Touchdown in Paris.
We
had arrived at Charles De Gaul Airport. The thick clouds of snow smothered the
ground as we skidded upon landing. I was excited, not least because it was
Christmas time, and at twenty one years old, I would be visiting Disney Land
for the very first time. Mickey Mouse didn’t know how long I had envisaged this
moment.
I
remember being seven and seeing those Disney cartoons on the television where
the castle sparkles on a blue background and the semi-circular line glows
overhead as the words Walt Disney are scribed below. It was mesmerising. This
man Walt, well, he was a hero. Who else could give children such pleasure from
their own living room carpet. A world full of seven year olds would all react
in the same ways to seeing the film opening; toys crashing into one-another,
mouths agog, drool slopping from the corner of their lips as their eyes open as
wide as a full moon in the midnight sky. If you’ve ever seen those movies as a
seven year old child, you’ll remember, it was entrancing.
How
the excitement I felt as a seven year old was about to become very real.
Fourteen years later, I would be entering the world of Disney for the first
time. As the snow carpeted the airport runways, we moved swiftly into the
building via one of those suction tunnels.
However,
when we entered the airport itself, all of my inner childhood excitement left
me and the adult with a list of indefinite shortcomings as a human being took
over. As we crept through the security and entered to collect our bags, we were
surprised to find that the luggage belts were empty; there wasn’t a suitcase in
sight. I stood in that impatient typically British fashion, by where I put my
hands on my hips, stuck out my bottom lip, and cocked my head to one side.
That’s a Brit at his wits end right there.
There
was barely another soul in sight. I wondered if we had somehow, between the aeroplane,
the tunnel, and the building itself, managed to take a wrong turn. There wasn’t
a staff member in sight. I wasn’t best pleased.
We waited, convincing ourselves
as British people like to do, that this cannot happen to them, yet all the
while knowing inside full well that their life’s never ending display of
misfortunate events means that this kind of thing has and will forever, always
happen to them.
It
should be noted, that when I am in a state of confusion, distress, or
misfortune, I have this moronic habit of saying the wrong thing to the wrong
person. This is what happened next.
The
help desks where all closed, so I had no one to ask, ‘excuse me, but could you
please tell me where you have hidden my luggage?’ The security guards with
heavy machine guns in their hands looked lethargically unappeased at the fact
they were walking aimlessly around in search of someone who looked remotely
suspicious. Thinking they may have the answer to my questions, I approached
one.
‘Hello.’
I said. His head dropped from his nine foot stature to his crotch height where
my forehead met his body and said ‘Yes?’
I
pointed in a disapproving manner towards the conveyor belt displaying
frustration at the fact I couldn’t find my where my luggage was. I should have
probably kept my arms by my side rather than waving them around, but I’m from
Yorkshire – you talk with hands because in all honesty, no-one has a clue what
you’re saying otherwise.
He
regarded me with suspicion. But I didn’t care. I continued and told him that we
had just landed, and my luggage was nowhere to be seen – did he know where
someone had put it. He took his back off the wall he was resting his tall
stature, and his large tactical army uniform rustled as he moved his arms
across his body – one holding the tip of his gun, the other unnervingly close
to the trigger. I pursued my point.
‘Look,
if you can’t tell me where my luggage is, then can you point me in the
direction of someone who bloody well can?’
He
had hairy stubble of dark tuft over his chin, which moved as he opened his
mouth and signalled to his security friends to come over and join him. Two
other men with guns came over to engage in the conversation.
This
was progress.
The nine foot security man
gestured to a ten foot security man that I had something to say.
‘Problem?’
he asked me.
‘Yes
actually, as you can see, I have just arrived from England after a delayed
flight, to find my luggage missing and there is no-one I can find to speak to –
what kind of airport is this, for fucks sake!’
It
was at this point it occurred to me that I had three men around me who probably
understood less than ten percent of the words that came out of my mouth, they
all had guns, and I was probably going purple in the face with frustration at
their incompetence to aid a confused lost Brit who just wanted to locate his
suitcase.
