A short while back, we told the school that we'd stay for another year. So immediately afterwards, we began planning and scheming our summer and winter holidays...and I'm happy to say that we just finished our ticket-buying. So this summer, we're going to fly to Paris...then visit my grandmother, dad, and brother Christian in Stockholm, then head down to France again to visit Pauline's family. This winter, we'll be in neighboring Panama where we'll meet Pauline's whole family and half of mine. But with all these flights in the head, it reminded me of a flight a very nearly missed a few years ago.
Here's the story :
It was December 20, 2009. My flight was to depart sometime in the afternoon on the 21st for Stockholm from Girona, a bit north of Barcelona. I was working until 7 that night at the French-American Center. Just before leaving, I figured it would be a good moment to check the exact time of departure. You see, I was planning on hitchhiking, and I needed to factor in a margin of error.
So I visited Ryanair's website and searched for the flight's ETD. I rubbed my eyes. I refreshed the page. Strange, it was showing that my flight's departure time was for 8h30 in the morning on the 21st...a little over 12 hours away. Oh shit, I calmly thought to myself. Looks like I'll have to take the train, I grumbled...that mistake's gonna cost me.
I searched the websites of France's and Spain's national lines. Hmmm, no trains leaving Montpellier until the next morning at 6 o'clock. And those won't even be close to arriving before the plane leaves. Scratch that option. Oh shit, I calmly thought to myself. Back to plan A.
I called Pauline, "Pauline, please throw a pizza in the oven right now. Yeah, seriously, right now, please ! I'll be home in 10 minutes and explain everything." Eleven minutes later, I was packing my backpack with some of my warm clothes and I was wearing the rest. Three minutes later the pizza was devoured, and I was out the door. Pauline was shaking her head, not with disbelief, but sadly, with belief.
I took the tram to the edge of the city, then walked for 15 minutes until I arrived at the large peage, or toll plaza, for cars heading toward Barcelona and Toulouse. It was colder than a witch's titty. And the coldest was to come.
One of my rules for hitchhiking is that you have to be seen. If the cap covers your hair down to your eyes, and the scarf covers your neck up to your nose, and the rest of your body is covered in coats and gloves...well, then you'll have a harder time of it.
So off with the gloves and cap and scarf, unzip the coat, and...smile.
Another rule : pity helps. I got my teeth a-chattering and my body a-shivering.
Nine minutes later, a young film director from the Cote Azur picked me up. He was heading toward Toulouse, not Barcelona. Not a problem, "just please drop me off in Narbonne, where the highway forks." He missed the exit. Problem. He dropped me off at a highway rest area near Carcassonne, 30 - 40 minutes too far. We got there at about 10 o'clock. By midnight, I had seen just three drivers enter and leave...all in the direction of Toulouse. Zut !
At midnight, I found a kind young couple driving back toward Montpellier. Hmmm, dilemma. Do I return to the starting line, where I'll surely find more cars, many of which going to Spain or thereabouts. But it'd cost me at least two hours. I gambled on Narbonne, a much smaller, but closer peage.
After freezing my thumbs off for two hours in Narbonne, I abandoned hope and hope abandoned me. I looked for a place to sleep...in the roundabout before the toll plaza, in the city on a park bench, in the McDonald's playplace. But with the chill, the wind, and hard surface, I never got even close to sleep. I returned to the peage at 4h30. two hours passed; two cars passed by. I was so cold. I wanted to cry. At 6 o'clock, a man offered to take me to Perpignan, only 30 minutes down the road, but decidedly in the direction of Barcelona. "Yes, please !"
6h30 in Perpignan, 2 hours before my flight. The muscles in my torso hurt from shivering all night. The joints in my thumbs were numb from extended moments of extension. My face froze from the cold and the forzen smile I kept.
I sent telepathic signals to each and every driver. At 7h07 it worked. A French bird-watcher was going to Figueres, a city north and short of my destination. I was worried about hitchhiking in Spain, from experience I know it's harder to find a car and easier to get insults from passing drivers. But I didn't have the luxury to say no.
Another of my rules for hitchhiking : Talk to the drivers. Be interested in them. Make them glad they picked you up.
