Escape from Paris: Mission Impossible

A long-awaited family trip ends in a return journey from hell.

I just returned from a family reunion in Paris. The trip was exhausting, fulfilling, memorable, and magical, and it was the last time I will ever be there with my mom. For that reason alone, the trip was worth it.

But our return journey…… it was as if I was being punished for daring to do something special for once.

The context is this: my mother is a lifelong Francophile. She majored in French poetry in college and taught substitute French in Los Angeles public high schools before having kids. (Can you imagine that they actually used to teach French in public schools—in Los Angeles!?)

In her late 40s, divorced and single, she sent her second child off to college and moved to Paris with her youngest. She successfully rented an apartment, enrolled my sister in school, and shipped her belongings, her furniture, her car, and our dog to France.

Meanwhile, I had just graduated from college with vague future plans. My only actual plan was a sketchy summer internship at Interview Magazine in Manhattan. Naturally, I asked my mom if she would mind if I lived in Paris with her and my sister for a while, and she agreed.

I flew home to L.A. at the end of the summer, packed an extra suitcase, and a few days later, me and the cat were on our way.

She and my little sister spent almost three years there. I came home after one year, when I realized that it was time to Start Real Life.

Since then, I have returned to Paris only once with her and my sister.

For the last few years, especially since Notre Dame was restored and reopened, I have been trying to get my mother and my sister to go to Paris with me, one last time. My mom is in her mid seventies, after all. And when we lived together years ago, all of us were secular atheists. But now, all three of us were converts and devout Catholics. The restored Notre Dame beckoned us. If not now, then when?

We decided to do it. Then my sister backed out, since her two-and-a-half year old could not be brought but also could not be left behind without her mother.

So I brought my two daughters and we met my mother in Paris.

After a wonderful week visiting our old neighborhood, seeing friends, taking my daughters to the usual tourist spots, and spending priceless time with my mom, it was finally time to head home. We’d managed to avoid riots, terrorism, and other potential disasters. We’d pulled it off.

Just one nice flight and we’d be home.

LOL.

The French Connection

We said goodbye to my mom at the airport and the three of us headed to our gate. I had made sure to buy nonstop tickets since my worst fear in life is dealing with missed connections and airport hotel vouchers. It’s happened to me before, and it is always a nightmare. Getting off a nine hour flight only to find out that you’re stuck for the night in a fleabag motel without your luggage—I’d almost rather die in a plane crash.

We boarded our nonstop Delta flight to Los Angeles and buckled in. The weather was clear, the plane was new, and all four of the pilots I’d carefully watched as they boarded the jet looked like they hadn’t needed any DEI quotas to help them get the job. We even had a celebrity on board: Neal McDonough who played Buck Compton on Band of Brothers. I’m sure he had been visiting Normandy for the D-Day celebrations there.

I was relaxed and excited to get home. What could go wrong?

Everything. Everything could go wrong!

Here is our tale of woe, as seen on FlightAware.com:

Like Napoleon, or Count of Monte Cristo, and Marie Antoinette, my escape from France would be fraught with peril.

First Sign of Trouble

The doors were armed for departure and the giant plane pushed back from the gate at CDG. Then it stopped. I watched the flaps on the wings go up and down as the pilots ran through their pre-flight checklist. Then I heard some hydraulics squeaking in the belly of the plane.

The plane didn’t move. Nothing happened. Nothing continued for nearly half an hour. Finally, the young first officer got on the intercom and I could tell instantly from his voice that it was bad news.

He told us that the computer was not working. They had to figure out how to restart it and we’d be on our way.

Minutes passed. Then an hour. “Folks, unfortunately we’re not able to get the computer fixed on our own, so we are going to maintenance here. We’re just waiting for a tow now. The issue is the brakes—only four of the eight brakes are working, so we can’t drive there ourselves. Thank you for your patience.”

We waited another hour for the tow.

The tow itself took almost 45 minutes. The plane was dragged one mile and hour to a remote corner of the sprawling airport.

A bad computer. No brakes. I am a nervous flyer on a good day. This was not good. Could we get off and try a different flight?

“Some of you have been asking to go back to the gate and try to get a different flight. Unfortunately we are so far from the gates that we are all stuck here.”

The captain, an affable older man, the kind you want in the cockpit, walked to the back and talked to each part of the cabin. He told us that the plane was okay to fly but can’t land without brakes, but the repair staff at the airport were very good and we would get it resolved.

There, we waited another two hours. We were supposed to take off at 4 PM. It was now 8:30 PM and we’d had no food or water. My 9 year old started crying since she hadn’t eaten much since breakfast.

