Chapter Five: On the Road Again; or Roadkill?
Titanium? Who Cares?
12.01.2021 - 12.01.2021 43 °F
View Morocco + Uganda + Rwanda on paulej4's travel map.
Marrakech to Paris to Dubai, Oh my.
Let it be known to all who may wish to stay at Le Meridien in Marrakech that Directeur General Abdelghani Hadri will take your money but not guarantee you heat. In my downgraded room, there is none. But, never fear. They sent me a portable mobile radiator! “With our compliments.” After it had been on four several hours, I have one comment: there is very nearly no heat.
Here’s the day. After awakening, breakfast.
Given that my departure from Marrakech is supposed to be at 4:30, and that given one is supposed to arrive at the airport three hours prior to the departure time for an international flight (which mine most assuredly—and hopefully—is), I should depart Le Meridien around 1:15. My check-in should be smooth as I am flying business class and the airport is hosting very few flights to very few places. The danger in checking in too early is waiting after you are through security. My research shows that there is a Priority Pass Lounge where I can escape the hubbub of an airport but there may not be any to escape. We shall see.
Upon arrival at the Air France ticket counter all is well save two glaring omissions. First, they will not or cannot issue my Emirates boarding passes for the flights from Paris to Dubai and onward to Entebbe. "It will be easy to get them there, in Paris," she says. Second, while I have a valid passport and I have a valid Covid Test and I have a vaccination certificate and I have an East Africa Visa for entry into Uganda, I do not have the Ugandan Health Form. Somehow, the nice Air France desk agent said that I could present it in Paris to the Emirates folks when I get my boarding passes there. OK; if your'e sure...
Security was many stops. One x-ray entering the airport proper and a display of my passport and flight itinerary. My Nikon camera was inspected to ensure it was not a drone. A second x-ray. On the second one, everything was inspected to include my iPhone, MacBook, Kindle, Bag of cables, earbuds, GoPro and Nikon camera. The agent demanded to see my tiny nail scissors but decided they were OK and did not confiscate them—that has happened to me before at international crossings.
My passport was checked again at immigration. Then my passport and boarding pass were both checked again by a guy who I had to pass but had no clear role. Then I was through.
The research failed, if only partially. There is a Priority Pass Lounge but it is closed. But there is a Starbucks. I bought a coffee and plugged in my laptop, found the Ugandan health form online and called B4. She was available to help. I emailed her the Ugandan Health Form. She and I filled it out over the phone. She then scanned it while I went to ask the Starbucks barista to inquire if there was any place in the airport to print something. He thought long and hard but said, “No.”
Then, he shocked me. “Email it to me and I will print it in the back,” meaning the back room of the Starbucks. I had him type his email address into my phone while I waited for the scans of the completed documents to come through from B4. The clock is ticking. The ticking sound grows louder by the passing minutes. I am lousy at waiting even though I am in Africa and waiting around is what one does here. The clock now doesn’t tick, it bangs. Nothing is coming through. Have I lost connectivity? I text B4, “Please hurry my sweetheart.” She texts back, “I am.” Good news: I haven’t lost connectivity. My sweet is on it. Remember Diamond Girl lyrics? "Makes no difference, Where you are, Day or night time, You're like a shinin' star." How did Seals and Crofts know?
The Starbucks guy just signaled me. I gave him the international “Its coming” sign—or what I hoped he would understand it to be. B4 texted: “Scanning and will email first as they scan.” Oh, God, the Starbucks guy is going on break.
Just then, the email from B4 arrived. I downloaded the Ugandan health form to my laptop. I pasted it into an email: sbxairprt.mrkech-mor@alshaya.com I ran to the Starbucks guy who turned and went into the back office. Moments later, he handed me two printed copies.
I had two $5 US bills in my hand for him. He refused to accept them. I insisted. He refused again. I insisted once more and he put his hand on my shoulder and said, “No,” as he gave me the warmest smile you can imagine. I nearly cried I was so happy/relieved/grateful. I quickly packed up my laptop and electric cables and earphones and phone into my very heavy backpack and raced to gate A3 where Air France flight 1277 to Paris Charles De Gaulle awaited me.