One
of them signalled me to come with a hand that was the size of a shovel, and so
I followed him as the two other stood either side of me and escorted me off. My
partner Sam stood mouth agog wondering if I was about to be lined up and shot
for verbally abusing French Airport Security, but it turns out, they weren’t.
To
my elated surprise they took me to a room where I was not put against the wall
and cavity searched with a baton, but instead shown a room full of suitcases
piled up in lost property. We grabbed the bags after shuffling through disregarded
underpants and made our way to the exit in due haste, where the Disney Land bus
was due to depart from.
But
it never arrived.
We
stood outside in the cold subzero temperatures as fresh snow fell lethargically
onto the ground.
A
few other disgruntled looking holiday makers were gathered around the same
area, all seemingly a trifle confused at their current misfortunate
predicament. Some of the children looked slightly bewildered and troubled at
the fact that the place they were standing wasn’t in fact the home of Donald
Duck.
We
waited, joined by a series of other Brits in denial about the fact that this
sort of thing cannot happen to them, as we all congregated in a disproved
fashion giving each other weary looks that suggested that none of the other people
stood there were indeed as important nor experiencing the same difficulties
that they were. When the unfortunate does happen to a Brit, once they have
accepted the fact that this sort of thing has and can happen to them, they then
turn to the next phase of denial, which initiates around the terms, ‘no-one else
knows what it’s like to be me!’
As
it turns out, obviously, we were all meant to be on the same transport to Disney
Land, clarified by the fact that we were all stood beneath a mammoth of a sign
which signalled ‘Disney Land Bus Here.’ After a few moments we all stopped
pretending that we were not in the same position as each other and soon started
to find solace in the fact that each individual party was not alone in their
misfortunate event.
We
began conversing about how appalled we were at the current situation, after all
it was only a bit of snow! Ask any British person, they’ll soon tell you, a bit
of snow never stopped anyone.
If
there is ever a situation more frustrating than being stuck in an airport with
a group of tired, spoiled, overindulgent children who are unappreciative of the
fact that they are indeed on their way to a place I had waited my entire life
to visit, then I never wish to be in that situation. These children were
petulant cretins!
I’d
waited twenty one years to meet Mickey Mouse. The disappointment I was facing
was unrivalled by any of their youthful lack of appreciation. It was a feeling
not too dissimilar to when you were six years old and opened the rectangular
shaped present labelled ‘from Santa’ under the Christmas tree, filled with
anticipation, excitement and adrenaline, to find that it is indeed a selection
box. (It isn’t until around twelve years old you figure out that this is a
mandatory gift from Santa, and at around fourteen years old you figure out who
the gift is actually from. By the age of sixteen, you’ve learned to control
your emotions, and act a little surprised and thankful that you’ve indeed been
given the worlds shittest collection of chocolates for a tenth consecutive year.)
A
few of the families’ began to chunter and walk around in circles, and one
father approached a security guard to attempt to find out a solution. As it
turns out, he was grabbed by the arm after he waved his arms in the air a few
too many times and was told to return to his wife and children. What can I say;
you’ve got to have the knack people.
A
few people got taxis, others stayed around the airport trying to get hold of
the holiday company. About one hour had passed, it was dark, snowing heavily,
and the weather was plainly not going to clear up any time soon. We got
speaking to a man from Newcastle, which if anyone has ever met a Geordie, you
soon realise that no matter how hard you try, none of the words that you hear
make any logic. The Yorkshire accent is quite difficult, but when you meet a
Geordie, only then do you start to appreciate that extra 200 miles between you.
As
it was, he was alone with just his little boy who was quiet as his dad ruffled
his wafting blonde mop of hair.
One
child was complaining to his parents that this was the worst holiday he had
ever been on. He was around eight I’d say. He was also the type of child you
wouldn’t hesitate to give an elbow to given half the chance. I thought about
informing him that he was in fact lucky because some children this Christmas
would be stuck at home, and some children are sick and won’t see another
Christmas so he should be thankful. But I knew this wouldn’t suffice. Children
like that are only satisfied by two things – sympathy for others isn’t one of
them. So I held my words back, and instead felt appeased by the fact that he
had another eight years of receiving those shitty chocolates in a rectangular
shaped box.
That my friends, made my
Christmas.
