Let’s talk about the Charles De Gaulle Airport (CDG). The international airport of Paris, France, is most peoples first impression on their way to the romantic and historic city. The primary gateway for tourism that does so much to bolster the Parisian and French economy as a whole. So why is it designed to rob you of your sanity?

Sure no one loves airports, but most are tolerable. Most are constructed in such a way that even the most novice traveler can follow the signs, or at the very least, have easy access to an information desk. Most are set up so that if you make a mistake, your are not punished, but provided with options. These options are typically clear and helpful. Most airports want you to be able to transfer to another terminal with ample time. Or at all. Most provide food options after you’ve gone through security, because it would be ridiculous to have to leave the gate to get food, then get back in the security line again. The majority of airports, if nothing else, want you to leave with your dignity in tact and the feeling that you are a human soul with agency in this universe.

The Labyrinth of Sadness that is Charles De Gaulle airport, is not most airports.

I’ve written about Paris before, and while there were several genuinely nice and helpful locals I encountered, the air of distain the general public has for tourists is palpable. So if the city is like that, why should the airport be any different?

The problem this time was I was not trying to go to Paris, I was merely passing through. I was traveling alone and I had a connecting flight on my way to Tunisia and flying through France was, unfortunately, the best deal.

Now before I get into this story/rant, I will say that the catalyst for all my misery was my own fault. My hubris and frugality had booked a lot of (cheap) connections which caused me to be very sleep deprived which was my undoing. That being said, CDG Airport did nothing to alleviate my pain. Frankly, they made it infinitely more painful.

So, it began with an eight hour flight, leaving at 8:00pm, and then eight hours to kill at the London airport, where I would then be flying to Paris at, again, 8:00pm. The flight landed at noon London time. I didn’t sleep much, but I had a hotel room waiting for me at the Paris airport. Just had to last until then.

I have a credit card that gets me lounge access at a lot of airports all over the world. A lot of credit cards actually offer this, I’m not that special. Maybe I’ll do a blog soon on credit card travel points and benefits. Anyway I tried to kill time in a lounge and they turned me away saying it had to be within two hours of boarding. What’s the point of a lounge if I can’t spend eight hours eating free food? So on a bench in one of those pseudo-malls they have in airports I photoshopped the time on my ticket to get me into the lounge earlier. Second time around they just waved me through without checking. As with anything in life, it really just depends on who’s working that day.

The hours ticked away and at 8:00pm I was on my flight to Paris with no issues. It had now been 16 hours from when I took off from the US. About 28 hours since I last slept.

With another time jump I landed in Paris at 10:00pm and didn’t get into to my hotel room – at the airport – until midnight. While incredibly frustrating, I was willing to chalk it up to sleep deprivation and give CDG a pass. By that time I had been awake for close to 31 hours. My flight tomorrow was at 7:45am, so I set my alarm for 5:30am. I knew which train to go to now, I had it mostly mapped out in my head. Then I would get into Tunisia early where I would get a cab to my hotel and relax the rest of the day. Five hours of sleep would have to do.

Bzzzzz. Bzzzzz.

Did I change my alarm sound?

Bzzzzz. Bzzzzz.

Why does it sound weird?

I shot out of bed. That’s a phone call. From Monika.

What time is it?

6:30am.

Shit.

As usual Monika knew my schedule better than I did and saw from my location I had not left my hotel room an hour before my flight left.

I had set my alarm for 5:30pm.

Look, I know I screwed up. That’s all on me. But wouldn’t it be nice if for when you were setting an alarm in the middle of the night for the evening next day, Apple would double check with you? Like hey are you sure you want to wake up seventeen and a half hours from now?

Who needs coffee when you have pure adrenaline coursing through your veins? I’m not sure if I brushed my teeth or even looked in the mirror but I promise you I have never been out of bed and out the door so fast in my life. God my parents would have been impressed if they were there.

