Guiana travel log - part 2

Airport, layover, island paradise (Martinique), day 2

And here I am, once again, at an airport.  I spent nearly two hundred Euros on this little stop-over...  Two thirds, on simply getting from the airport to the hotel and back. 

Traveler’s tip:  taking taxis is expensive.  Taking taxis on public holidays is even more expensive.  Airport hotels may feel like you’re not even properly in the country, but when available, can be less hassle. 

Of course, there seem to be exactly zero hotels here within 20 kilometers of the runways.  I fervently hope my travel expenses here will be covered.  Guess we’ll see.  That plus the anti-tropical-nasties meds are starting to feel like the ransom for a minor Saudi prince.  Alright, maybe not quite.

On a more scented note, I get to sit in the mild but detectible aroma of my mosquito repellent.  Hope I’ve put some everywhere that matters (which is everywhere).  All while resentfully glaring at the locked door to the business lounge, at 7 am local time.  Clearly, it’s too early for business, as the lounge only deigns open its doors at the royal hour of 4pm.  Had I known no serious businessman hangs out at the airport before then, I would’ve at least taken the morning to look around.  Of course then I would’ve missed my next flight, which leaves in an hour and a half.  Thus completely messing up the rest of my trip, as a bonus.  At least now I know why there’s no business class on this flight.  It all makes sense now!

In a completely unrelated grumble, the duty free shop doesn’t seem to sell neckties.  Serves me right for forgetting to pack any.  Whoops.  Some business traveler I am.  Though I suppose with it being around thirty degrees Celsius and humid as a Turkish steamer, the detail may be overlooked.

On to South America!

At Pearson airport

Here we are, plopped into a chair at Toronto's terminal 1.  Why, you ask?

Because there isn't a drop of whisky worth tasting at the so-called Bacardi tasting station.  All the more galling, given the gallons of perfectly respectable whisky on the shelves of the duty-free boutique.  Whisky which you couldn't open for hours or days, even if you bought it here.  Frustrating?  Yes.  A strong statement for sensible sobriety?  Fiddle-sticks.  The only thing left to do, is to browse, drink water, and wait through the endless line-up for boarding.

Because about half the passengers on any given flight think they have "special" seats, that are in every row, so they can board any time.  Making the queues that much longer.  Good thing there's finally free wireless internet here!  It only took ten years more than in Europe.  That's innovation!  Canadian telecom style!

France, dammit

So it turns out that in spite of my Canadian/Romanian citizenships, I am still working illegally here (probably).  Isn't that great?  I've been paying taxes for the last, oh, 9 months now, but an illegal immigrant.  Whoo!

And when do I get to find this out?  After having worked again a little today.

It's the thought that counts.  The mind-boggling, administrative-minded thought.  Prepare yourself for an incredible odyssey through administrative hassle!  I'm already dreading it.

Paris, dammit

Because using profanity in a title is cool.

Hurray, I'm back! (heavy sarcasm)
Alright, what happened? I'm back from budapest (for good, but it ain't). It's hot, sticky and muggy. The city hates you. The people all feel like if they didn't walk directly in your way, you wouldn't get the GENUINE paris experience. Oh, and who could forget the delightful metro, with its urine-perfumed stairs, which seem to go down only so they can swing right back up 10 meters on. Who designed this city? M.C. Escher?

On a happier note, I get to see my friends, who make me forget that paris sucks. It is so nice to walk down the street after 8 pm and not have to fight through throngs. And they do have some great meatshacks (kebabs). Vive la republique.

Calling the Moderate Majority

We're out there.  And yes, we ARE moderate (and not just in Canada!)

And we are REASONABLY moral, as well as Morally reasonable.

The concept of the so-called moral majority is an utter distortion.  The vast majority of people are both moral, and reasonable.  Without sharing in the brainwashing and hogwashing of bible-thumping, bombastic windbags.

