Written March 2007 after returning home from Republic of Congo...
We left Brazaville at 10:20 pm local time on a full flight. I had forgotten about the insecticide last year. After they close the doors, flight attendants briskly walk down each aisle of the plane holding bug bombs over their heads, spraying the plane. All this while announcing that the bug spray is safe and harmless. Uh, ok. Smells great, too. Although, given a choice between smelling that and smelling some guy's impressibly bad B.O. for seven hours, I think I may have chosen the insecticide.
Apologies in advance to the Francophiles out there. My experience in Paris was less than impressive and certainly did not encourage me to ever return. Perhaps other French airports are more usable, I don't really know.
We landed at 5:30am, after sitting on an incredibly stinky flight for over 7 hours. Have I mentioned how awful Charles de Gaulle is? Once again, we pull up to the terminal/construction project featured on "Engineering Disasters." It's not terribly comforting to see that they are rebuilding it in what appears to be exactly the same way. Perhaps they got some advice on mechanics of materials this time.
Apparently the French aren't too keen on designing a building to actually be used. We exit through a jetway, and encounter the first intentional bottleneck of the place, check #1 (of 8) of our passports. While standing in the next herd of people, we admire the lovely poured concrete and wires hanging out of the ceiling. Oh so attractive and welcoming. After shuffling through yet another couple of intentional bottlenecks, we herd onto a shuttle bus for ride #1. The shuttle bus experience at CDG is somewhat akin to riding a Boston subway at rush hour. Our stop is third, and we are thrilled to discover that people have to climb over each other to get on and off. This is especially delightful at 6:00 am in the morning when one has been flying all night (true for the vast majority of people using the shuttle at this time of day).
We finally reach our terminal, where we shuffle into yet another bottleneck, and I think they checked our passports yet again. I don't even remember all of the passport checks; Todd counted eight.
At the Air France security checkpoint, they demand our boarding passes. We don't have them yet, as our flight home is Delta, and despite the propaganda, Delta and Air France systems don't play together very well.
OK, now to find the Delta desk. Have I mentioned that CDG is offensively ugly and has a complete lack of signage? In addition to the planned bottlenecks, the entire airport is under construction, and there is an affinity for poured concrete. The entire place has the ambience of a county lockup. Most of the place is a rat maze, where you are confronted with blank walls with perhaps one very vague sign on it. You wander through hallway after hallway, wondering where you'll finally come out of the maze. If you're lucky, you don't have to try to retrace your steps. Come to think of it, I never saw anything with color or resembling an attempt at art.
We are looking for the way out (ya think a sign saying "customs" or "sortie" might be helpful?) and finally find some Police just standing around. After asking how to get out of the place so we can access the Delta desk, the snotty agent answers then says, "You need to say bonjour first." Asshole. We just left a shithole that the French colonized, and have seen how effective their leadership was, and how all the protocol has immensely improved the quality of life there. And this jerk is in a snit because we didn't say "bonjour" first? I can think of plenty else to say besides "bonjour."
After we exit customs, there is still no indication of where we might exit into the main terminal. After asking yet another employee where the Delta desk is, we get a cursory "upstairs." I guess it was too much effort to say, "Upstairs at the far end." Whatever. By this point we are annoyed and just want to get the hell out of there.
We finally find the Delta desk and show our passports yet again, this time answering the silly questions about packing our own luggage and whatnot. Despite explaining that we already tried to get boarding passes downstairs and our reservations are not showing up in the system, the employee there insists we use the kiosks. As predicted, that doesn't work and we approach the desk. I start getting concerned when the ticket agent picks up the phone, never a good sign. I am directed to yet another counter, whereupon I'm told that I have a ticket for the originally scheduled date of Monday, and merely a confirmation for yesterday. AAAAARGH. After about 15 minutes, she gets me straightened out and takes me back to the original desk, where I get my boarding pass. Finally. Oh, and I showed my passport again.
I re-enter the rat maze: customs again, security again, flash the passport a few times again. I manage to find my terminal, and groan when I see it's simply another holding cell for yet another shuttle bus ride. There's duty free shops and a café, but no payphones. Oh, that's brilliant, for a terminal serving international flights. Hello, France, not everyone has an international cell phone.
Approximately 2.5 hours after escaping the stench of the previous flight, I rejoin my colleagues. They had an easier time getting their boarding passes and beat me there.
At this point, I've concluded that it is easier to transit Africa. You KNOW you're gonna be jacked, you plan for it, and either pay someone to do it for you (the expeditor) or stick a small bill in your passport once or twice, and you're done. At CDG, I feel I'm getting jacked over and over. There is a distinct attitude there of not caring if you're being helped or not, and a ridiculous number of hoops to jump through. I see that socialism is working really well for the French.
And our little Congo-jacking-in-Paris isn't over.
We get into yet another line to get on the subway-cum-shuttle bus. Todd goes first, presents his boarding pass, and the gate agent asks him for his flight coupon. WTF? He explains that we have electronic tickets, and we had to check in at the Delta counter, this is what we have, and isn't a boarding pass permission to board the plane? By the way, when I was pulled to the other Delta counter, the agent there printed out flight coupons for me, so I'm all set. Todd and Steve only have boarding passes. At this point, Todd is starting to seriously lose it. I've been bitching already (I know everyone is surprised), and that this point we are all three ready for a melt-down.
An uncharacteristically helpful airline employee pulls us over to another desk, looks up Todd and Steve, says he doesn't know what the problem is, and tells the other agent to let us board the bus. Good gawd. We thank him profusely.
Meanwhile, during all of this, it has become clear that handicapped or elderly people are not welcome here. There is absolutely no way either could navigate this place. There are stairs everywhere, literally miles of walking, and unhelpful employees.
By the time we got hassled for flight coupons, three hours had gone by.
At least this airplane didn't stink.
Ten hours later, we arrive in Atlanta. I make a quick call to Paula from the plane, tell her I'll call her back after getting off the plane, going through customs, retrieving my luggage, sending it through customs, and re-checking my bags. Ten minutes later I call her back, laughing. WOW what a difference a continent makes! It was easy, quick, clear, and everyone we encountered was friendly and helpful. NO MORE Congo-jacking. I can't express how good it felt to be back in civilization (NOT at CDG) in a country that understands how to get things done. Wide corridors, no bottlenecks, no multiple layers of crap. Just bang, bang, boom, you're done.
Didn't even mind the hour delay getting back to Indy. Just meant there was time to relax and go get a beer, and continue forcing my body clock back to EST.
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