I jogged/ran the entire way to security. Brushing by people, knocking stacks of paper out of peoples’ hands, sliding under two movers carrying a large mirror, jumping over a long catering table of food. A guard dog broke off his chain and chased me through suburban backyards. I think I might have stolen a kids skateboard and grabbed onto the bumper of a car like Marty McFly. Then I might have thrown the guy out of the car at a stoplight saying I was police and I needed his vehicle. It was all a blur.

I got to security gasping for air and naturally it was the longest line I’ve ever seen. Because when everything is going wrong, what’s a little more heartbreak?

I’ve never done this before, but I cut all the ropes walked straight to the front . Frantically, I told them in English that I was going to miss my flight and asked if I could please skip the line. I don’t even remembered what they said but I do remember the look on some of the faces in front. It wasn’t looks of anger, but looks of concern and probably some pity. I must have looked truly desperate. That’s good! Because I was.

So I cut the security line, then I had to do the same thing at customs. I never bothered to check the time because I was already going as fast as I possibly could. I sprinted all the way to the gate. Something about exhausted desperation shuts off the ability to feel shame. Or maybe I just didn’t have time to feel it.

When I arrived at the gate, it was empty. The doors had shut, but I was there 25 minutes before takeoff. The plane was still docked. One woman stood by the door and I begged and pleaded for her to let me on but rules are rules, and the help desk down the hall would be happy to get me rebooked.

Defeated, I dragged my feet to the AirFrance help desk. I was so close. I could see the plane. As I walked up to the help desk I saw it was empty. Again, not surprising. Classic Paris.

After waiting around for 15 minutes for someone to show up I notices the smallest, whitest piece of paper stuck with clear tape to the white wall behind the desk and on it written in the softest pencil strokes was, “we have moved to gate G73″. Wow! Very helpful.

So I merrily made my way across the terminal to this other help desk. There were actual people there. And there were other flights to Tunisia that morning. And I might even be able to make them. Oh but I could not rebook it there. No! All I had to do was go to a different desk. The ticketing desk. Terrific!

In her words (paraphrasing):

“I’m sorry you cannot rebook your AirFrance flight here at the AirFrance help desk. Just follow the terminal until you see a sign that says ‘Ticketing Desk.’ Go down the escalator and turn left. Six doors down you’ll see a supply closet. Knock four times and a man with a scar on his face will ask you what your earliest memory in life is. He knows if you’re lying. Through there is a set of stairs descending eight floors. Open the door and then climb the rope ladder you see at the end of the hallway. After 104 rungs, there is a rope swing to an illuminated platform above a bottomless pit. Open the door on the platform and you will see a hallway with thirty doors on each side. Take the 22nd door on the right. If you take any other door it will bring you back to this help desk and you’ll have to start over. Now you will find yourself in a restaurant. Take a seat at the head of the table. A waiter will approach you and ask you in French what you would like to eat. You must order the Je prendrai le Filet de bœuf Rossini, sauce Périgourdine, accompagné de gratin dauphinois et d’une jardinière de légumes de saison. He speaks English, and you may order in English, but he will be disgusted if you do. He will also be disgusted if you order in French. Out the back door of the restaurant you should see a desk that says ‘Ticketing Desk.’ There they should be able to help get you rebooked.”

I thanked her and followed her instructions. I went as quick as I could, but time was running short on the morning flights. The ticketing desk said they couldn’t help me. But the main ticketing office outside security could probably help me. Unfortunately, they said, since I was coming from the international terminal I would need to go through customs.

“But,” I said. “I never left the country. I missed my flight and I’m still here in France.”

“Tough shit,” they replied. “Get in line.”

Like cattle being herded to the slaughter house, I found my self in a wide room with low ceilings, filled to the brim with people waiting to get into France. The record for longest line from early that morning had been broken. I stood in this line for over an hour. Just to get back outside so I could go through security all over again. Except I wouldn’t get to skip the line next time.

I couldn’t believe it. I started to lose my grip on my sanity. I’m trying to leave France. All these other people were arriving. It might be the longest line I’ve stood in for anything. It was also the beginning of the Summer 2024 Olympics in Paris, so it was an absolute zoo. Not even my podcast on the Phoenician Empire could sooth me.

