Taxi Trauma

Bonne année, as people are still saying!

Sorry I haven't written for a few weeks. I had a wonderful time spending the holidays in Kansas. In fact, I'm glad I got there at all. I got out of Charles de Gaulle airport about four hours before they cancelled all flights due to snow. Getting to the airport, though, was the real adventure.

My plan was to take a taxi to the high-speed train station, catch the 7:07 to CDG, and arrive with plenty of time to check in for my 9:30 flight. I reserved the taxi two days in advance to make sure I booked them before the snow fell. A teacher at school offered to drive me if they refused. "Would they actually refuse?" I asked. "Mmm. . . No. . ." he failed to reassure me.

6am Saturday morning found me and the Lithuanian assistant, who was sharing the cab, standing in the cold waiting for our taxi.

Waiting.

And waiting.

It was 6:15. I was calling the taxi service and getting the answering machine. The third time, I listened carefully to the message: "Hello, you have reached C--- Taxis. Due to the weather we cannot acquiesce to your demands. Thank you for understanding."

I was angry that day, my friends, like a man trying to return soup at a deli.

My friend knew that all the busses were cancelled except for one that went to a train stop in nowheresville. If we took that, maybe I could get to the airport in four hours or so. We started walking to the bus stop in the center of town. It was freezing. Only my ire kept me warm.

We passed two policeman hanging out in a bakery, chatting with the baker. My partner suggested we ask them for a ride.

Turns out they weren't policemen, but security guards. Nonetheless, they were very helpful. They got out a phone book and started calling different taxi services. No luck. Finally, one of the guards offered to drive us. It was very generous, and it's not like we had an option.

We arrived at the train station (with no problems) at 7:05. I had two minutes to get my ticket. Of course, as soon as I got to the counter, the man working there drew the shade and left. I tapped my foot, trying to look so visibly impatient that he would notice there were people with flights to make and get a move on. The intercom announces the arrival of my train. The man comes back. There's a young couple in front of me. They're asking about times, comparing prices, talking it over. . .

I can't take it anymore. I burst, "Are you going to be a long time? They're announcing my train!"

Thank goodness they were nice people. They insisted I go ahead of them. I slapped my online receipt in front of the man and ask for my ticket. He clicked his tongue reprovingly and said, "You should have gotten here earlier. . ."

But he gave me my ticket, I ran down the ramp, giant backpack just serving to make my run funnier, and-- I write this proudly-- made the 7:07 train!

Of course my flight turned out to be three hours late. But I got there on schedule, thanks to the generosity of a few Frenchmen-- and perhaps some divine intervention.