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1 France Turbulence! The seat belt light above our heads was constantly lit for our flight over the Atlantic to France's Orly airport. Flight attendants urged passengers to remain seated. Since the flight was too jolting for the attendants to serve anything, even they were seated and belted in. We began our descent. Our rough ride at 35,000 feet began to look smooth. The airplane rocked and creaked. Its wings flapped and groaned. C'mon, baby, hold together, I prayed. I scarcely felt Sharon's fingers gripping mine. Like a drunk albatross with one broken wing, we plummeted out of the sky. The pilot landed our wobbly craft with a deftness that only comes from thousands of hours behind the controls. Passengers broke into spontaneous applause. Huge grins creased their faces. Apparently I hadn't been the only one worried. Sharon and I high-fived one other. We were in France. Our cycle tour around the world was beginning its next step. Once safely off the plane, we followed the rest of the passengers to the custom's check-in. When we reached the front of the line, I handed the custom's officer our passports, and hoped he didn't request that I remove my ball cap so he could compare my face with the picture on my passport. He would have been in for a shock. Instead of the dapper fellow pictured, I now sported a Mohawk, courtesy of our previous day's visit to Oka. The officer handed back our papers and wished us a pleasant visit. "In like Flynn," I whispered to Sharon. Leaving Sharon by the luggage carousel, I wandered off in search of a baggage cart. Ah, ha! I spied one outside the terminal. By the time I exited the building, another fellow was fast approaching my trolley. In a slapstick moment, we both clutched the handle at the exact same time. "You want this?" he sneered. "Yep," I replied. With one hand, I doffed my hat revealing my Mohawk and otherwise bald pate. He dropped the handle. Apparently, he didn't want to mess with a Mohawk warrior. Feeling somewhat smug, I wheeled my ill-gotten trolley back inside. A guard stopped me. Maybe I had to reenter the baggage area elsewhere. As I surveyed the situation, wondering what to do, more people arrived behind me. The guard stopped everyone. "What's happening?" I asked a fellow behind me. "Suspect luggage," he answered. "It's been going around on that carousel for over an hour." I glanced over the guard's shoulder and was relieved to see a brown handbag that wasn't ours. Policemen, in natty tight-fitting uniforms, arrived. They efficiently removed the wayward luggage and whisked it behind closed doors... to be blown up in some deserted field I suspected. Probably a poor old lady had missed her connecting flight, but her luggage had transferred successfully without her. Now, in some desolate field outside France's Orly airport, her frilly pink bloomers were going to be blown to smithereens. With the hazardous luggage dealt with, the guard allowed our scraggly queue to proceed. By the time I arrived back, Sharon had already reassembled our bikes, pedals reattached, handlebars retightened in their forward position. The only thing left for me to do was to inflate the tires. We no longer needed a trolley. I offered it to a small grey-haired woman from Cincinnatti. I hoped she wasn't looking for a missing brown handbag. After inflating our tires, we attached our saddlebag panniers, bungeed our tent, sleeping bags, and sleeping pads to our rear racks, then pushed our bikes into the main terminal area. We leaned our bikes against a vacant wall, and while Sharon stayed with our belongings I went off in search of an automated teller machine. Before leaving home we had visited our bank to make sure our credit cards would work in European ATM's. I came across a machine with a bank logo and a slot. That's an ATM? There were no buttons. I wasn't about to stick my precious credit card in there. I continued on my way and came across another likely looking machine. And this one had buttons! I promptly inserted my card. It promptly spit it out. Ah, ha. Reading the fine print, I discovered it was a bus fare machine. A couple of backpackers stood nearby, looking over a map of Southeast Asia. "How do I use the bank machine?" I asked, pointing in the ATM's direction. "There's no buttons." "Just stick in your card and a door will slide open," the fella advised. "My wife and I are cycle touring Europe. About how much per day do you think we should estimate for France?" "If I were you, I'd head for Spain as quick as possible. It's much cheaper there." I decided I'd withdraw the equivalent of $5oo and see how far that got us. I approached the machine and inserted my card. Sure enough, a door slid silently open, revealing a key set. I keyed in my pin number and amount. For my efforts I received a message: "Your bank has refused this transaction." The machine ejected my card. Hmmm. Maybe $500 was too high. I inserted the card again and went through the process with half the amount. Again, I received the same message. Maybe if I try a $100? I was about to put my card in again when the backpacker shouted at me to stop. He had been watching my lack of progress, and now came running over. "If you put your card in again and it doesn't accept the transaction, the machine will keep your card. Sometimes a bank doesn't accept certain cards. See if you can find another machine to try." After thanking him for his help, I took an escalator downstairs in search of another machine. It would be a shame if I lost our credit card on our first day in France. I found another machine, but it was the same sad story. After failing the second time, I got in line at a foreign exchange counter and converted some Canadian money. At least I had enough to buy a map of France and a foreign phrase book. After visiting the book store and buying my two items I returned
to where Sharon was patiently waiting, writing in her journal. I returned to the first machine and quickly discovered Sharon's card didn't work either. At that point, I had the bright idea to try my MasterCard. I keyed in the information and hit enter. Jackpot! I hurried back to the book store and purchased a FrenchEnglish dictionary. Maybe it would help in future difficult situations. |
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