I am really out of shape. I am rusty. I once prided myself on my ability to get through an airport quickly and efficiently. But I now realize that my whole game is off. I need to go into training.

I travelled this past weekend back to YYZ from MRS. Give then dearth of flights these days, it was a 22 hour door to door elapsed time odyssey. I have travelled from YYZ to SYD in the same amount of time.

It was a 430 am alarm for a 515 am pickup. The trip to the airport and check-in were uneventful. The best money I spent was 60 Euros to upgrade to business class on the MRS to CDG leg. It was not for the seat itself, which was exactly like all other seats on the plane, but for the business class check-in line which was empty as opposed to the snaking economy line. I was not travelling “carry on only” as my luggage consisted of, well, luggage. Over the past years, all of our suitcases had ended up in Marseille and the time had come to reposition a few bags back to Toronto. No coffee available on the public side of check in and one outlet in the secured area had a snaking line of people preparing to travel to CDG, the only flight really leaving.

Like most flights I have been on, I have no recollection of take-off. I was asleep. And, I slept through coffee service, if there was one. We landed at an absolutely empty CDG, which PreCo (Pre-Covid, as I call it) was the second busiest airport in Europe (LHR was number one) and the 10th busiest airport in the world (ATL is the busiest). Why with that, this plane had to land at the farthest gate with the longest walk to the far end of an empty baggage hall is just beyond me. It boggles the mind.

And this is when things went off the rails. I walked at least a kilometre from T2E to T2A (no internal airport side shuttles running) and without anyone around, I was at least actually able to appreciate the architecture and design of the empty terminals. They are beautiful when not bursting over-capacity. Nothing open on my way and no coffee.

I arrived at the AC check-in desk to crickets. It wasn’t even open yet. I never like rushing to an airport, but this was ridiculous. No check in, no getting through security and no finding sanctuary in the AC lounge, which turned out be closed anyway. I saw a shimmering light past the AC check-in counter, and soldiered on to come across an oasis in the middle of the dessert. I had a choice of McDonalds or a Starbucks, neither with any seating of course. I could not work the electronic order board at McDonalds and so it was Starbucks. That will be 12 Euros sir for a medium Americano coffee and a croque monsieur. Thank you very little.

I took my feast and found a seat along one of those industrial connected row chairs near the AC check-in. Yes, the ones designed to be uncomfortable after five minutes. Within moments, a fella sat down at the far end of the row. But, he was a leg shaker, and his leg shaking made it impossible for me to try to sip my way too hot medium Americano without drooling and second degree burns. I put the coffee down on the floor beside me. I had some work to do and with no nice working table in a lounge, I wheeled my not yet checked luggage from beside the seat to in front of me as an impromptu desk. Good idea, bad execution. Over went the bucket of coffee taking with it a layer of wax off the floor as it spread in front of me like an oil slick. The one napkin I was issued was not going to do anything to stem the flood.

I sat there in complete paralysis. The platoon of French soldiers who walked by carrying M16s while wearing berets did not seem very impressed. (You can pull the beret look off if you are carrying an M16.) I felt myself getting smaller and smaller. And then I heard a public address announcement that in English translated no doubt to “Clean up in Terminal 2A”. A few seconds later, I heard what seemed like a jet engine racing toward me from behind. It turned out to be a Zamboni styled squeegee machine dispatched by air traffic control to clean up my mess. The Zamboni pilot gestured me to remove myself and my desk from the area and within seconds the floor was cleaned and rewaxed. And still no coffee.

Thankfully, the balance of my journey home was without incident, other than my near self-strangulation on the flight from CDG to YUL. Between being masked-up, old man reading glasses on a rope around my neck, headphones plugged into the audio system and eye shades, I nearly did myself in when I nodded off and turned on my side. And no, no coffee service, and no scotch and warm nuts either.

I finally did get home. Customs clearance at YUL with a testy machine, one more security line (which I of course poorly and found myself behind a family of six), an interminable wait at the YYZ luggage carousel for my luggage-in-luggage luggage, and then it was a quick drive home to start my 14 days of Quarantine – Season 2. No stopping. That would have been against the rules. By the time I got home, it was way too late for a coffee

Airports can be magical places. They can be things of beauty and the place of life changing beginnings. They can also be some of the most frustrating and sole destroying places on earth. I guess is all about perspective. That, and the ability to get a cup of coffee.