La Maison Blanche

Janey,
Isn't international travel glamorous? Take, for example, today! Rather than boarding a plane after a full day of work, which involves packing early, hauling suitcases to the client office and then boarding a plane exhausted and sweaty in coat and tie, I was able to schedule an extra night so I could wake up at a comfortable time, enjoy a leisurely breakfast, pack slowly and then enjoy parting shots of Hamburg from the backseat of a Mercedes taxi. Then, a short flight to Paris and a long, sleepy flight home. Not this time.

Wake up at a comfortable time? Check.

A little CNN to confirm that all is well with the world. Not check.

The European air traffic controllers have gone on strike. While only a few flights in Frankfurt have been cancelled, nearly all domestic flights in and out of Paris remain grounded. Checking the www.airfrance.com website reveals that my CDG-LAX flight is scheduled to fly but the first flight from Hamburg to CDG is cancelled.
"Can I stay in my room past the normal checkout time in order to make new travel arrangements?".
"No, all rooms were needed because the hotel is booked solid".
I was directed by the hotel staff to a 'good' travel agent. A pretty, young employee informed me that it is impossible for them to make changes to an existing flight and, no, it would is not possible to call Air France. "You must go to the airport".
"Can I drive?"
"Frankfurt is ~five hours and Paris is, perhaps, twelve hours. The train would be faster."

Walking past the the Hauptbanhof (main train station), I picked up my bags at the hotel and requested my car. With fewer "unplanned detours" than anticipated, I arrive at the airport. The sour woman at the Air France desk appears uninterested in my plight.
"My flight is cancelled. Can you arrange for me to fly to Los Angeles by a different route…perhaps through Frankfurt?"
"No, sorry. I cannot do that."
"Air France won't arrange for a different flight?"
"It is not our fault. We are victims, too."
Perhaps I surprised her because I was not comforted by the unfortunate luck of Air France.
"The strike is only for one day. I can arrange a flight for you that leaves on Friday (two days). Everything else is booked."
Two more days in an overheated Hamburg without air-conditioning in a hotel that looks like scenery from a Cold War spy movie.
"Ok." Long pause then illumination. "If I could get a train to Paris today, can you fly me out on a later flight."
"Oh! Many people are doing that."
Long pause…hoping she would offer. No offer.
"Can you see if there is a flight tonight if I can get to Paris?"
"Not today. But, tomorrow, yes."
(don't put yourself out…after all you are a victim)
"I can put you on a flight tomorrow morning at ten."
"Aisle seat?"
Another frown…like I was asking for the world. I tried to stand tall hoping emphasize long legs…i.e., not short like yours, Lady.
"They only assign half of the seats. After that, they are assigned when you check-in."
First come, first serve. Southwest Airlines…European style.

Yes, there is a train to Paris-Nord…leaving in 35 minutes. "You can make it."

With tickets in hand, I ran to the taxi stand. "Hauptbanhof! und schnell!" Haven't you always wanted to do that?

Thirty-seven minutes later I was on board the train bound for Cologne; standing room only. It seemed that others had the same idea. In time, I shared a compartment with four others on their way to Thailand for holiday.
"Okay if I smoke?"
"I'd rather you didn't."
"You don't want me to smoke?"
"I'd rather you didn't. Okay?"
"Sure." Eight minutes later he was puffing away.

Apparently, even the first train ride is part of their holiday. Out came a large bottle of Cuban rum, a long stack of plastic cups, a large bowl of sliced limes, ice cubes, brown sugar and a special device for smashing the limes and brown sugar.
"You want one?"
"No, thanks."
"You don't smoke? And, you don't drink either? This is Cuban rum. Very good. Are you sure you don't want some?"
"If my government finds out, I'll go to jail."
Slow, small smiles. The humor nearly wasted.
"Ok. Just a little". Smiles all around.
We talked about the World Cup. We replayed their numerous visits to the USA. I learned about their girlfriends. Art broker. Insurance. Insurance. Cabinet maker. It was great. I was sorry to leave the companionship of these four friends. The Cuban rum was good, too.

Although the German train left late (shame!), we arrived on-time. Good thing, too, because I wasn't sure I'd be able to find the right train in the allocated seven minute layover. The next train was nicer but just as crowded. (Crowded on a Wednesday night?...oh, the strike). And, air-conditioned! Without smokers in my small section! Yahooooo! The conductor arrived and I announced that, yes, I needed to buy the ticket from Aachen to Paris-Nord.
"Can you speak German?"
"Ja! Ein bissen."
In perfect English, "Well, the problem is that there are no seats left after Brussels (pronounced brew' suhlz)." Spoken with a friendly smile. "But, there is a train from Brussels to Paris-Nord at 21h40. You will have time to buy a beer at the station!" The unstated 'Belgian' beer was understood.
"When will I arrive at Paris-Nord?"
"23h05" Quick math…11:05pm. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh. And I would still have to find a hotel. A strange thought occurred to me, too bad I had acclimated to European time. If I was still suffering from jet lag, it would be easy to stay up all night.

