Don't get me wrong, all my vacations are a miracle of saving every penny for ages, good tip karma, and the willingness to eat a can of pineapple for dinner. There is, however, a difference between a small budget and no budget at all. Let's go way, way back to 2012...
It was just beginning to be truly summer in Florida, which meant it was the end of Spring everywhere civilized. My bestest most favoritest ex roommate girl friend was getting married to the love of her life, so of course I found the money to go witness this wonder in person. She lives in San Fransisco, so I pinched my pennies and bought a crappy discount flight out there, and reserved a compact car for the drive up to the Redwoods for the ceremony. I had already been saving to go to Paris to see a childhood friend of mine, so when I found a flight from SFO to JFK for $98, I decided to roll it all into one trip. Round trip airfare for the entire trip (Orlando to San Fran to New York to Brussels, train to Paris, Paris to Toronto, Toronto back to Orlando) was less than $1000, which was the best I was going to get, so I figured it would make more sense to do it that way. It all worked out nicely on paper.
The trip itself was lovely, I met some awesome people and saw some seriously beautiful scenery, but due to circumstances beyond my control (for instance, the compact rental car I reserved magically turning into a JEEP EFFING WRANGLER) costs (gas) for the first half of my trip were much higher than expected. Even so, I had non-refundable plane tickets, and I very much wanted to see my Parisian friend, with whom I was staying for free. Everything that could be paid for ahead of time was paid for, so I just figured I'd coast through and come home broke.
I landed in Brussels with 30 euros. I was in Europe for over a week. After a rousing walking tour of the city, my grand total for that day was 3 entire euros, one of which was spent on a delicious waffle. Fast forward to Paris. I muddled through mostly thanks to my friend refusing to let me starve. Armed with a fresh baguette and a bottle of Orangina, I mostly walked through the city for the week. I learned more about the layout of the city this trip than I had when I went with my parents after high school graduation, when our aching feet had a break via metro or taxi. I had enough money to buy two metro tickets a day, so I explored a different part of the city each day (until my aching feet and back gave out and I slept through one of them. They have much better over the counter pain medication there). All in all, it was a very lovely trip...
Right up until it was time to go home. The cheapest airfare I could find was ORLY to YYZ (Toronto Pearson). This is the part that makes it worth reading allll that lead up. Here, my friends, lies your entertaining reward. Since I was completely out of money, I had to find a way to get to the airport on public transit. ORLY is not the most convenient airport, it lies a bit outside the city, considered 'far' for Parisians, but since Orlando (the nearest International airport) is a 2 hour drive from my home, I considered ORLY pretty close to where I was staying. I googled, looked on trip advisor, checked all kinds of websites and could not find ANYTHING on the best way to accomplish this feat for the least amount of money. I finally resorted to a French navigation guide that told me which trains to take and what bus I needed to get on. It was only going to cost me most of what I had left to get to the airport! Huzzah!
I said my goodbye and thank you to my friend, hiked up my backpack that was chock full of free souvenirs, like flyers and sand and empty bottles of products we don't sell at home, and headed out to meet my flight.
As soon as I climbed the steps out of the metro I realized why I couldn't find this route on any travel blogs. You'll recall that we're in the way way back of 2012. Apparently, 2012 wasn't the best year for Parisian suburbs. As I made my connection from train to bus, I became wary of my surroundings. There were an awful lot of boarded up buildings. Even though this bus supposedly went straight to the airport, I was the only obvious traveler among my seat mates. Luckily, I had spent all week learning not to look like a raging American, so as long as I kept my mouth shut, everyone took me for, if not local, at least friendly. The bus we got on was one of those you see in larger cities that's really two buses put together. This one seemed longer than others I'd been on. I got on in the back, hoping to avoid being crowded too much, and I could barely see the driver waaaay up at the front. Here's where the trouble started. Three youths got on the bus a little ways down the hill from where I started out. Two dudes and a chick, late teens by the look of them, and they were LOUD. They took up the whole back bench, and got disapproving looks from all the nice Muslim ladies on the bus with me. The woman next to me said something disdaining in French that I only understood a third of, and I exercised my well researched mouth noises that indicated I agreed.