Finally, they announced that the computer issue was resolved! The brakes were working! (Or at least, we’d find out when we landed at LAX in ten hours).

“But, unfortunately…” he continued. The smile froze on my face. Oh no. “Unfortunately, the repair took so long that our crew has timed out. Which means we are no longer able to fly to Los Angeles. We are only allowed to take you as far as Detroit.”

Detroit. The passengers groaned.

Legally, crews aren’t allowed to work past a certain number of hours. Total bullshit, if you ask me. It’s an extra three hours!

My daughter cried with hunger.

The pilot told us there would be a plane waiting in Detroit with a “fresh crew.” We would land in LA by 2 AM.

If only it had been that smooth.

The pilot apologized again.

We finally took off around 9 PM, headed for Detroit.

Terminal Journey

I have a son who goes to college in Michigan so I’ve been to the Detroit airport. It’s a pretty good one, lots of food options. Unfortunately, we landed when everything was closed. Delta emailed us all “meal vouchers.” $12 per person. A small bottle of water at the airport costs $6.

Worse, this would not be a quick turnaround. They told us we had to get off, take all of our belongings, go retrieve all our bags from baggage claim, go through customs, go through passport control, then recheck our bags, and go through security again.

You’d think at 11 PM at Detroit on a random weeknight there would be no line at security. But you’d be wrong.

We spent an hour getting through TSA. The flight was scheduled to leave at 10:45, then 11:45. Exhausted, my poor girls and I trudged miles back to the same gate to get on our plane home. I ran to get a few bags of chips and water before the last gift shop closed.

We got on the plane, the same one we’d flown in from Paris. We were headed home, finally. It was midnight.

Then, we waited.

And waited.

We looked at each other—was the computer malfunctioning again? What in the world was the hold up?

ANOTHER full hour passed. Then, the “fresh pilot” we’d come to Detroit to get got on the intercom. The tone in his tired voice told the tale. “Folks, I know you’ve been through a really tough day. And I have more bad news for you. Unfortunately, it took too long to get us on the way so I have timed out and can no longer fly you to Los Angeles.”

I panicked. The passengers shrieked in outrage.

But what could we do? We all got off again, dragging our bags and children with us.

Stranded

It was two in the morning and we’d been traveling all day. I decided I wouldn’t mind laying down for a few hours. Delta sent us a list of airport “hotels” they’d pay for. They all looked absolutely wretched. I chose at random. Howard Johnson’s. At least I’d heard of it.

How bad could it be?

TFW you’re in an 18 hour flight delay in Romulus, Michigan.

The place where you get the shuttle to the “hotel” was of course at least a mile walk to the bowels of the airport. My poor kids trudged along behind me, quiet and resigned to our new lives as liminal airport dwellers of the deep. What day was it? What year? What country? Who even was I anymore, outside of a nameless, seatless, passenger adrift in the manifest? My kingdom for a McDonald’s Happy Meal for my starved, bedraggled waifs?

The shuttle area was baking hot and sweaty. It was two in the morning but 90 degrees with 1000% humidity.

We waited at least thirty minutes and then a shuttle lurched to the curb. So did at least 40 other people, all jostling for the same shuttle to the fabled HoJos.

We squeezed in. People were on each other’s laps, sitting in the aisle. I prayed. The driver hit the gas and we peeled out in a rickety van with no shock absorbers. Outside it was now pouring rain, thundering and lightning. The driver was going at least 60, taking turns without slowing down. I visualized the overloaded van tipping over and our bodies grinding into ground meat on the asphalt.

I prayed.

We made it. The lobby of the Howard Johnson’s reeked of weed. Another line. I finally got a key to a room, if you can call it that.

I checked the mattress as I always do for bed bugs and discovered what looked like streaks of blood stains. The ceiling was stained. The curtains looked like someone had splashed a gallon of coffee on them fifty years ago. There was one tiny gray towel for three of us.

We had no choice. After letting the girls sleep for a few hours I got them up and we fled—back to the Detroit airport, where, thank the Lord, McDonalds and Starbucks were both open.

The rest of the Paris survivors staggered over and collapsed in the chairs by the gate. Everyone in the same clothes. More bags under their eyes than in their hands. But at least we were going home.

Worth it

After a final one-hour delay, the plane actually took off. We all cheered as it cleared the airport.

I have always loved coming home to LAX after a long time away—in college, or summer trips—but this one was special.

Paris, je t’aime, mais il n’y a rien comme chez soi!

What was your worst-ever travel experience? Let me know in the comments!

Thanks for reading!

—Peachy