Out from our apartment overlooking Place Rosetti down to the Cours Saleya flea market on Monday, along the Cours to the end where the flowers usually are sold, then across to the Promenade heading west all the way to Hotel Negresco, then through the Museé Massena gardens and the 2016 memorial, and on to rue de France, which turns into the pedestrian mall of rue Massena, then to Place Massena where the Carneval stands are growing ever higher, and on down the Paillon to Place St. Francois and finally back to our apartment.
Two hours, about 3.8 kilometers.
That was the last Big Walk of our stay.
After a quick lunch at home and a short nap, we took off again for the last Short
Walk, across the Cours Saleya as the flea market closed up, then east on the Promenade to the #ILoveNice sign and back. The day was nearing the end, and so was our winter on the Med. Packing and a light meal before an early bedtime to be up at 4:00 a.m. awaited.
Up early (is 4:00 a.m. ever not early?), we were out of the apartment at 5:03, on the tram at 5:15 and walking into Terminal 2 at Nice airport before 6:00 a.m.
And thus began our odyssey home.
Delta had arbitrarily and without notice changed our selected seats on the Nice flight so that we were not even sitting in the same row. I asked at the counter how this could be fixed, but the agent said there was nothing he could do and blamed Air France.
No big deal. The flight was only an hour and a half. And it left on time. How about that?
We arrived in the despised Charles de Gaulle airport and walked a couple of miles to passport control, then to our departure terminal (it’s never the same as your arrival terminal at CDG) and found our gate. No lounge was available because the nearest lounge was in another terminal. But we didn’t have that much time anyway.
Inside Terminal 2E Concourse K, headed toward Gate 52, we walked, and then we walked some more, and then we walked to the end of the terminal, where we were directed downstairs to our gate, which was at ground level. I didn’t need to ask what that meant–it meant buses to our plane parked somewhere else.
Upon arriving, we first asked why our seats had been changed on this flight as well, moved from Row 32 to Row 36. The agent shrugged his shoulders, muttering something about Air France, computers and four rows didn’t really make a difference. (It actually does make a difference–32 is ahead of the wing, so the noise of the jet engines for eight hours is a little less.)
The boarding process here was the most unorganized, chaotic cluster I have ever witnessed at any airline in any airport in the world. Waiting with the goats and chickens in St. Vincent so many years ago was nothing like this. There were at least five different Delta agents trying to figure out where we should line up to check in. Two of them told us two different locations. Another just shrugged her shoulders. We followed whatever direction we were given, including those from the five bored, disaffected third-party security guards who by now had been taken out of the equation altogether.
The only answer from Delta was something to do with Air France, even though this was a Delta flight, not code-shared with Air France. And apparently their computers had either been hacked or the crew didn’t know how to use them (more likely), because the Delta agents were circling around like hens in a barnyard trying to figure out whether to send us through security one more time to show our passports.
At this point, we had already shown our passports three times–once at Passport Control, once to gain entrance to Delta’s area and a third time to check in. But now they wanted to see our passports again. Or not. The next agent, who seemed to be more or less in charge, just waved us through the door to board the dreaded bus.
Once our bus loaded to capacity, we were given a drive through the bowels of CDG, taken on a magical mystery tour to a mystery gate in a mystery concourse. Then we were herded off the bus and out into the cold to climb up a tight circular set of concrete stairs to a jetway that magically led to our plane. Nothing like that good old first class treatment from Delta Airlines, who is always telling us that passengers’ safety and comfort come first. Sure. Right.
The flight itself was relatively painless. However, I have noted lately that they start serving the main meal as soon as the wheels are off the ground, with no time for a pre-dinner cocktail. I can come up with two reasons for this: 1) they want to save money on booze and/or 2) they want passengers eating and not drinking to avoid unpleasant encounters from over imbibing. In the middle of the flight, I finally just took it upon myself to walk all the way back to the galley and request a Bloody Mary. It was actually pretty good even if four hours late.
By comparison to Paris, JFK in New York was a breeze. We walked through Global Entry without even producing our passports, took our headshot, which was transmitted straight to the Border agent, and we were off to grab our luggage, recheck bags and go through security again.
I have often wondered why we have to clear TSA upon entering the U.S. when we have already gone through much more stringent security screening in Europe. Does the U.S. not trust security in Britain, France, the Netherlands? But TSA Pre Check was quick and painless. We had exactly 30 minutes to get to our gate.
Which, as good fortune would have it, was right down from Delta’s lounge. Knowing we would not have a meal on the final leg home, we ran into the lounge, gobbled a plate of food and a glass of wine and prepared to leave.
Not so fast. On my way out, I discovered a Nathan’s hot dog stand. I couldn’t resist.
And then we were on our plane in our originally assigned seats for the last two and a half hours in the air. Signing off our winter on the Med 2023-24.
Au revoir, Nice. Until next time.