Our suitcase caper begins in Toronto’s Pearson Airport. Where we are waiting to board a late inbound Aer Lingus flight from, and return to, Dublin.
Our non-stop plan is to fly this Irish national airline to Dublin, connect to Charles De Gaulle airport in Paris; there we pick up our lone suitcase, transfer to a high-speed train to Marseille, then a local train to our destination in Toulon, France.
Why this lengthy travel plan of over 18 hours? Please, don’t ask!
Suffice it to say, we knew we were in trouble when Aer Lingus left Toronto two hours late. Adding to our woes, once the plane landed, it hung around the Dublin runway for 30 minutes waiting for an available gate.
Our non-stop plan is to fly this Irish national airline to Dublin, connect to Charles De Gaulle airport in Paris; there we pick up our lone suitcase, transfer to a high-speed train to Marseille, then a local train to our destination in Toulon, France.
Why this lengthy travel plan of over 18 hours? Please, don’t ask!
Suffice it to say, we knew we were in trouble when Aer Lingus left Toronto two hours late. Adding to our woes, once the plane landed, it hung around the Dublin runway for 30 minutes waiting for an available gate.
But help! We had a connecting plane to catch to Paris rapidement!
Not being familiar with an airport as convoluted as Dublin International (Irish: Aerfort Bhaile Átha Cliath) increased our chaos and heightened our anxiety. If ever I felt like one of those mad dash and clash passengers, this was then.
Under, over, leaping, dodging, careening around wheelchairs and creeping passengers, sliding down mini-stairwells, trying to read overhead signs to our gate that was closing in five minutes, we scampered like Irish elves about to disappear. It didn’t help that my Better Half was faster moving. I felt like a sludgy protozoan trying to keep up. He kept looking behind (with distraught face) until I caught up. At least he had time to catch his breath.
Not being familiar with an airport as convoluted as Dublin International (Irish: Aerfort Bhaile Átha Cliath) increased our chaos and heightened our anxiety. If ever I felt like one of those mad dash and clash passengers, this was then.
Under, over, leaping, dodging, careening around wheelchairs and creeping passengers, sliding down mini-stairwells, trying to read overhead signs to our gate that was closing in five minutes, we scampered like Irish elves about to disappear. It didn’t help that my Better Half was faster moving. I felt like a sludgy protozoan trying to keep up. He kept looking behind (with distraught face) until I caught up. At least he had time to catch his breath.
Plus, we both carried backpacks and hand luggage.
No time for grabbing food on the run.
Luckily the gate attendant waved us through to the waiting plane with a mere glance at our boarding passes. As we sank out of breath into our assigned seats, the onboard stewardess announced the doors were closing.
No time for grabbing food on the run.
Luckily the gate attendant waved us through to the waiting plane with a mere glance at our boarding passes. As we sank out of breath into our assigned seats, the onboard stewardess announced the doors were closing.
Charles De Gaulle Airport
Of course - surprise, surprise - our checked suitcase never made it to CDG.
We had 2 ½ hours to report our missing piece before boarding our prepaid highspeed train south to Marseille. Should we wait for our suitcase due on the next flight from Dublin or move on? I lost that discussion.
So, we bug the lost/late luggage personnel at the airport who, surprisingly, are efficient. At least at collecting information. Gold stars for them.
But all this frigging around takes time.
Electronic air tag
The one ace in our sleeve – er - suitcase is a small electronic tracking device. On loan from Son S, the air tag proves invaluable. Son S reports via text that our lone suitcase is still in Dublin.
Of course - surprise, surprise - our checked suitcase never made it to CDG.
We had 2 ½ hours to report our missing piece before boarding our prepaid highspeed train south to Marseille. Should we wait for our suitcase due on the next flight from Dublin or move on? I lost that discussion.
So, we bug the lost/late luggage personnel at the airport who, surprisingly, are efficient. At least at collecting information. Gold stars for them.
But all this frigging around takes time.
Electronic air tag
The one ace in our sleeve – er - suitcase is a small electronic tracking device. On loan from Son S, the air tag proves invaluable. Son S reports via text that our lone suitcase is still in Dublin.
Highspeed train to Marseille
Following a maze of corridors, escalators, and stairs -- passing a travel-crazed woman who is loudly berating the over-sized ever-changing schedule board of trains, planes, and buses – we find our way to the shuttle from Terminal 1 to the Terminal 2 train station. More chances for another screw-up!
