On the 1st of January, I made the decision that I wanted my summer holidays 2019 to once again be spent in South Africa, more specifically in the Kruger Park. I left Norway 12:30 on a Tuesday*, with the unenjoyable prospect of a long layover in Paris, France. At Oslo, I joined in the, for me, unusual tactic of rampant line-jumping, as I passed several groups of dithering pensioners and families with children before presenting myself at the ticket control.
I was among the first to hit my seat and managed to fill up the overhead compartment with my stuff, because I AM ENTITLED. I got my divine punishment a little later, when the fucking snail eaters engaged in several games of musical chairs, trying to decide who should sit next to whom and I had to get up a couple of times before the excitement died down and everybody had finally found a seat tolerable to them.
When landing in Paris, the frogs were not up to the task of keeping me correctly informed. I landed shortly before 3PM and after navigating such simple stupidities as a hallway that was blocked with string, where people were expected to simply walk around a set of stairs only to come out on the other side of said string, negating its purpose in the first place, I checked the fancy, schmancy machine they had at the entrance to the terminal. It said unequivocally that my flight to Johannesburg was to leave from gate L-45.
Ever the obedient traveler, I trudged through half a terminal and settled in for the long, dark teatime of the soul. Half past ten PM I went to the bathroom and upon coming back, I happened to glance at my gate. There, in bright letters, it said "Santiago de Chile". WTF? So, I enquired from the woman at the gate who could tell me that Johannesburg was at L-26 and had been for HOURS. I hastily grabbed all my stuff and started moving as fast as my sluggish body would allow, back through half the terminal, around the goddamn tax free bullshit that has fucked up the structure of just about every airport I've ever been to and then finally, fucking finally the last slog over to L-26.
Here, the lines were (GASP!) well organized, so I didn't get to sneak as much as I had wanted, but reward came when the usual game of chairs began and instead of being squeezed in between some teenage punk and an old hag, I suddenly found myself in an aisle seat with the middle seat unoccupied and a rather attractive lady at the window. Not that this did me much good in the end; she promptly fell asleep while I drifted between stupendous boredom and trying, oh trying to just for fuck's sake get a teensie weensie bit of a nap. Nah.
[*As with my most recent travel blogging, I am posting retrospectively. These lines are written in mid-July.]
I was among the first to hit my seat and managed to fill up the overhead compartment with my stuff, because I AM ENTITLED. I got my divine punishment a little later, when the fucking snail eaters engaged in several games of musical chairs, trying to decide who should sit next to whom and I had to get up a couple of times before the excitement died down and everybody had finally found a seat tolerable to them.
When landing in Paris, the frogs were not up to the task of keeping me correctly informed. I landed shortly before 3PM and after navigating such simple stupidities as a hallway that was blocked with string, where people were expected to simply walk around a set of stairs only to come out on the other side of said string, negating its purpose in the first place, I checked the fancy, schmancy machine they had at the entrance to the terminal. It said unequivocally that my flight to Johannesburg was to leave from gate L-45.
Ever the obedient traveler, I trudged through half a terminal and settled in for the long, dark teatime of the soul. Half past ten PM I went to the bathroom and upon coming back, I happened to glance at my gate. There, in bright letters, it said "Santiago de Chile". WTF? So, I enquired from the woman at the gate who could tell me that Johannesburg was at L-26 and had been for HOURS. I hastily grabbed all my stuff and started moving as fast as my sluggish body would allow, back through half the terminal, around the goddamn tax free bullshit that has fucked up the structure of just about every airport I've ever been to and then finally, fucking finally the last slog over to L-26.
Here, the lines were (GASP!) well organized, so I didn't get to sneak as much as I had wanted, but reward came when the usual game of chairs began and instead of being squeezed in between some teenage punk and an old hag, I suddenly found myself in an aisle seat with the middle seat unoccupied and a rather attractive lady at the window. Not that this did me much good in the end; she promptly fell asleep while I drifted between stupendous boredom and trying, oh trying to just for fuck's sake get a teensie weensie bit of a nap. Nah.
[*As with my most recent travel blogging, I am posting retrospectively. These lines are written in mid-July.]
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