One of the dudes put his arm around the chick, which apparently pissed off the other guy, because now there was shouting. The bus driver, now seemingly miles away, is completely oblivious to this rapidly deteriorating situation. I speak passable conversational French, and those were not nice words they were exchanging. The girl they were with tried to get them to stop but they were way beyond that in what seemed like seconds. The smaller, paler dude took a swing. Now there was a full on fist fight happening literally 3 feet from where I was. No room to move out of the way. All those disapproving ladies were now calling 'monsieur, attention! MONSIEUR ATTENTION' at the front of the bus, just as larger darker dude pinned smaller paler dude down and BROKE HIS FUCKING NOSE right in front of me. Panic ensues, the bus stops, there is now blood all over my luggage. I am about to go on an INTERNATIONAL FLIGHT AND THERE IS BLOOD ON MY LUGGAGE. Bus driver breaks it up, kicks larger darker dude off the bus, and then let the chick and broken nose guy back on the bus. I repeat, lets them back. on. the. bus. The lady next to me (who has just returned to her seat) asked him if he's ok. Like someone out of a harlequin romance novel, he flips his hair, runs his fingers through it, winks, and says 'D'accord'. Like it's no big freaking deal that he just had a major altercation on public transit over who even knows what.
I am incredibly relieved when the bus starts moving again. After all, I have a plane to catch. I was in strangely high spirits as our bus did its weird accordion thing amidst burned out cars with bright poppies growing through them, and empty lots with grass growing over rubble.
We reach the airport at last, and I still have an hour until my flight. I am cautiously optimistic that the worst is over. I survived hunger and lack of transportation all week, made the best of my broke as funk situation and enjoyed sight seeing on no money, but I was super tired and it had been a bit of a stressful ride.
Prior to this trip, the worst airport I had ever witnessed with my actual eyes was Dulles. ORLY looks like Dulles took a big, French crap. I am assured that my experience is not every experience, and since I was flying a budget airline, that's probably true, but seriously. Never again. The bus drops me off across a large parking lot from the terminal I need, so I hoof it over the asphalt and try not to focus on the fact that I have a strangers blood on my backpack. It's a black backpack, I tell myself, no one's going to notice. And no one did notice. No one noticed anything. The terminal I was assigned was a low ceilinged, dingy room, with linoleum flooring that smelled like my middle school cafetorium. I held out my passport and bar coded printed ticket to the lady at the counter, who measured my bag to make sure it fit the strict carry-on requirements set forth by the airline. There was a family quietly arguing off to one side about what to leave behind, as their bags didn't pass inspection. Counter lady asked me a bunch of questions in French, and I answered most of them, but it was obvious I was struggling, and I didn't quite catch one of them. I asked (in French) if she spoke English, and she did not. Not one person working the counter for a flight going to Toronto, Canada, spoke English. We muddled through the rest of the questions, and I realized somewhere along the way that she wasn't using a computer. She checked my name against a list on a clipboard, physically looked at my ticket printout, shined a light over my passport picture, but never put anything into any kind of computer. I shrugged it off. Not all airports are the same, I reminded myself. Don't be a classist.
She directed me to my gate, and I set off again to navigate this airport dungeon. I followed the posted signs to a set of stairs. A set of stairs that led down. Dark, concrete stairs that led down into a waiting room that passed for a gate in this place. Our plane was physically there, it was explained, but it was delayed for 'cleaning'. For 3 hours. I had left a generous layover window in Toronto, but I did have to make it back to North America sometime soonish or I was going to miss that generous window. It was somewhere around this third hour of delay that I realized they intended to have us walk out on the tarmac. For my international flight. We walked to our plane, took the three flights of rollaway stairs up to the cabin, and I sat down in my assigned seat. Not only did my armrests not fold up, they had ashtrays in them. It was then that I began to fear for my life. Luckily, they were piping soothing rat pack music over the speakers, which- wait, I thought, that doesn't sound like Frank. Apparently the CEO of the airline also doubles as a lounge singer. For reasons I will never fully understand, that somehow made everything ok. The absolute absurdity of it all, each bizarrely crappy layer piled on top of each other, had finally tipped the scales. If there were ever a time in my life that I accepted death, it was then. Flying in a worn-down walk-up airplane with a stranger's blood on my bag, listening to what amounted to karaoke recordings, not a dime to my name. I was ready for whatever came next. Somehow, it felt blissful.
I did make it home safe and sound, and I did go back to Paris to see my friend last year, with more money, out of a different airport (that I got stranded in for 12 hours, but that's a different story altogether).
jacobvanloon