Charles de Gaulle

[khiemtran]

On the other hand, this is how I arrived at Charles de Gaulle International Airport...


The first thing to note about Charles de Gaulle, or Roissy as it is known locally, is that it's one of those thankfully few international airports where passengers may still disembark onto the tarmac. It's also one of those where this happens surprisingly far away from the terminal.

The next thing to note is that when arriving at Charles de Gaulle after a long plane flight, say, for example, after twelve and a half hours from Hong Kong, is that it's very important to judge where your toilet stops should be.

Normally, I can do this fairly well. Everything now and then, though, something goes wrong.

On this occasion, I got within the last two hours - which is usually my "last chance to go" mark and decided that I would be able to last the distance. As it happened, I had misjudged a little and things were a little tighter than I thought.

The first tingle of regret came with one hour to go. Maybe it was combination of the largish "breakfast" we'd just received and the effects of jet lag and disrupted sleep, but, all of a sudden, I was very glad it was only an hour to go and not any longer.

So we come into land. Yep, I'm really glad we're nearly there.

Now we're standing up in the aisles. Various parts of my circulation get activated again and fluid starts getting moved around my body. All that liquid pooled in my ankles goes back into the main system. Yep, nearly there.

We seem to be taking an awfully long time to get off the plane. I'm craning my neck to see past the other passengers. No-one seems to be moving. I find out later that this is because the older passengers need to be helped down the steep and slippery steps and everyone is banked up behind them.

Waiting. Waiting. Any minute now.

Aha! We're moving, albeit slowly. Out we file towards the door, stopping each time an elderly or less mobile passenger needs to be helped down the stairs. I wonder if I should duck into the toilets on the plane before I go down. That would silly, I decide. We're only a few metres away now.

Down the stairs, and, oh, we're moving slowly now. Closer and closer to the ground. Oh, there's a bus. And we're stopping again now.

A lady at the base of the stairs talks to each of the passengers one by one and then points them off towards to the bus. Each passenger is only released when the one before them has nearly made to the bus some fifteen metres. One by one, they file off.

At last, it is nearly my turn, and, oh... the bus is full. Doesn't matter there's another one waiting. It will move up to take the first one's place any minute now. Um ... please?

I'm really starting to regret not going earlier now.

Okay, here's the new bus! And now it's my turn to leave the stairs and climb aboard. Climb aboard the ... empty bus, which isn't going to leave until it's full. Oh dear.

I grab one of the hand rails and instantly regret it. It's icy cold and sends shivers down entirely the wrong part of my body. I wait in silence, trying to summon my concentration. I'm sucking in a lot of air now, not exactly yawning, but trying desperately to hold out. The bus fills slowly. I wonder what to do if I don't make it. Maybe I could dash out onto the tarmac. Surely that sort of thing is acceptable in France. Oh, the doors have closed. Oh well, at least we're nearly there.

Um... Aren't we? We don't seem to be heading towards any of the nearby buildings. The lights we are heading towards seem very far away.

We stop and wait three times and various crossroads and taxiways. At last we're reached a nearby building. And ... driven under it. And keep on going.

I don't know what the other passengers are thinking about my facial expressions, but right now I don't care. My legs are actually shaking at this point. I'm breathing in like I was sucking oxygen through a straw.

After two more teases, the bus finally does stop and the doors open. Of course, being one of the first on, I'm one of the last off. We enter the building to find ... escalators. Abandoning any decorum, I push my way through past some of the slower passengers. Up. Up. Up. How much further is it to go?

At the top of the escalator is a corridor leading left and right. I face the ultimate fateful dungeon-game decision. Everyone is heading left as fast as they can. I turn right. There's a toilet door that I would have missed if I hadn't turned. I rush inside, accompanied by more than a few others who must have been in the same predicament.

Relief at last.

After a longish delay, I head back out again to join the queue for customs. Travel may indeed broaden the mind. But it also does much to stretch the bladder.

Comments

[green-knight.livejournal.com]

In Budapest you also depart on the tarmac, so I understand the bussing sequence very well. And it felt totally silly, because the direct line would have been about fifty metres, so to get on a bus and wait until it's full and then be maneuvred to the door just felt totally superfluous.

The way out was even weirder, because the bus took the long route all the way around the plane.

And I *so* am with you on the bursting bladder thing. Only the last time I did that I emerged to find everybody gone - this was Stanstead - so I hurried through the corridors. And somehow managed to get into the 'departure' stream rather than 'arrivals' which are _then_ parted by glass partitions for about five miles. I came out, feeling *very* embarassed and utterly confused, to be shunted through towards the back of immigration by a somewhat alarmed security person, who settled a bit when I assured him that there were about five more people coming out after me.

[khiemtran.livejournal.com]

Ironically, it's often faster to get the passengers off onto the tarmac, since they can use several doors at once on the big planes. They didn't do that at CDG though.