Europe. it’s old. But it’s transportation is the best around, bar none. Feel free to change my mind.
I recently wrapped up a vacation that included England and France, and once the jet lag settled down I was able to really reflect on the trip. Kudos to Air France for trying to prep me for the cornucopia of bread and wine that I was going to be drowned in once the plane touched down. I’m not sure what I did with the gift basket of bread on top of bread, coupled with cake and cheap wine but it didn’t make it through customs. The cognac was really good though.
The first hotel in Paris that my travel director Julie booked was nice. It had elevators……more on that later. I want to expound upon the “continental breakfast” that was served. I didn’t realize you could get such a great variety of bread for breakfast OUTSIDE OF A BAKERY. White, wheat, sour dough, rye, croissants, buns, muffins, bagels, doughnuts, powdered eggs and coffee. Here’s the thing: that bread was made that morning. Fresh.
After choking on bread and washing it down with champagne (what? its France ), its on to catch a train to Grenoble France. It’s located in the French Alps. It is an absolutely breath taking city. Getting there however is another story. The main train station hub Gare De Lyon is a sadistic experiment on the human psyche. You have a ticket, you know what train you’re going on, you even know what seat you’re sitting in. What you don’t know is what terminal the train is leaving out on. They wait to post that scintillating piece of information on the board 15 mins prior to departure. Have you ever seen video of the stock exchange floor when a hot company goes public? What evil villain came up with this logistical nightmare? Let’s watch hundreds of people trample each other trying to get to a terminal all the way across the staton. Bastards.
After hurtling through the train station, finding your train car, stuffing your luggage somewhere safe and finding your seat, you need a drink. And the goddamned bartenders were on strike. Plan B activated. “Hope for the best, expect the worst”, are words that I lived on since Desert Storm. My EDC (every day carry) bag no longer contained gun and ammo. In Europe it became a makeshift bar replete with corkscrew and mixers and snacks.
From Grenoble to London was entertaining. Remember that EDC bag that I was carrying? Well Europe’s version of TSA is no joke. I guess there might have been a whiff of gunpowder residue somewhere in the bag that prompted the up close and personal search. Kudos to top notch security. Working in the protection field for years, I know that security doesn’t work unless its inconvenient for everyone.
London England. It’s wet. And some asshole decided to mislabel all the floors in all the hotels. Fun fact: when staying abroad in Europe, be sure to choose the amenities you desire in great detail. The little quaint hotel in Kensington was nice, but neglected to inform you that there were no elevators. “No problem” announced the receptionist, it’s only on the second floor. So about that mislabeling….turns out that there’s a zero floor and minus one floor for the basement. That put my room four freaking floors up. I had serious luggage and I wasn’t traveling alone. Now I’m doing weighted lunges in the hotel. I hadn’t anticipated working out on vacation. Did I mention it was wet? The great thing about London is that there’s a pub on every corner so you can dry off and wet your appetite fish and chip style.
“Please mind the gap”. Thats the automated response in London’s Underground Rail system. It was cute the first 20 times I heard it. But after hopping through turnstiles and switching from train to train in what I can only refer to as a deluge of never ending rain, the recording became my equivalent of water boarding torture. The plus side? I saw ALL of London, well the parts I wanted to see anyways. Windsor Castle, Big Ben, the London Eye, Trafalgar Square, the Roman baths, Stonehenge and pubs. Lots of pubs.
Enough of London, back to France. By train. Under water…..for 25 whole minutes. my brain couldn’t fathom (see what I did there) being underwater in a tube for that long. So I sedated myself with booze rum prior to going under the English Channel like any other forward thinking man would do.
The next hotel had an elevator. But it was like rolling dice with a sketchy character. That sumbitch stayed broken. And when it was up and running, Only one person with luggage could ride it. The gamble? The button you pushed might not take you to your desired floor. Do you remember the Rand McNally road maps your father kept in the car for directions? The receptionist had one, except it was written in reverse. I dubbed him the OverLord of bad directions.
When it was time to go home, I glanced at my pedometer. We had clocked almost 70 miles in two weeks. Hell, we need to burn off all that bread they shoveled down our throats like they were trying to make Foie gras out of our livers. Not to be outdone, Air France was gracious enough to pummel us with more tasteless bread before we landed. As if to say, “It’s the only way we can shut you Americans up is to stuff your face with food”. Touché France, touché.
Who’s in the World Cup finals again?
Murica, that’s who.
P.S. – Shout out to the cab driver who offered refreshments, phone charger and choice of music and warned us about the pickpockets in Paris. To the other cab driver that pulled over for a smoke break in the seediest part of town in the middle of the night, consider yourself lucky you didn’t come up missing and providing us with a free rental during our stay.
The Economy of Words 