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I found this hilarious article the other day. If you know the author please let me know!
I hate traveling!!! I lay sleepless for nights before I have to embark on a intercontinental journey (and I have had quite a few of them the past few years; eight to be more exact). It is always such a hassle traveling alone. Always. Never goes wrong. This time around I made a point of bringing as little luggage as possible to make traveling as easy as possible, but it hardly made a difference. I did not sleep more than two or three hours between Saturday and Sunday. I got up at 5.30 am on Sunday, took a long shower, ate some oatmeal and my last perishable dairy food (i.e. yoghurt). Then I called a taxi. At 7.25 am the shady old car that was my taxi drove up the driveway and a filthy slob (the driver) got out to help me get my way too heavy bag into the trunk. He asked me to sit in the front seat as he had a few more people to pick up before he was going to drop me off at the
Greyhound bus station in Lewiston. Of course the front seat was filthy as well. As soon as I reluctantly sat down the slob driver sped away in the opposite direction of the bus station. In some working class neighborhood not too far away from Bates he picked up a guy that was so fancy (at least the seemed to think so himself). He could have been taken off the streets of Borås, my trend-sensitive hometown in Sweden, but more likely a street in a trend-sensitive Eastern European country as his outfit was slightly out of fashion (of course no
Mainer would ever recognize this). Still, he is probably the first male with a sense of European fashion that I have encountered thus far in
Lewiston, Maine. The slob driver obviously thought that he was gay and did not pay him any attention at all and started talking to me about where I was going:
Slob driver: So are you off to family for the 4th of July?
Me: No I am going to Boston to fly home for the summer.
Slob driver: Really? Where do you live?
Me: Sweden.
Slob driver:…
Me: It is in Europe. Northwestern Europe. Do you know where Norway is? Russia?
Slob driver: I know where Europe is.
That is our entire conversation transcribed. After half a minute of awkward silence the fancy Mainer asked in a very Maine way: “Eeh, would you mind stopping somewhere where I can buy some smokes?” (After this I seized to consider him fancy anymore: It was clear that he was just another Mainer although he was wearing nice clothes).
Stopping at the Greyhound station I paid $3.00, the smoker paid $4.00. Entering the newly built terminal I found the ticket counter closed: the metal divider that protects the Greyhound workers from the Lewiston locals was closed and I started to feel a little anxious. Turns out that the divider is broken and that the place was not closed. Hence I approached the counter where I had to bend down so that I could talk to the lady behind the divider through the money slot in the counter. Like a fool I stood there screaming my ticket preferences with every lonely soul (homeless people?) in the terminal staring at me. Somehow I managed to acquire the right ticket and I stepped outside and stood next to the fashionable Mainer while I waited for the bus to come. I fell asleep on the (smelly) bus and did not wake up until we were on that new fancy bridge that looks like a ship leading into downtown Boston. Everyone but me and a very sweet woman from South Africa got off at the South Station. We sat together chatting on the way to
Logan Airport. She told me that she is a swimming instructor in
Cape Town and that she has swum across the English Channel. I asked her if she swims in the ocean off Cape Town. She said that she did upon which I asked if she is afraid of the many great white sharks that inhabit the area. She wasn’t. She gave me her business card in case I ever stopped by Cape Town (I wish!). A URL was listed on the card and I figured I’d provide it: www.alternativeplace.co.za . She was a very nice lady who I would have liked to talk to some more but unfortunately I lost her at the airport.
Oh the airport. Dreaded Logan Airport. This is probably the worst international airport that I have encountered so far (Charles De Gaulle is horrible as well but at least it looks good). The international terminal (Terminal E) looks good in at first but soon it becomes evident that this airport has very little to offer its visitors: one make-up store, one convenience store, and one over priced café. They call the area where these outlets are located “
AirMall” or something like that and it has some ridiculous slogan like: Everything you need. No, Airmall has nothing that I need nor want. Inside the ticket-holders only area there is also a decent bookstore and a restaurant and probably some other store that I overlooked. This area is immensely ugly and a hassle to wait in as there always seems to be fewer seats than waiting passengers. Logan is also a very unorganized airport: The boarding for my flight (
Air France) and a British Airways flight (the adjacent gate) started at the same time and as there was no system for queuing in place a huge crowd gathered in front of the two gates. People pushed and squeezed and did everything to get ahead in the line. In this chaos some passengers bound for Air France unknowingly ended up in the line for the British Airways flight and vice versa. Getting onboard was a very unpleasant experience of squeezing and pushing around, and of course being pushed around. It is at times like that I wish I had some more money so that I could afford business class tickets rather than shady economy class tickets. Air France refers to their economy class alternative as “Tempo”. This neat name is not characteristic of Air France, arguably the slowest airline in the world.
On board I was pleased to find the seats to be much more comfortable than I remembered from previous flights—the seats are roomy and have a neat entertainment center thingy. I have made a habit of sleeping my way across the Atlantic and did not manage things differently this time around either. I was very comfortable the whole flight and although I hate transferring at de Gaulle, the comfort on board motivates me to choose Air France over Iceland Air, my only price-wise, competitive alternative flying to Logan.
We arrived in Paris slightly behind schedule and knowing how outrageously confusing the de Gaulle airport is I worried that I was not going to make my connect flight to Copenhagen. I rushed through the terminal guided by the ambiguous map with even more ambiguous drawings on it on the ticket. Because the French have made a point of not putting up any signs in their airport aiding foreign transfer visitors I had to run up to complete strangers at several occasions and make use of my rusty school French: “Terminal D?” Of course I did not understand anything of the French answers besides à gauche and à droit (left and right). Somehow I managed to get to my transfer gate before it had opened and I was among the first people to sit down on the Copenhagen- bound airplane. Luckily a nice guy from South Africa and Denmark (he was a Dane living in Cape Town since several years back) sat down next to me and was willing to carry a conversation. We spent the hour that the plane spent on ground awaiting late transfer arrivals from Hong Kong and Atlanta discussing current South African politics and the (in both our minds) ridiculous waste of money of renaming Pretoria, the capital city, when there are tons of other posts of expenditure that logically and rationally should be prioritized. I enjoyed the conversation. We took off an hour or so too late, arrived late to Copenhagen, and on top of this the luggage claim conveyor belts were all in use by other airlines so we had to wait for about 45 minutes before the luggage from our flight even got on the belt. My one piece of luggage showed up fairy early and at 11.00 am or so on Monday I exited into the waiting hall at Kastrup (Copenhagen’s airport) where I reunited with mom, dad, and my little sister. Back in Scandinavia. Finally!