Later that day I made it through customs, for the second time, and went to find the main ticketing office. Here I was greeting warmly by a woman who had just been yelled at. Here she told me she was unable to help me and to try calling in. So I did. And when I called they said they were unable to help me and to try the ticketing desk. I told them I did. And they said, “Ok then. Goodbye.”

My last option was just to book a new flight. The last one of the day to Tunisia. To be honest I was surprised they had more than one flight to Tunisia that day. There comes a point of desperation in the depths of Hell that you will pay almost any amount of money to climb out of it. Kind of like the American healthcare system.

So I booked a new flight on a new airline at a new gate. It wasn’t too much, but I had to eat the cost of the first one. Seven hours until takeoff. I spotted a McDonald’s and realize I hadn’t eaten anything all day.

So I took a train or a bus or some medieval torture device on wheels to Terminal 3, which seemed to be halfway to Belgium. Finding that connection was similar to finding that first ticketing desk.

I arrive at Terminal 3. Six hours to go.

Bzzt.

Delay. Seven hours to go.

I go through security the second time. Go through customs the third time. I start to walkaround the small terminal to kill time. I realize the only food options are in a vending machine. I walk around again just to be sure. No hot food, just snacks and drinks.

That might’ve been fine if I already had two meals. Or if I didn’t have to just sit around for seven hours. I had remembered seeing some restaurants outside of security. So after a while when I felt like I should eat again, I left the terminal. I had a sandwich, took my time, then returned. A few more hours to kill.

I didn’t notice on the way through this security the first time, but here they scanned your tickets after you place your bag in the bin and right before you walk through the metal detector. So after waiting in line, yet again, I get to the front of security for the third time at Charles De Gaulle International Airport and there’s an issue with my ticket.

He asks if I have already been through.

I said yes, I left to get a sandwich because there was no food in there.

Well you’ll have to go to the ticket office in this terminal and print off your ticket to get it to work, he says.

So then I have to get back in line even though I just got through the entire line?

Yes.

WHAT KIND OF BRAIN DEAD FUCKING MORON designs an airport that has the ticket scanning at the end of security, at a terminal where there is only food outside of security, and with no ability to rescan your original ticket?? I had no way of knowing there would be no food in there. I’ve been to one-gate, one-runway airports with better food options. I can’t be the first person that has happened to. That is literally crazy. The whole airport system is the creation of a paint-huffing psychopathic escapee of Arkham Asylum hell-bent on keeping people out of France.

So I left. Found yet another ticketing kiosk. I printed off my ticket. Got back in line, and presented my paper ticket to the same man who turned me away twenty minutes earlier. I went through security for the fourth time that day. Then went through customs for the fourth time that day, despite never leaving the country, or even the airport.

Back in the terminal, I saw it. A beam of light from the heavens shone down on a small counter selling cans of beer. No hot food, so I didn’t waste my time by leaving. Just snacks and beer. The tension released in my shoulders after that beer was like a steel cable snapping on a collapsing suspension bridge.

What I had written in my journal at this point was “Batshit boarding process“. I don’t remember the specifics, so take it for what you will.

I do remember these passengers being especially unruly. Like no one could sit still the entire flight. The second we touched down in Tunisia, and I mean the first instant rubber hit pavement, everyone stood up. Everyone shuffling and scrambling to get their bags. The flight attendants insisting in multiple languages that everyone needed to sit down and they were flat-out ignored.

I sat in the aisle seat, and have very long legs, so the inner two people could not get by me. They did make their intentions very clear that they wanted to get by. Where would they go? I’m not sure. I physically did not have the space to stand up because all the overhead bins were open and everyone was already in the aisle. But I didn’t really care. I had made it through mind melting insanity out the other side to a strange serenity. It was like seat 21C was the eye of the hurricane and all I could do was sit and watch.

We deplane in more or less the order we would have if everyone had just waited. I go through customs for the fifth time.

