Leaving Behind Sunny Skies
I awaken in the middle of the night and try to remember where I am. A glance around the room tells me that I’m indeed in my home and not in a foreign hotel. But the dream I woke from is still on my mind. I’m walking through a giant warehouse with many levels and doors and I am trying to find a way out. I’m not panicking yet but I am hoping that it won’t take too long to find the exit or I might miss something, I’m not sure what.
This year, after our annual trip to Spain and France, I’m heading home with a little unexpected baggage, an extra case of limbo. When we say goodbye to our hosts and rental cottage where we’ve stayed 17 years in a row, we are headed into the great unknown. Well, we know the train station in Toulon and have taken the trip to Paris many times, but Paris and all of France has been shut down for 24 hours and our housing there canceled. Our flights out of Paris have been canceled as well. And it even looks like we might be on the last train. Tonight, President Macron is set to speak and it looks like he will be shutting down the country’s borders. As we try to go with the flow, we are happy for our first class seats on the train and the baguettes, cheese, tomatoes and chocolate we brought along. We continue to practice safety by washing hands, using sanitizer and not touching our faces. As the landscape changes from cypress and olive trees and red earth to neatly poplar-lined fields and beige stucco homes, and the train speeds on at 155 miles an hour, we regroup.
Once we get to Paris, we’ll take the RER (regional express network) train directly to the airport and try to rebook our flights then spend nights at an airport hotel as needed. When the train pulls into Gare de Lyon, we carefully exit, keeping in mind the one meter distance rule. Everyone around us is doing the same, respectfully keeping their distance. As we make our way to the RER, the mood is eerie. It’s Paris but no one is hurrying; everyone is following the suggested space rule. People are being very careful. Luckily for us, the airport-bound train is empty and we hear that this route will be mostly closed tomorrow.
Photo by Tim Buckwalter
At the airport, the scene is more chaotic. The lines for rebooking flights are long. Some of the airline employees are wearing masks and gloves and reminding us to keep our distances. A man breathing down our shoulder has to be reminded several times to stay back. Somehow, it seems like a miracle to us, we are rebooked for a flight the next day to Atlanta. We make sure to choose seats and check in. As we register at the hotel where the distance rule is being enforced with duct taped lines on the floor, they inform us that they are closing tomorrow at noon. We happily isolate in our room with the food we brought with us and fortunately fall soundly asleep.
Photo by Tim Buckwalter
Next morning early, we are mostly by ourselves as we take the shuttle, then go through passport control and security. Boarding for our flight is delayed however because the airline can’t find enough flight attendants for the number of passengers. Forty-one people won’t make it onto this flight. We try to stay calm and somehow make it into the early boarding line, though Jim’s boarding pass won’t let him board. Finally, the gate attendant waves him through and we find our seats. Once the aircraft door is shut, we breathe a sigh of relief. We know we will miss our connecting flight and have to stay in a hotel before driving home but we feel fortunate. Somehow we kept one step ahead of all the drama until this last day. As we stretch out (we have four seats to share), we play our photo slideshow of the last two and a half weeks, not wanting to forget the beauty, sun, food and experiences we just left. We clink our airline wine glasses. We eat some of the delicious Belgian chocolate that we somehow discovered at the airport. It was an amazing trip. Those memories will keep us going through the unknown days that await us.
