Adventures in Travel: Murphy’s Law
Murphy’s Law implies that whatever can go wrong certainly will go wrong. That rule definitely applies to many of our trips. Julie and I have travelled, but compared to many of our friends, the scope of our wanderings is limited. Yes, we did live in Dubai and we have hit many countries popular with travelers, but our friends tell of safaris in Africa, scuba diving in the Maldives, or exploring the Amazon. Local citizens I have interviewed for this blog prefer Thailand, South America or Iran. Even our youngest daughter has studied in Beijing. My recent return trip from the US is the latest fiasco, but it seems rather routine compared to several past experiences. I will focus on actual travelling; hotels, restaurants and sightseeing may come later. (I originally had deemed this as too trite to publish in my blog, but the lockdown has changed perspectives and now it seems more worthy.)
The first significant trip other than fishing vacations in Canada was to Dubai. My job as coach of a professional basketball team began in August and Ju and our three little ones (aged 4,5 and 8) were to follow in September. My arrival was without incident and for four weeks I acclimated to strange new surroundings. Jules and the kids flew without incident from Chicago to London before things went south. Herding three tired children tethered together like untrained dogs though an airport after a seven hour flight requires patience but doing it while pushing a tram with mounds of luggage would test the most saintly of us to the limit. A good-hearted soul driving an airport trolley recognized her despair and offered a ride to the Emirates boarding gate. When the people behind the Emirates desk informed her that visas had not arrived and she could not board the flight for Dubai, according to her own account she ‘lost it’. A screaming, sobbing woman tethered to three youngsters behind a pile of baggage gave the workers incentive and soon they were on the phone with the secretary of the Sharjah Sports Club. The visas were faxed, she and the kids arrived in Dubai and I was informed that never again was I to leave her with such responsibility. Now all she must do is negotiate me through airports, challenging but not daunting.
Our first trip to France was in 2000. Nothing prepares you for eight hours in an economy seat, but alcoholic consumption while in the air softens the effects. Once we figured out the Metro the days in Paris were great. My itinerary next called for taking the train to Beaune in Burgundy. That’s when things got interesting. I had great confidence in my French, largely because most service workers in Paris speak English. Apparently my pronunciation of the village in Burgundy sounded like Bayonne, so we were headed for the Atlantic coast. Luckily I caught the error before we boarded and a ticket agent spoke enough English to save my ass. A few francs later we were ready to board. Our introduction to train strikes and the chaos they cause followed. Since during a strike seat assignments mean little, we ended up across from the harried sales representative of a Burgundian wine estate just returning from the US. Sometimes good comes out of bad; during conversation in the wrong seats on piles of luggage we were invited to visit the chateau in Aleux-Corton and taste the wines. Wow! We did not spit any of those wines on the gravel floor of the chateau tasting room. The strike continued and days later the train from Beaune departed to Lyon. It was Easter break and seats were first come so I stood puzzling over the bizarre events as they unfolded. We left the station and proceeded at five miles per hour for almost an hour. Without explanation the train suddenly accelerated and sped south. The French passengers seemed unaware, but the striking workers had made their point.
Over the years we have flown to France from several US cities. One of those is Charlotte, North Carolina. Our flight’s departure time was six in the evening (18 hours) so at 5:30 boarding began; at 5:31 it stopped. A minor problem and boarding was delayed. An hour later the announcement came that boarding would begin only to be followed minutes later by word that the problem was significantly more serious and sandwiches and drinks were being served while they searched for another airplane. People began rebooking-Ju and I looked for alternatives; we were heading for Philadelphia. At 10 (22 hours) the harried desk staff brought word that a substitute had been located. Included in the information was the catch that the plane must be brought to the gate, the supplies needed to be loaded, passengers must be seated and the doors must be closed before midnight or the crew would exceed the FAA time restriction. At 11:45 those of us who had stuck it out were rewarded-no tickets or passports were checked and we jogged with our bags. At 11:57 the doors were shut and we were on our way. We arrived in Paris six hours late.
Recently, my sons who had driven eleven hours to see Ju and me for a day and a half dropped me off at O’hare in Chicago on their way west. Another adventure began. I was to leave at 4:45 (16:45) for London and connect with the only flight of the day to Toulouse. I had but an hour to clear customs and arrive at the gate (both arrival and departure were in terminal 5) in time for the 7:35 British Airways departure. When I returned to the American Airlines boarding area the departure time had been moved to 5:15 with the explanation that nothing was wrong with the plane, but London was under a midnight to six curfew and the tail wind was very strong. Feeling uneasy, I boarded along with 44 others on the 787 Dreamliner (capacity around 300). The captain informed us not to worry, time would be made up on the Atlantic crossing. Emotions continued to change from hope to despair and back when within seconds a navigation system indicator brought techs on board. We were in the air an hour and a half late. Obviously I did not make the connection. I felt pretty sorry for myself as I trudged to the BA desk, but soon I understood that my fate was shared with many others. Options were few. The next flight to Toulouse was five days later and flying to Madrid could get me there in only two days. An epiphany emerged-Barcelona was the solution. At half past nine I was on my way to Barcelona with no idea how or when or if I could catch a train to Perpignan. However, hope replaced despair because I was out of Heathrow.
No more trains were scheduled; I was stuck in Barcelona. Normally being marooned in Barcelona would not be a disadvantage, but problems soon multiplied. Jules and I were in contact as things regressed. The plan was for me to book passage on the early train while she secured reservations for a hotel. My credit card was refused - we had forgotten to advise the bank of my travel. I paid for the ticket with the last of my euros. Jules experienced the same result and after an hour (it was 5 am in the US) the card was reactivated and I withdrew enough at an ATM to get me back to Quillan. The silver lining in the cloud? I found a neat little square only a block from the Barcelona Sants Gare with cool authentic tapas bars.
Actually, I enjoy travelling. Train and air travel leave the responsibility of navigation to experts and can be relaxing. However, old Murphy and his law are always lurking - darn Irishman anyway.