Final Tally For the Day:
Security Lines – 4
Customs Lines – 5

I step out into the fresh, Mediterranean air. Until that point I had forgotten I was going to Tunisia. I kind of thought I had died and Charles De Gaulle was purgatory.

I say yes to the first man who walks up to me asking if I need a taxi. I follow him to the end of a long line of taxis. I get in the back and he hands me his phone and tells me to type the address into Google maps. Then he steps out to yell at a guy in Arabic for five minutes. I hardly notice.

He gets back in, takes the phone, then floors it in reverse. Rather than follow the flow of traffic, he had his own plans. We zip out into the main road, cutting off a car that honks at us, then we’re off. Sure, why not?

It’s hard to make heads or tails of a strange new city on the way from the airport, especially at night. Is this a sketchy part of town? Am I being a privileged jerk by thinking this is a sketchy part of town? I had booked a place right in the city center, whatever that meant.

We turn off the main road to some smaller, narrower roads. We take so many turns I start to get dizzy. Then the roads are just alleyways. Then it is too narrow for the car to continue.

We stop. The driver gets out.

He says we must walk from here. The building walls are old and high. It is dimly lit. The alley is quite narrow and turns so frequently its impossible to know what’s farther than 20 feet in front of you.

I remember thinking, Well if I get robbed or murdered that would just be the cherry on top, wouldn’t it?

Then we arrived. A big, blue, arched doorway with a small plaque reading my hotel’s name. The taxi driver is standing with a smile under the yellow light. I pay him, and tip a bit extra for sparing my life.

I check in at the lobby, relieved. Nothing in the world sounds better than flopping onto a bed and not setting a morning alarm (intentionally). There was rather loud music coming from another room as I checked in. Hopefully they would be done soon.

The hotel clerk leads me to my room. The music gets louder. Hopefully not my next door neighbor. Up a half set of stairs and around the corner through a corridor we open into a courtyard and find the source of the music.

A wedding. Full blown Arabic, Tunisian wedding. Everyone was supremely dressed. The tables had been pushed to the side to make space for a dance floor. The music was very loud and very unfamiliar but it got people out of their chairs and moving. To my great dismay, the hotel clerk was walking straight toward the crowded dance floor. I thought I had fully filled up the what-the-fuck Bingo card for the day but dance floor at an Arabic wedding was not on it.

He pushes through the crowd to a set of stairs across the courtyard that led up to me room. This was apparently the only way to get there. Me, my greasy hair, my un-showered body, my two (maybe three?) day old clothes, and my grimy bags just kind of disrupted the vibe all the way through the dancefloor.

I gave a lot of midwestern Ohp’s! and Sorry’s! and ‘scuse me’s!, like they could hear me or have any idea what I’m saying. I half expected a record scratch and the music to stop when I walked through. The music continued, but I certainly got a lot of stares.

Unscathed, I made it to my room. There was a mini fridge with a few cans of mini beers. They could have cost $100 each and I would have gladly paid. I popped back out once to view the wedding from above, just to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. But then it was just my bed and me. The room had AC too. I cranked it down real low. Paradise.

The music stopped shortly after I settled in. I didn’t have much time to reflect before I passed out and then had a stress dream about getting through a security line. But the following days in Tunisia were quite nice. I moved at my own pace. I was alone and had my own agenda. The weather was sublime. Sunny and 70s with a gentle breeze. Every day.

So from my front door at home to my hotel door in Tunisia it was almost exactly 48 hours, with five hours of sleep at a hotel at CDG. I think I’ve recovered. That may not be apparent in my writing, but I think I have. That journey was the start to a month long trip around Europe where I would visit seven countries (not including England and France). By the end I was burned out. More than I’ve ever been. Especially since I had been living in a new place every month for the previous nine months. But I would do it all over again.

So here’s to the next long travel day being a bit better. I’m trying to imagine that being someone’s first experience leaving the country, or flying on a plane. They would think I’m some kind of masochist for putting myself through that over and over. But that’s what travelling is I suppose. You wait in lines and put up with a lot of bullshit to get a few moments that feel like magic. And for the times that do suck, well at least there’s a story to tell.