Misadventures in Rome - pt 3

FINALLY, IN THE PLANE ON ROUTE TO PARIS! (BUT BACK TO THE EVENTS AS THEY UNFOLDED)

Finally, the exhausted-looking manager, frazzled and seemingly at wit’s end tells us that as we’re the last, and they haven’t managed to find any other hotels to accommodate us, we’ll be staying at the most luxurious one of the lot, and that the bus will be here “shortly”. He looks like he’s about to cry, and in his over-sized suit he looks like he’s literally been shrinking under the stress. The man probably lost a few pounds that evening. Before, however, the bus shows up, a couple of Italian carabinieri mosey on over. It seems they’re unhappy. One of the poor wretched forgotten souls decided he refused to sit on the floor (nor on the hard metal bars of the carry-on measuring stand) and grabbed a chair from behind a check-in desk. By this point, everyone was ready to lynch the carabinieri. Which I dare say they suddenly understood, when they tried to growl at us and were met by a wall of steely, sullen stares. At this point we were nearly ready to piss them off further, just to find a place to sleep for the night.

Misadventures in Rome - pt 2

BANG – SMASH – CRASH – INTERLUDE – 12 hours pass…

And here I am, once again, at Rome’s Ciampino airport. Slightly wearier, more frumpy, with a mere 5 hours of sleep and a full day ahead of me. No grappa to power me through this time! Then again, it’s not even noon… on the other hand, this type of spirit is really more of a medicine, ask the locals!
No, no grappa. And as I sit on the floor of the line-up for Easyjet’s make-up flight to Paris, my mind wanders bemusedly once more over the last few days. Sunday – two days ago now – I thoroughly enjoyed taking in Rome, but at an Italian expresso pace, not that of a tourist’s ladle. Starting to learn about la dolce vita, or so I thought. Taking it easy, buying good raw ham from the supermarket like the locals, local cheese, Italian tomatoes, a panino bun. Sitting in a park eating and resting. Not rushing around town trying to fit in as many monuments as possible. Meeting my friend at a leisurely, utterly civilized hour – 5 pm – and going shopping on the Italian fashion high-streets. And, amazingly, finding the right pair of black leather shoes on the first try! Incredible! It didn’t even take an hour! Then a little leisurely sight-seeing. The Spanish steps are over-rated and crowded. You can hardly see them for the tourists. The Traian column, the Pantheon and especially the Trevi fountain on the other hand are lovely, despite the waves of tourists milling around, their ebb and flow almost a force of nature. Finally, after a minor bus issue – the bus won’t start, another leaves without us, finally we have to get off and switch as the power goes out on it entirely. But then, a lovely dinner with friends, old and new, a nice mojito at a cute little bar in Trastevere. And back to the hotel – the Elysee hotel, no less! How perfect for a Parisian!

Misadventures in Rome - pt 1

I sit in Ciampino airport, with all the time I need to wallow and wail at my own ineptitude. The flies stare at me, crawl over me, taunt me as I try to frighten them away. But flies are stalwart, daring, enterprising. Ciampino airport is an awful place. There are flies everywhere. This must be close to hell – or a garbage heap. On the bright side – there is always a bright side, even in the bright orange glow of hellfire – I am pleasantly drunk off an extremely inexpensive but mostly generous portion of grappa. B less Italians for inventing grappa. And bless the serving girl who so kindly kept on pouring when common sense and fiscal responsibility were screaming for her to stop. And curse my utter idiocy and uselessness. The blond Italian mother beside me is feeding her children sandwiches. Prosciutto Cotto. Grandissimo. Meanwhile, I have the minor consolation that I packed enough food to feed a family of four. And provolone is excellent with grappa. And dry Italian buns are better with good – I guess, the grappa may be in … and now the blond Italian sandwich-eating child beside me is speaking to me. In Italian. And now so is his grandmother. How lovely! So, food. Italian tomatoes – which are juicy and taste like tomato juice in an environmentally friendly, biodegradable container. Here the boy goes again, asking “why do you speak English?” in Italian, of course. Such existential questions from a 6 year-old. Tomatoes and provolone, Italian bread and grappa. So many diversions from dwelling on my complete and total stupidity. And now the p.a. is announcing something incromprehensible that might be for me. .. nope, Berlin. And I’m heading to Paris. Fully 3 hours too late, and from the wrong airport. I will soon find out whether my fate is to remain in Rome. Only 20 minutes til the Easyjet plane is scheduled to take off. And still no sign of a call to board. The previous flight, leaving from FUCK OFF YOU FLY! SHOO! GET THE HELL OFF OF ME! the same queue has yet to board. Hope is a fragile thing on such a day as this.