Dusty, a recent PhD recipient from UCBerkeley, was finishing a three-week escape vacation. We had a great time trading stories and impressions. France. The French. Germany. Germans. Prague. Hungary. Czechoslovakia. Italy. Dresden. Wisconsin. Surfing in the cold waters of San Francisco. High school hockey and its excesses. The trip was over too quickly (really). A quick good-bye on the platform and then we each melted into the crowd.

Brussels train station. Really nice. Better than most airports. We just don't get it in the U.S. Quick call to rearrange my pickup at LAX and explain the delay to my wife. Tschuss.

Again, a very crowded train. Found myself sitting beside the refinery manager for a Shell location in France. Petit Couronne. A sales opportunity made in heaven! Interesting guy. Younger than me, perhaps. Before departing the train I gave him my card. He didn't give me his. Oh, well.

Short ride to Paris-Nord and the inevitable "now what?" Standing outside Gard Nord and taking in the 'atmosphere', its obvious that Paris rocks well past 11:00pm. After a moment, I begin to spot hotels amidst the curbside restaurants. Is this a good area? Is this safe? I head down the street and make eye contact with what is probably a man with long hair, bad make-up and small, pointy breasts. My caution instincts are confirmed. Keep walking. Keep walking.

I approach the first hotel and notice "Sex Shop" in twenty-four inch neon around the corner. The lobby looks marginal. No, thanks. Down the street I enter a lobby that looks a little better but sports a hand-written note on the doorway,

I enter anyway hoping to get compassionate advice. I begin with English. He responds with the familiar "don't you know this is France?" stare. "We are full."
"Suggestion?" pronounced with my fake, nasally accent hoping it is a French word.
Pointing to my right, "Two, three this way." Then, pointing to my left in the direction of Sex Shop, "Not good this way." Duh.

Thanking him and buzzing with the thrill of local savvy, I head down the street. Mr. Eye Contact catches up from behind and begins to speak. Walk. Ignore. He persists. I communicate "No. No." with hand signals trying to end the conversation.
"Hotel! Around the corner."
He has been watching me and has figured out my game. When you are noticed by a gay man, should you be flattered?

The next hotel lobby suggests respectability. Several groups are lined up before me. It is quickly apparent that everyone is being turned away. One man is furious holding up a piece of paper and repeating "late arrival! guaranteed! I want to see your reservation records!" The young man admits that it may be the hotel's fault but he holds his ground. He is calling hotel after hotel hoping to get them out of his lobby. He's not having any luck. "Every hotel in Paris is full" I hear several times.

Finally my turn. "Room?"…hoping that a naive, sweet, likable voice might bear more fruit than anger.
"Sorry, sir. Every hotel in Paris is full". Not angry, genuine.
I return his answer with puppy dog eyes. He scribbles on a card and hands it to me. "This hotel had a room one hour ago. You can try."
"Thanks."
But, nothing. Anywhere.

Resolved to my fate, he delivers more news. "The airport is closed after 1:00am. You cannot go there." Gesturing across the street, "Even the train station is now closed."
Visions of wandering the streets aglow with Sex Shop while hauling overpacked bags now fill my mind.
"There is a restaurant, La Maison Blanche, only four doors down. They are open all night. At least you won't be on the street." This is the silver lining?

I am seated beside a woman that turns out to be from St. Louis. She and her husband are opera singers and have been in Germany for two years. She is in Paris for an audition. More great stories. She leaves at 1:00am. I say good-bye wishing she was suffering my fate so I would have friendly company for the next five hours. She wishes me luck several times as if I am about to face the wolves tonight.

Which brings me to the present; 3:19am. La Maison Blanche. It is a typical French café/brasserie. The entire front wall is floor to ceiling doors which are wide open. I'm not hungry or thirsty, but it would be miserable to be kicked out so I continue to order little things. Tomatoes and Mozzarella salad (yummmm). Three coffees. Half liter of Vittel. Dessert. Onion soup (French). Warm summer rain. The place is full. A few look like strike refugees. But, most are behaving like this all night restaurant visit has been intentional. Those of us that have been here all night occasionally eye each other…wondering "what is your story?"

Fourth coffee. Second Vittel. 4:00am. Nothing left to say. Wish you were here. It has been another Hemingway moment. The place is packed.

The waiter and I have become friends. This is his first night. "Good tips!" He works 6pm to 6am five days a week…plus a day job. He has a girlfriend in Moscow and he has plans. He seems shy, reclusive. "Only three months" he assures me. "I can do it" he adds. "She is young. Only 28." This is Jacob sacrificing for his Rachel. But, is the love returned? Or, is he a lonely romantic…in love with an idea…not shared by someone he once met? I admire his action.

Rowdies have arrived. The manager and the troublemaker are having words. People are politely not looking. The words are animated. Diplomatically intense. He holds a spray can with a pistol handle behind his back. Pepper spray? They shake hands, the young man leaves and he puts the can away. How often does this happen?

What a day. Except for Ms. Air France, every one has been tremendous. Fellow travelers have been friendly. Mr. Hotel went beyond the call of duty. "Thanks" isn't enough.