Sorry about this

Before reading, be warned that this and the following entries will consist of very detailed complaining.

A little while after writing the first entry, I decided Starbucks was no longer amusing to me and that I might as well go back through security and into the terminal so I could get more comfortable seats, some window shopping, and maybe some real food. It was about 10:30, so I figured things would be open. Apparently the only way back into terminal 4 from where I had been was through a series of sketchy hallways and sketchier escalators. This drops you off right in the middle of the check-in area. The problem was, there were no people there. If you have ever been to Heathrow, or any large airport, you might be able to imagine how surreal it was to see this giant room, normally loud and full of people, empty and quiet. There was one other guy there, and he looked as confused as me.

I went back and forth through the hallways/escalator course about 4 times, and convinced myself each time that I'd come out somewhere else. Finally I decided to do the kiosque check-in, because I had nothing else to do. I was so early (checked in around 11:15pm for a 6:20am flight) that almost all the information on the ticket was left blank. I then tried to go into the “departures” section to get into the terminal, but it was closed. Do airports close? I didn’t think so, and anyway there were still flights coming in. I was tres confused.

The guy told me to wait until 5am when they begin to let people through, but that sounded very dull. To cheer me up (the only reason for his chipperness in saying this), he told me I could wait in the first class lounge, and that there was a coffee shop at the other side of the terminal that was open all night. I would have a good 5 ½ hours to wait. It turned out a few other people were also staying in that lounge overnight, and when I got desperate I amused myself by comparing snores. Did I mention no wireless worked there despite there being a “hotspot” about twenty feet from where I was?

Okay, so now it was about 5 and I found myself waiting to go through security while dozens of other people were lining up to check in. I laughed at them, but a few looked well-rested and quelled my gloating. Through security; now to the gate! It was less than an hour and a half to my flight, so I thought they might have some sort of information about it. They didn’t, but they did have a display case of Bombay Sapphire that was at least double my height. It was pretty and sparkly.

The plane eventually takes off and I calculate that my wait for the flight was almost 15x longer than the flight itself.

Je suis arrivée à Paris! To my dismay, it looked like London: just as overcast, dull and depressing. But still, it’s Paris. I followed the director’s strict instructions and called the driver to get me before I picked up my baggage; the poor man wound up having to wait a long time. My bags were not there, and apparently were just chilling in London. I do not speak French well enough to communicate well with the airport workers, but I wound up giving them the address I had and promising to call when I got my phone number. Don’t feel too bad for the driver, either: as soon as he found the street where I was supposed to be living, he dropped me off and ran away, saying the street was small enough I should have no trouble finding no. 26.

It proved impossible to find no. 26, because it didn’t exist. I wondered if I was supposed to live in some sort of alternate French universe for the semester, and was not entirely opposed to the idea. However, the stress of my luggage getting lost and fatigue from being up for almost 2 days at that point caught up with me, and I got more and more upset on every crossing of that tiny street. I tried to call my parents to tell them I got to Paris and to ask for the director’s number, only to be entirely unable to figure out how to make the little + sign appear on the phone display. Without this + sign, you see, I could not make an international call. I pushed the button 4 times in a row out of frustration and that very symbol popped up. First mission accomplished.

I then tried no less than 6 times to call the director or assistant director only to be met with messages in French saying the numbers I was calling didn’t exist. Thanks, overly-cheery, pre-recorded French person. When I got her, Holly-the-director was astonished to find out where I was; I had been given the wrong address. Not only was the number wrong, but the street was, too, and so was the name I was told. I was not even in the correct district. So Holly dispatched one of the student helpers to go catch me, and gave me the girl’s number. It didn’t work at all.

More later.