The reason for all this urgency is simple. I have only one hour and 35 minutes between the time Air France delivers me to Paris and the time Emirates Airlines takes me to Dubai. The idea of finding a way to print a document in that time is pure folly. If Emirates denied me boarding because I did not have the required paperwork—printed out; well, after all the hurdles I’ve already cleared it might break me. Maybe they would have said I could print it in Dubai. Maybe they wouldn’t have said that. Looking at the form, there is no way an electronic copy on my phone would have gotten me into Uganda. It had to be paper. The rule of international travel is to assume that nothing will work as you may hope; it will always present you with a situation in which you are derailed by detail.
On my way to the gate, it occurred to me that I did not capture a quick photo of the Starbucks guy. I would have happily shared that with you. I overlooked it. I am sorry I cannot show you a Moroccan Angel.
The line to board is long and chaotic. There is no business class boarding first, economy boarding second. There is no row by row. There is only a crowd. You battle to get your boarding pass UPC code to the scanner and then you are through. I visit with an Irish girl from Dublin (she’s never been to my family homeland of County Claire) who had to cut her three weeks with her partner short because of omicron. She hadn’t see him in 20 months and I felt so bad for her. I visit with a young Swiss couple from Bern who had tried many, many flights on many, many airlines before securing seats on this one. Across the mob, it is the same.
At the jetway, Air France personnel rejected my KN95 mask and told me I must wear this one instead.
Air France has a unique business class arrangement: 2:3:2. That means, simply put, there is a middle seat in business class. How can that be? I am very happy that I didn’t end up with a middle seat but I am not very happy to be on the bulkhead with no place to store a bag in front of me. On the other hand, I’ll be the first one off this aircraft in Paris where time may be a challenge. Air France offers no pre-departure service of any kind in business class. The obligatory cup of water on a tray isn’t even on offer.
Departure time comes as the boarding door remains open. After ten minutes, we are sealed shut, ready to push back. But moving of this Boeing 777-300 would be a long time coming.
At 5:02, thirty-two minutes behind schedule, we began to move. This is a significant development for me as these lost minutes must be subtracted from my connecting time in Paris: ninety-five minutes. That would have been close had we been on time. The problem is that I must get from Air France to Emirates which, I am told, will necessitate a change of terminals which will necessitate leaving one secure area and re-engaging with security to enter a new terminal.
I intended to get on WiFi once we departed but was informed that, because this is a “special flight” there is no WiFi. That means I cannot reach out to Emirates until we land and, by then, those lost minutes will have given me a Hobson’s Choice: run or attempt to find a WiFi signal and hope someone is there for me. This is a serious issue; one that I was assured would not occur because, of course, the flight will have WiFi. I will run even though I have come to the conclusion that will be a waste of time (except for the fact that it will give me some much needed exercise).
The terminal change might or might not happen in the U.S. but I am warned by the eavesdropping man across the aisle from my seat, 1G, to his seat 1L, that I was unwise booking a connection this close. All I can do is agree. His expertise as a traveler is clear to him. He lives in Abu Dabi and has “traveled quite a lot” and he would have never attempted such a ridiculous thing. I have no reason to dispute him; there is no winning in comparing travel resumes. So, I nod and defer but that only encourages him to pontificate even more about his wisdom. It is extensive to be sure. Perhaps I should have discussed that beggars can’t be choosers and that I consider it a victory to escape (is that word too strong?) Morocco. But, no. I am, across this 18-inch aisle, miles away from him. And that will be fine, thank you.
From Paris, there will be alternative flights—tomorrow—should I fail to connect. Should I fail to connect, however, I will undoubtedly have to legally enter France, locate lodging, and then return to the airport. Oh, my goodness; is nothing going to be easy on this journey? We all know the answer, don’t we?
L1 man taps me on the shoulder. “Air France is required to get you a hotel room you know.”
The meal is interesting, encased in plastic lids as it is. I eat a bit of the shrimp on something, enjoy half a dinner roll and have two bites of the chocolate something. I have a stress appetite—you know—a knotted stomach that one would be unwise to introduce to a plastic airline meal. My main source of solace is to write, so forgive me for my verbosity; I do now this for me and, respectfully, not for you.
There is an in-flight touch screen entertainment/information device aboard this 777 but the touch screen works sporadically.