I briefly told him of my plight, then I dozed. Hard. I woke up at 8 sharp. I looked around through fuzzy vision. Wait a tic...I'm at the airport ! The bird-watching gentleman took me 20 minutes out of his way (plus another 20 to get back to Figueres). I thanked him profusely, offered to pay for his gasoline. He was happy to help, and I was happy to make my flight. It was about at this time, I remembered that I had missed my birthday. I was 30 years old.
Here's the story :
It was December 20, 2009. My flight was to depart sometime in the afternoon on the 21st for Stockholm from Girona, a bit north of Barcelona. I was working until 7 that night at the French-American Center. Just before leaving, I figured it would be a good moment to check the exact time of departure. You see, I was planning on hitchhiking, and I needed to factor in a margin of error.
So I visited Ryanair's website and searched for the flight's ETD. I rubbed my eyes. I refreshed the page. Strange, it was showing that my flight's departure time was for 8h30 in the morning on the 21st...a little over 12 hours away. Oh shit, I calmly thought to myself. Looks like I'll have to take the train, I grumbled...that mistake's gonna cost me.
I searched the websites of France's and Spain's national lines. Hmmm, no trains leaving Montpellier until the next morning at 6 o'clock. And those won't even be close to arriving before the plane leaves. Scratch that option. Oh shit, I calmly thought to myself. Back to plan A.
I called Pauline, "Pauline, please throw a pizza in the oven right now. Yeah, seriously, right now, please ! I'll be home in 10 minutes and explain everything." Eleven minutes later, I was packing my backpack with some of my warm clothes and I was wearing the rest. Three minutes later the pizza was devoured, and I was out the door. Pauline was shaking her head, not with disbelief, but sadly, with belief.
I took the tram to the edge of the city, then walked for 15 minutes until I arrived at the large peage, or toll plaza, for cars heading toward Barcelona and Toulouse. It was colder than a witch's titty. And the coldest was to come.
So off with the gloves and cap and scarf, unzip the coat, and...smile.
Another rule : pity helps. I got my teeth a-chattering and my body a-shivering.
Nine minutes later, a young film director from the Cote Azur picked me up. He was heading toward Toulouse, not Barcelona. Not a problem, "just please drop me off in Narbonne, where the highway forks." He missed the exit. Problem. He dropped me off at a highway rest area near Carcassonne, 30 - 40 minutes too far. We got there at about 10 o'clock. By midnight, I had seen just three drivers enter and leave...all in the direction of Toulouse. Zut !
At midnight, I found a kind young couple driving back toward Montpellier. Hmmm, dilemma. Do I return to the starting line, where I'll surely find more cars, many of which going to Spain or thereabouts. But it'd cost me at least two hours. I gambled on Narbonne, a much smaller, but closer peage.
After freezing my thumbs off for two hours in Narbonne, I abandoned hope and hope abandoned me. I looked for a place to sleep...in the roundabout before the toll plaza, in the city on a park bench, in the McDonald's playplace. But with the chill, the wind, and hard surface, I never got even close to sleep. I returned to the peage at 4h30. two hours passed; two cars passed by. I was so cold. I wanted to cry. At 6 o'clock, a man offered to take me to Perpignan, only 30 minutes down the road, but decidedly in the direction of Barcelona. "Yes, please !"
6h30 in Perpignan, 2 hours before my flight. The muscles in my torso hurt from shivering all night. The joints in my thumbs were numb from extended moments of extension. My face froze from the cold and the forzen smile I kept.
I sent telepathic signals to each and every driver. At 7h07 it worked. A French bird-watcher was going to Figueres, a city north and short of my destination. I was worried about hitchhiking in Spain, from experience I know it's harder to find a car and easier to get insults from passing drivers. But I didn't have the luxury to say no.
Another of my rules for hitchhiking : Talk to the drivers. Be interested in them. Make them glad they picked you up.
I briefly told him of my plight, then I dozed. Hard. I woke up at 8 sharp. I looked around through fuzzy vision. Wait a tic...I'm at the airport ! The bird-watching gentleman took me 20 minutes out of his way (plus another 20 to get back to Figueres). I thanked him profusely, offered to pay for his gasoline. He was happy to help, and I was happy to make my flight. It was about at this time, I remembered that I had missed my birthday. I was 30 years old.
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