Dear France,

We have to talk. I think it’s time we start seeing other countries.

I know, I know. Our love affair goes way back. And, now my dreams of having a romantic week with Husband in Paris have been dashed. Yes, yes, he promised. But unfortunately, in the last 10 days Husband and I have experienced some things:

• Air France airline
• Charles de Gaulle airport
• Did I mention Air France?

You see when I booked Delta airlines and they put us on their “partner” Air France, I thought nothing of it. The fact we were going to go through Paris also was not a big deal to me. I am so naïve.

First, when Husband sat down in his assigned seat on our Air France flight, he quickly discovered that – during his entire night trip—his monitor wouldn’t work (so, no movies), his light wouldn’t work (so, no reading), and it would be a continual 90 degrees the whole way (so, no dryness). His neighbor’s light, however, wouldn’t turn off, so sleep also was out of the question. You could say things started to go a little south from that point forward.

As I stood in line for one of the two bathrooms that were working (but with no TP) for all the economy passengers aboard the Airbus A320, I saw the steward look at the screen that tells him which passengers have lit their call signs. I saw Husband’s lone seat light up. Air France steward’s training immediately kicked in. He turned the screen off and went back to his coffee.

(Husband wants me to pause and tell you that they also had one – count ‘em – one flight attendant for the entire economy contingent. Oh, and they served chicken in green sauce. We never did figure out what that was all about. Perhaps you could explain?)

Then, when we landed at Paris’ Charles de Gaulle airport for our four-hour layover before catching yet another Air France flight to Munich (our final destination), the flight attendants refused to let us take an earlier flight to Munich. (Note to self: Never keep Husband from Germany. Apparently, things always work in Germany, which is where Husband wants to be.) 

Paris, you’re great as a destination. But, heaven help you if us if have to go through you.

Yes, air France gets kudos for not losing our luggage. But, I’m afraid that’s a little bit like getting credit for showing up at work after collecting your paycheck.

We then, of course, experienced Germany. No, we’re not having an affair. Well, okay, maybe Husband is. But, Germany and I? We’re just friends.

But, yes, we did meet someone else. Sorry.

No, it’s not Italy. It’s Barcelona. I needed a change of scenery and everyone kept telling us that we simply must, must, must meet Barcelona.

So, we flew Lufthansa airline to Barcelona with my sister and her husband after spending some time in Munich, where they live. (My niece loudly proclaimed, of course, we had an earlier bad flight to Munich. We weren’t on Lufthansa, her preferred airline. She’s 10.)

I know, France, you’ve had the lock on romance, good wine and good food for centuries. But, well, there’s someone else in the picture now.

Ah, Barcelona. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

There were far too many cute Spanish boys (who always smile), crisp cool white wine (you couldn’t order a bad bottle if you wanted to), and streets – large and small –lined with interesting architecture and history for us to fight it. And, then, there was the tapas. And shoes. And, paella. And, gazpacho. And, shoes. And, Gaudi, And Picasso. And, more shoes. And, really, you have to love an airport – like Barcelona’s – that has more shoe and handbag stores than all of the stores in our hometown. Well, yes, I’m getting a little red in the face.

It’s true love.

So, needless to say, when catching yet another Air France flight from Barcelona back to the U.S., well, it took some wheeling and dealing to get Husband on board. He gets major kudos for not saying anything – even to the Air France attendants who told us to “go get some coffee and come back to check in luggage later because they weren’t ready for us yet.”  All this after standing in line for about 30 minutes.

By the way, did you know that Air France (even in Barcelona) won’t let you check your luggage in until the earlier flight  — going to the same destination – has left? That is because they were afraid our luggage would end up on the wrong flight. Apparently, the luggage tags are for mere decoration.

But, rather than leaving the area (just in case they changed their minds), we stood in a que especially designed for our flight, along with the other 100 angry (and caffeine-deprived) people who arrived early to check in but found out that no such thing was going to happen.

No, I’m afraid, counseling won’t help us.

You see, we then had to go through Charles de Gaulle airport again. Sigh.

We land. Hike about half a mile to the Passport Control area and stand in line for about 90 minutes. And, this was all before going through security.

I know, I know, airports are famous for lines. But, only Paris’ lines must have invisible heaters that rise up from the floor (and waiting areas the size of gerbil cages).

There were about 14 guards at the Passport Control area. I quickly ascertained that this amazingly large number has nothing to do with terrorists attempting to get into the country. Rather, the guards are there to protect the sole passport control officer who was attempting to process three international flights. At once.

The lines of people grew longer (beyond where we could see) and, while we all spoke different languages, our faces read the same: Hey, Mr. Lone Passport Officer – what about calling your friends away from their coffee in the back room and opening up more stations? But, instead, his training kicked in. He ignored us. C’est la vie.

The ever-growing-angrier mob included a family who had been travelling some time and still had a way to go — to Leningrad – to get home. I guess 90 minutes wasn’t enough time for them to catch their flight. As people began to systematically miss their flights, the guards’ training kicked in. They shrugged their shoulders.

Yes, I know, we caught our flight. With a whole 10 minutes to spare. The flight home was uneventful, albeit still hot. Husband’s monitor and light both worked, and our luggage arrived. But, the damage had been done.

But, you see it’s really not you, France, it’s us. We’ve grown quite accustomed to being treated like human beings. But, I know you’ll find someone else. Husband has broken up with you, and where he doesn’t go I must follow. He has demanded asked me, in no uncertain terms, that we are never to go through Paris again or fly Air France. But there are plenty of poisson in the sea.  I’m sure you can fry up some others in our place.

(Note: No French airport security guards were harmed during the writing of this blog post.)