Fast Forward: We are SO late. Then, upon arrival at Charles De Gaulle in Paris, the Air France team cannot get the jetway to the aircraft. Minutes tick by. Finally, at 8:14pm, they succeed...with the midship jetway. The front door, business class door, where I am? The jetway will not engage. So now rather than at the front of the line, I am well back in it. Passengers flow from the 777 as if a dam had broken. Down the jetway we all ran, through this doorway and down that interminably long corridor to a decision point: terminate to baggage claim and go to the ticket counter; or, attempt see if an electronic copy of a ticket will get me through various checkpoints to the flight—without a boarding pass
I choose wrong. Without a boarding pass I am refused. I race, heavy backpack on my back and heavy second backpack slung over my shoulder—the reasons will be made clear to you when I fly—if I fly—from Uganda to Rwanda—through the baggage claim, through immigration (legally entering France) through various lengthy hallways and corridors, making turns both correct and incorrect, to try to find the Emirates ticket counter. Only there, since the on-line boarding pass/check-in system on their app is down, can I get the needed documents.
After another dead end or two, I arrive at the Emirates ticket counter. I am dripping with sweat but thanks to the at least 10,000 steps a day regimen I practice, I am not breathless. Scanning the counter it is clear: it is deserted. Dark, unpopulated, vacant, not staffed; closed.
It is done. I am defeated. I knew it when the ticket counter at Marrakech said they could not produce boarding passes good on Emirates and when the Emirates app said it could not produce boarding passes because, the site was temporarily down, try again later.
I go to the Air France Elite counter to which I have access because I am a high ranking SkyTeam member by virtue of having flown 1,000,000 miles on their partner Delta, only to be told that, no, they can do nothing for me because I had, in fact, two tickets: one on Air France and another on Emirates and neither or them was responsible for taking care of me in the situation in which I now find myself. I call Kathy Sudeikis to rebook me on Emirates for tomorrow—if she can.
On the Marriott Bonvoy app I see that there is a Sheraton Hotel attached to the airport. I make my way there, now much more slowly as there is no more urgency in my life tonight, and meet desk clerk, Mr. Castro-Lopez who hails from Spain. He takes one look at me and then at my hastily made online reservation which reveals that I am a Titanium member. “You sir, appear to need a suite and I have one for you. Here are two coupons for free drinks at the bar and a 10% discount for food and beverage at our restaurants or from room service.”
So, here, being a Titanium member makes a man, however wretched he may appear to be, important, valued, worthy of respect.
I make my way to the bar; something I would never do. As I enter, I am waved to a check-in lane. Confused that the bar would have a check-in lane, I am informed that I must produce my coronavirus vaccination certificate. I do. I am admitted. I look for a chair near an electrical outlet and settle there. “Dave” and “Rudy” see that I am a pitiful soul and heap upon me French genereuse hospitalite.
I order Boeuf Limousin, Comte AOP, compotte d’oignons, mayonnaise epicee, tomates, frites (that’s a cheeseburger and fries) for 28 Euro, (that’s $32.00 U.S.) less a 10% discount for being a Titanium member. The double champagne they served me was on the house because, well, I looked like an abandoned a flea-bitten puppy in a junkyard during an ice storm. Who wouldn’t reach out to such a wretch?
I call B4. She brightens my otherwise cloudy day with the news that she has received a personalized congratulatory note from Warren Buffet praising her for the amazing results she and her team have delivered during this crazy and ridiculous holiday season. Take it from me, she has made a retail miracle happen but it doesn’t mean much coming from me. When it comes from the Oracle of Omaha however, please, even the skeptics among you: take notice.
Kathy calls regarding my rebooking for tomorrow. It is done. I have, prematurely perhaps, notified my Uganda/Rwanda trek provider, David, of this latest calamity and assured him that one way or another I will in fact make it to Entebbe but now a day later than planned. He won’t get this message until 12 hours from now. He is most assuredly wondering if having me as a client is a good or bad thing.
In the Peanuts cartoon, Lucy at the last moment, pulls the football from Charlie Brown’s attempted kick. He goes head over heels to the ground. I am Charlie Brown to Air France’s Lucy. But, like Charlie Brown, I am the eternal optimist, the foolish fool, the man who keeps on trying even when it seems he should take his ball and fly home.
More tomorrow.
