I wish I could say that my exit from Paris was consistent with the rest of my visit. It wasn’t.
My Easy Jet flight to Rome was leaving from the Orly airport at 7 am and I had to check-in no later than 6:40. I had been distracted during my time in Paris, (surprised?) and had forgotten to book an airport shuttle, leaving me with two options: taxi or public transportation. The taxi option would have been very expensive to go from my hostel in Montmarte all the way to the airport south of the city (more expensive than my flight), but the train to the airport stopped at 11:30 pm and did not start up again in time for me to make it in the morning. What to do? I decided to go to the airport on the last train and camp out. It would not have been the first time I had to sleep in an airport. I had talked to several people, including locals, and this seemed to be the best option. “Seemed to be” is the key phrase here because I was making one big incorrect assumption.
All went well until midnight, when, after I had just settled into an airport chair which was cleverly designed to prevent comfortable sleeping, I heard the announcement that the airport was closing shortly. I have been in many international airports at all hours of the night and had assumed that they all were open 24 hours. Orly closes for fours hours from 12:30 to 4:30. This would not have been as bad if the announcement hadn’t come after the train stopped running. My only option was to take a taxi. After almost not finding a cab, I took one to the nearest metro stop, 3 miles and $28 away. I then had the option of either paying for a hotel room ($100) for four hours or camping out on a bench. I walked around for a bit, my backpack and eyelids feeling heavier by the second, until I spotted a fellow backpacker sleeping peacefully with a blanket of cardboard under a building awning. It looked tempting. The rain drops tickling my face were the final impetus I needed. I helped myself to the plentiful supply of clean cardboard awaiting pickup outside the shops and fashioned my temporary nest. Two layers for a mattress, one over the top, and my backpack as a pillow. I set my alarm and tried to sleep.
Between the barking dogs, loud pedestrians, trucks, hard bed, and the cold breeze sneaking under my stiff blanket, I miraculously managed to get about an hour and a half of uncomfortable sleep. By this point, the cramped airplane seat was looking good. I still would not have made it to the airport in time by train and had to take another $28 taxi back. My flight was only $40.
After all that I can’t complain. I was not robbed, injured, or otherwise maligned. I accept being tired and uncomfortable and paying too much for some things as part of long-term travel. As the French say, “c’est la vie.” Fortunately, my undignified departure is only a comical footnote to the magical memory of being with the woman I love in the most romantic city in the world.
