CDG is Dead to Me

              It would be interesting to hear what the great fathers of flight would have to say about the current state of commercial aviation. Millions of passengers and tons of cargo crisscross the globe constantly with such speed and efficiency that would surely delight the spirits of the Wright Brothers, Charles Lindbergh and Howard Hughes. The downside to this huge growth in relatively convenient and cheap transportation is that it is cheap and convenient. Bottom line: The airplane is the new bus. Delta is the new Greyhound. The airport is the new bus depot. There is no greater aberration of a bus depot than CDG.          

                For those not familiar with the parlance of air travel, CDG is the three letter identifier for Charles De Gaulle Airport in Paris, France. This great piece of architectural nonsense is the epitome of what is wrong with air travel today. Every time I look at an upcoming flight itinerary and see those three hideous letters, I get an uncomfortable pain deep in my stomach; like eating a Bojangles spicy chicken biscuit while running a 10K. By the time my flight is on final approach to this man-made catastrophe, the pain turns into a full scale, burning rectal itch.

                Please don’t confuse my contempt for the Paris airport with any contempt for the French people. I love the language, the food isn’t really my thing, and we did participate in a student exchange with a French girl and my daughter. The French people who work at CDG are rude, thoughtless, and uncaring because of their environment. If I had to work in that place every day, I wouldn’t give a crap either. If that same airport was in Germany, or Cameroon, or Atlanta, you would get the same behavior (well, you sort of DO in Atlanta).

                What makes CDG so miserable is the result of a perfect storm of poor design. It takes “form over function” to a new level. I sat on a plane a few months ago sitting next to an older American woman who was traveling with a group of retired teachers on vacation. She asked me about the airport and how difficult it was to navigate. I asked her:

“What are you doing here? Are you staying in Paris?”

“Why yes, we are staying in a wonderful boutique hotel just outside Paris!” She replied.

“Wow! That is probably the best scenario for the airport. Get through passport control, get your bags, and hop on the train.”

“What are you doing here?” She asked.

“I have the worst possible scenario… I’m changing planes.”

            Therein lies the agony. Changing planes in CDG is the air travel version of a colonoscopy, except without the anesthesia. From the vague and sparse signage to the archaic bus system, moving from terminal to terminal is akin to navigating the Oregon Trail in a Conestoga wagon. More than once, when asked for my name at the ticket counter, I replied “Donner… party of 1”.

                The possibility that passengers may actually land at one concourse and depart out of another must have seemed so remote that no provision was made for that transfer. One must first find, then decode the signage, which is a challenge in itself; then down the escalator to the bowels. The uncaring and non-communicative attendant will open the door when a bus arrives. Usually there is no guidance or announcement. Different buses go to different sets of terminals so getting on the wrong bus is a concern. The bus navigates the nonsensical route fighting traffic, aircraft, and stops at empty spaces for no apparent reason. Should one actually get on the correct bus, and end up at the correct terminal, the level of rejoice is measured by which terminal one ends up at.

                Like the caste system in India, there is a definite stratum of eminence when it comes to the terminals in our beloved CDG. If you end up in 2E, you have vast choices of gourmet food, restaurants, and duty free choices like Prada, Chanel, and Giorgio Armani. However, should you end up in terminal 2B, you realize that your luck just ran out. No Prada here. One small snack counter where a Heineken runs about 8 Euro and a small magazine shop that sells French newspapers and the usual assortment of M&Ms and giant Toblerone bars. Looking for the Air France lounge? Forget it. It is completely cleared out and filled with about 100 cots with blankets and pillows. Not a good sign. Apparently, Terminal 2B doubles as a refugee center.

                There is, of course, a reason for the rather Spartan facilities. Here is where the small, lonely airlines dwell. Air Cameroon, Uzbek Airlines, and my aerial host: Georgian Airways. I’m sure these airlines all have their own strengths and weaknesses. Either way, they certainly deserve a better fate than Terminal 2B.

                So I board the Georgian Airways flight headed for Tbilisi, that delightful and beautiful city nestled close to the Caucasus Mountains and a far cry from the Franco-Chaos that is CDG. As my flight lumbers off the runway and banks southeast, I breathe a sigh of relief. I made it through CDG with a few less Euros in my pocket and my sanity tested but intact. I wonder if my bags made the connection…