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| Old Town Nice |
Like all good things, my dream vacation in the South of
France had to come to an end. As it turns out, however, my journey lasted
longer than I had anticipated. On Monday morning, I bid adieu to my charming
little hovel and the old couple who used to call “bonjour madame” from the
window below my apartment when they saw me leaving, which made me feel like a
regular part of this vibrant quarter of Vieux Nice. I dragged my bags full of
French books, chocolate and savon de Marseille onto the bus and gazed at the
sea like a convict headed to prison as the vehicle
made its way to the airport.
When I arrived at the British Airways desk to check my bag,
the perky agent informed me that my flight to London would be very late, but if
I could wait for a bit, she’s check to see if there was room on the prior
flight. A few minutes later, just as cheerfully as she had offered to help find
me another flight, she informed me that it was full, so she’d just check me in for my original flight and I
could speak to Customer Service to figure out my options.
Next stop: Customer Service. After waiting for some other
disgruntled customers from my flight, I put on my best polite French voice and
asked the agent how I could get back to Baltimore since I’d probably miss my
connecting flight. This woman was not so cheerful. She told me I’d just have to
take the later flight to Dulles because after all, it’s still Washington.
I guess someone with a long line of tired, frantic customers
who has never been to DC doesn’t understand, or more likely just doesn’t care
that when you live in Baltimore, flying to Washington-Dulles instead of Baltimore-Washington Airport is just as inconvenient as going to Philadelphia, New York or Atlanta. I
tried to explain that you just can’t land at Dulles at 9:00 p.m. with no prior planning
and expect to find your way back to Baltimore in fewer than several hours and
for less than hundreds of dollars. She was already tired of me, and she told me
to just ask British Air to get me a taxi when I landed. Clearly she done with me, so I figured I’d just wait for my flight to London and hope
for the best. Maybe they would hold the plane for me in London or pick me up in
an airport vehicle and rush me to the runway like they do in the movies.
Two hours after my scheduled departure time, I boarded the
plane. A very nice Brit who had permanently traded in the grey skies of London
for sunny Cannes told me it was in the pilot’s hands now. I figured he
was right, so I stopped worrying and started taking note of his opinions on the
economy and tips for buying property on the Riviera. Investors beware: Avoid the super exclusive area of Cap Ferrat, which is now overrun by Russians building garish houses designed to show off their
wealth.
When we landed in London, I rushed off the plane ten minutes
before the gates were due to close for my flight to Baltimore. There was nobody
waiting for me, so I rushed to fast track at passport control only to
learn that the flight was closed. My heart sank. The agent directed me back to
the connecting flights desk, where I waited for what seemed like an eternity
while an African lady yelled repeatedly in French at a companion and the agent
that she knew a better schedule for getting to Marseille through Paris. My head
was screaming and all of the calm that I had found in France was gone for good.
When it was finally my turn, I explained my problem
to the next British Air representative, who told me she could put me on the
flight to Dulles. Here we go again. I recalled the words of the Brit on the
plane telling me to get what was best for me. Dulles was not the best option,
not even close. Trying to be work with the agent, I explained that I had no way of getting
home from Dulles, and I suggested booking me to New York because surely there
must be a flight to New York, where there should be a flight to Baltimore. Sure
enough, there was a flight to New York and to Philly as well, but nobody was
flying to Baltimore that night. With £3.70 in my wallet and no authorization to
use my credit or debit cards in England, I started to panic at the thought of
wandering the streets of London until I could get on a flight the next day.
Luckily, Sandy, the only helpful British Air employee I had met that day came
through for me. Not only did she give me a voucher for a place to spend the
night, she put me up at the Sofitel luxury hotel connected to the airport and
gave me vouchers for breakfast and dinner. She even provided an overnight kit
with a t-shirt to sleep in and toiletries since it looked like I wouldn’t be
getting my suitcase that day – or ever if somebody didn’t figure out that my
flight had changed.
So off I went to my hotel, which had the comfiest bed I have
ever slept in and the most sparkling bathroom I have ever used. I had a pasta
dinner served by a Polish waitress who asked me if I needed help reading the
menu as if I didn’t understand English because I didn’t have a British accent.
It was strange to be in another country on an unplanned
visit while none of my friends or family knew where I was. With no financial
resources, I couldn’t go out on the town, but I figured out that I could use
American dollars to buy a small bottle of wine in the airport and enjoy a drink
in my room. I started to enjoy my little adventure.
The following morning, I made my way down to the restaurant,
where I was treated to a huge English breakfast, although the Middle Eastern
host was so hard to understand that I had to ask someone in the restaurant what
my breakfast voucher entitled me to eat. I was starting to wonder if I had been
away from the States for so long that I was forgetting how to understand
English.
After breakfast, I gathered my few belongings and checked
out of my hotel, almost sorry to leave. On a side note, I noticed a sign by the
elevator indicating the location of the “Victorious Ryder Cup Press
Conference.” Is it me, or does adding the word “victorious” make it sound a
little arrogant? Seriously, every station in England was going on about this amazing
comeback by the Europeans. Anyone attending the press conference should have
been prepared enough to know who won the tournament.
No time to worry about golf tournaments when I only had five
hours until takeoff. Instead, I watched cricket while I waited, and in all that
time, I couldn’t figure out the game. Sorry fans, it seems like baseball for sissies
to me. I’m sure that match went on long after I left London, too.
So now I’m back in the US of A and my house feels like a
palace compared to my hovel in Nice. Still, I miss my tiny flat and the funky
neighborhood that was my home during a most extraordinary trip. I wish that
everyone could experience the beautiful villages of the South of France, and in
my next few posts, I will share practical details on how to reach these towns
and tips to make your euro go further should you care to make the trip.
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