Guardian Angel of CDG
Just call me the Guardian Angel of Charles De Gaulle, the airport that is. One of the most –how can I say this politely—frustrating airports in the world. Though I hear that the airport in Dakar, Senegal is worse with a thief to traveler ratio at 5 to 1. CDG is on the top of the list of the most confusing and aggravating airports created with the blue print of French Bureaucracy no doubt.
I left my husband and baby with baguette and bottle, respectively, happy and contented in front of our gate while I spent my two hour layover finding a pharmacy to buy bug spray. All the time helping lost and weary travelers. I functioned as translator, gate guard, ticket reader and interpreter, gate number and terminal explainer and hand holder for fatigued travelers.
Years ago, I did a brief stint as a tour guide in Paris, so yes, I know where all the free toilets in Paris are located, but most of all, I have knowledge of the labyrinth of CDG airport from picking up 50+ high school students fresh from customs into the mouth of ever hungry and snarling Charles De Gaulle Airport. Sometimes, I too, am still afraid.
First an Italian lady with tears in her eyes waving a crumpled sheet of paper with hand scrawled in pencil “Air Europa.” She told me that her tickets were supposed to be at the ticket counter, but for all the money in the vaults of the Vatican she could not find the place and no one that worked there was helping. I found her counter, number 10 in Terminal 2 gate D which has nothing to do with where she will depart, gate C96. She had been traveling for 36 hours and just wanted to get home. Rescued from the jaws of Gaulle, hugs and kisses later, I left her at her gate. Va bene.
Then, I spied an American asking for directions from Immigration no less. I ran to her aid, knowing how scary immigration can be if you don’t have a carte de sejour--mine safely in my padlocked handbag. I felt sure enough to coax her away from the guard who said to her with a leer in his eye “I speeka some Eglishzz”. She was in the wrong section of the squiggle that they call Terminal Two, after spiraling around past gates that were not in any kind of order, 96 leads to 52 and then pow you are in section F, what out for falling roof tiles. She wanted to know why in the world there was a 2 in front of her cryptic gate information. I explained that there are three terminals and if the gods are smiling upon you, you will be departing out of Terminal 3 that is easy on the eyes and brain, shaped like a square. Imagine-- you can see all of the ticket counters in one swift gaze. Genius. But then you would have to be on an exotic airline like Air Cyprus or a charter flight to fly out of Terminal 3.
Terminal 1 is just one circle and in the medium range of difficulty (but under construction to make it five stars of difficulty at the moment) and Terminal 2 is the Escher-esque spiral that I spoke of previously, that you need GPS to navigate, a large dose of Tylenol with Codeine, and at least a three hour layover if you are connecting flights.
One time, on an ill fated Valentines day, I arrived only ONE hour ahead of time for a puddle jumper flight on an airline that I wont name, but it rhymes with “Hair Pants” and they were overbooked by 200 (!) people so I got bumped as I was second to last in the long line. I was standing behind four Brazilians that were in the wrong queue the entire time. I helped them find their correct gate with directions in Portuguese, but no good deed goes unpunished. Hair Pants told me “too bad” in not so many French words which I inturn translated in some other choice words to the three Spanish businessmen behind me. They went downstairs to spend the night in the train terminal and I ended up driving (big moan) all the way to Toulouse since there were no other flights. I never got a refund, even after I wrote a letter with photo copy of their 36 tenants to customer service, they still told me to jump off a cliff—also in some choice French words. Unfortunately, I still have to fly with them.
This time, I got to my gate, clutching my 14 Euro French Mosquito Spray (I capitalized it because it was expensive) in time to change the baby’s diaper so that everyone could have a good smelling if not pleasant enough flight on Hair Pants. The nearest bathroom was crammed full of people using two stalls and about the ambient temperature of the Paris Hamman. Much different then the Berlin airport bathroom that I used days later which had a nursing area of its own complete with two padded changing tables, toys, children’s tables and chairs, and a crib (!) all with disposable liners as well as sinks and private toilets.
I can’t always be in CDG when you are, but if I am, I will certainly help you, it’s the least that I can do. I would hate to waste this knowledge and it’s better than tying a string to your foot to find your way to your gate; there might just be a minotaur in the heart of the airport somewhere. That would explain the lost luggage which a source at Delta Airlines told me 9/10 bags lost have been routed through CDG in Paris. Mine included.
For more info check out the Paris airports website
And Bon Voyage!
