for Aegean Air. That looked good. And then just as it was their turn to go forward Mamma came to join them, coming from the wrong direction - opening and closing belts on any stanchions that happened to be in the way. Apparently, according to a combination of my limited Greek and French, the family was taking an afternoon flight to Athens and wanted to check their luggage now so that they could go into the city for lunch. Impossible. It was not yet the time. Yes! Yes! It must be now! Eventually the agent gave in because the line was getting longer and longer. But first, says Mamma, her younger son must take things out of one checked bag and put them in the woven carry on that she hands him. They argue. Then younger boy, maybe 40 or so, gets down on the floor, opens his suitcase, and starts taking out sweaters and underwear and chocolates. They finish. The agent checks the bags. Mamma - perhaps five feet tall and dressed in very chic clothing - leads off her boys - each well over six feet - in the wrong direction. The agent tries to call after them then shrugs and motions Kent and I, the easy, organized Americans, to check in.
The agent takes our luggage, glances at our vaccination records, and hands us our boarding passes. Covid tests? Not requested. She does ask if we have our Greek Passenger Locator form. We do! All is well and we are off to security.
Security is a madhouse. But not an angry madhouse. I think that is saved for US airports. One uniformed guard sees our walking canes and scoots us to the crew line. There another guard whisks us to the front. And now I feel like the Greek gentleman - nearly everything must come out of my carry on and be placed in a separate container. Kent must remove his belt. We are both allowed to keep our shoes. My metal-filled body sets off all the alarms at the station. A pleasant woman comes over and feels me up and down. She finds no knives or guns, but does examine the bottoms of my shoes. She smiles but does not speak. I am allowed to bypass the two minute description of how I am to be searched that is required of all TSA agents. We reassemble, find an elevator, and with only one five minute stop for me to rest (and us to watch an injured agent - cut her pinkie - be bandaged up by another agent) we arrive at the waiting area for our flight.
The female flight attendant puts my bag up into the overhead and brings me a seat belt extender. We take off and are quickly served a restaurant-worthy meal of veal and potatoes in a tasty Greek sauce (with salad, bread, cheese, and dessert) and miniscule glasses of Coke. We eagerly drink two each for a total of about 8 ounces. The wine glasses for our seatmates across the aisle are much larger. I nap. Suddenly we are in Athens.
We deplane and queue up for vaccination control. But wait! Kent, magnificent, omnipotent Kent, has printed off our Greek Passenger Locator forms! We are moved immediately to the head of the line. A clerk glances at the logo at the top of the form and waves us through. Our luggage is first onto the baggage carousel. We exit in the green line still waiting for someone to request our vaccine cards, our covid tests, our passports. Nope. We are done.
Except there are no toilets in the terminal. Sad. Awkward.
My "Kale mera, sas." is apparently in a good enough accent to get me a spate of Greek from the taxi driver. He recognizes "Hotel Hermes, Plaka" and that's all the conversation in his massively high-speed sprint into town. Appollonus Street looks like it always has - narrow and dirty and full of people. Nikos Taverna - my favorite place in the Plaka since 1984 - has not survived the plague. But the Hermes welcomes us and sends us one by one up the tiny elevator. Our room is small but comfortable and there is a plug point right by my bed for my CPAP. The bathroom as a walk in shower with half a glass door. All is well.
Our driver was from Ghana - NOT Guyana - and seemed surprised that I knew the difference. He told me Ghana was a former British colony. I told him I was from the US which was also a former British colony. This surprised him enormously. He spent several years in New York City but had never heard that. Whatever his experience in NY, he knew the Paris airport well. He whizzed past a long barely moving queue of cars waiting for Terminal 2B, whipped through Terminal 2C, and buzzed right into 2B by the back entrance. He even knew where the Aegean counter was, and gave us directions while snagging a cart and piling our luggage on it. And that was the end of fast and efficient for the morning.
There were only two gentlemen in the line for Aegean Air. That looked good. And then just as it was their turn to go forward Mamma came to join them, coming from the wrong direction - opening and closing belts on any stanchions that happened to be in the way. Apparently, according to a combination of my limited Greek and French, the family was taking an afternoon flight to Athens and wanted to check their luggage now so that they could go into the city for lunch. Impossible. It was not yet the time. Yes! Yes! It must be now! Eventually the agent gave in because the line was getting longer and longer. But first, says Mamma, her younger son must take things out of one checked bag and put them in the woven carry on that she hands him. They argue. Then younger boy, maybe 40 or so, gets down on the floor, opens his suitcase, and starts taking out sweaters and underwear and chocolates. They finish. The agent checks the bags. Mamma - perhaps five feet tall and dressed in very chic clothing - leads off her boys - each well over six feet - in the wrong direction. The agent tries to call after them then shrugs and motions Kent and I, the easy, organized Americans, to check in.
The agent takes our luggage, glances at our vaccination records, and hands us our boarding passes. Covid tests? Not requested. She does ask if we have our Greek Passenger Locator form. We do! All is well and we are off to security.
Security is a madhouse. But not an angry madhouse. I think that is saved for US airports. One uniformed guard sees our walking canes and scoots us to the crew line. There another guard whisks us to the front. And now I feel like the Greek gentleman - nearly everything must come out of my carry on and be placed in a separate container. Kent must remove his belt. We are both allowed to keep our shoes. My metal-filled body sets off all the alarms at the station. A pleasant woman comes over and feels me up and down. She finds no knives or guns, but does examine the bottoms of my shoes. She smiles but does not speak. I am allowed to bypass the two minute description of how I am to be searched that is required of all TSA agents. We reassemble, find an elevator, and with only one five minute stop for me to rest (and us to watch an injured agent - cut her pinkie - be bandaged up by another agent) we arrive at the waiting area for our flight.
The female flight attendant puts my bag up into the overhead and brings me a seat belt extender. We take off and are quickly served a restaurant-worthy meal of veal and potatoes in a tasty Greek sauce (with salad, bread, cheese, and dessert) and miniscule glasses of Coke. We eagerly drink two each for a total of about 8 ounces. The wine glasses for our seatmates across the aisle are much larger. I nap. Suddenly we are in Athens.
We deplane and queue up for vaccination control. But wait! Kent, magnificent, omnipotent Kent, has printed off our Greek Passenger Locator forms! We are moved immediately to the head of the line. A clerk glances at the logo at the top of the form and waves us through. Our luggage is first onto the baggage carousel. We exit in the green line still waiting for someone to request our vaccine cards, our covid tests, our passports. Nope. We are done.
Except there are no toilets in the terminal. Sad. Awkward.
My "Kale mera, sas." is apparently in a good enough accent to get me a spate of Greek from the taxi driver. He recognizes "Hotel Hermes, Plaka" and that's all the conversation in his massively high-speed sprint into town. Appollonus Street looks like it always has - narrow and dirty and full of people. Nikos Taverna - my favorite place in the Plaka since 1984 - has not survived the plague. But the Hermes welcomes us and sends us one by one up the tiny elevator. Our room is small but comfortable and there is a plug point right by my bed for my CPAP. The bathroom as a walk in shower with half a glass door. All is well.