But then we need to stand exactly where our ticket directs: Voiture 6, sièges 62 and 63. Try interpreting that on an empty stomach in a foreign language. (don’t worry, he assures…we’ll buy something to eat on the train).
Following a maze of corridors, escalators, and stairs -- passing a travel-crazed woman who is loudly berating the over-sized ever-changing schedule board of trains, planes, and buses – we find our way to the shuttle from Terminal 1 to the Terminal 2 train station. More chances for another screw-up!
But then we need to stand exactly where our ticket directs: Voiture 6, sièges 62 and 63. Try interpreting that on an empty stomach in a foreign language. (don’t worry, he assures…we’ll buy something to eat on the train).
Marseille
Three-and-a-half hours later (hmmm, our last morsel of food was dinner on the Toronto to Dublin flight), after racing through the French countryside with quick stops at familiar stations like Avignon and Aix-en-Provence, we arrive in Marseille. The station is a hub of tracks running hither, thither and non with similar moving passengers. Including us.
Using fractured French and frantic arm waves, we find our connecting train to Toulon.
All the while, Son S reports, via his air tag in our missing suitcase, that it is still in Dublin.
And still no time for food.
Three-and-a-half hours later (hmmm, our last morsel of food was dinner on the Toronto to Dublin flight), after racing through the French countryside with quick stops at familiar stations like Avignon and Aix-en-Provence, we arrive in Marseille. The station is a hub of tracks running hither, thither and non with similar moving passengers. Including us.
Using fractured French and frantic arm waves, we find our connecting train to Toulon.
All the while, Son S reports, via his air tag in our missing suitcase, that it is still in Dublin.
And still no time for food.
Toulon
One hour later, we fall out the doors of the local train at Toulon. Because we have rented an AirBnB in Old Town where no motor vehicles are allowed, we begin our trek with two carry-ons and two backpacks along the bumpy, narrow sidewalks of Toulon.
We pass many restaurants. But, alas! no time for food.
Son S now reports our suitcase is at Charles De Gaulle airport.
Food!
Finally, after 18 hours, a time change, and dumping our luggage in our Old Town appartement, we walk on polished cobblestones to the port of Toulon. A beautiful starlit night, a myriad of restaurants: we devour savoury crêpes and carafes of red wine.
Son S continues to report on our suitcase: it remains at Charles De Gaulle. But, progress! It has now been moved to a town near the airport, obviously for delivery to Toulon!
One hour later, we fall out the doors of the local train at Toulon. Because we have rented an AirBnB in Old Town where no motor vehicles are allowed, we begin our trek with two carry-ons and two backpacks along the bumpy, narrow sidewalks of Toulon.
We pass many restaurants. But, alas! no time for food.
Son S now reports our suitcase is at Charles De Gaulle airport.
Food!
Finally, after 18 hours, a time change, and dumping our luggage in our Old Town appartement, we walk on polished cobblestones to the port of Toulon. A beautiful starlit night, a myriad of restaurants: we devour savoury crêpes and carafes of red wine.
Son S continues to report on our suitcase: it remains at Charles De Gaulle. But, progress! It has now been moved to a town near the airport, obviously for delivery to Toulon!
MIA suitcase
Two days later: Son S confirms via text that our suitcase is in Lyon, on its way south to Toulon. The delivery company, privy to our email address, reports their man will deliver the long-lost suitcase to our Toulon address between 9:30 and 10:30 a.m.
Since we live in a pedestrian-only zone, we decide to wait for said delivery man outside our building. Like, it’s a zoo on the pedestrian mall: fresh produce market stands and food cafés fill the cobblestone street. We settle in an outside café near the door, watching ‘our’ building. Fortified with café and chocolate croissants, we wait.
Two days later: Son S confirms via text that our suitcase is in Lyon, on its way south to Toulon. The delivery company, privy to our email address, reports their man will deliver the long-lost suitcase to our Toulon address between 9:30 and 10:30 a.m.
Since we live in a pedestrian-only zone, we decide to wait for said delivery man outside our building. Like, it’s a zoo on the pedestrian mall: fresh produce market stands and food cafés fill the cobblestone street. We settle in an outside café near the door, watching ‘our’ building. Fortified with café and chocolate croissants, we wait.
Suddenly, N spies a uniformed delivery man rounding the corner. And he’s hauling a now-dilapidated suitcase with multi tags and markings! And it’s ours!
We hail our hero who takes photos while we show ID.
Postscript
In Canada, it is the middle of the night. But we perform one last important task. To Son S, we text: Mission accomplished. Suitcase delivered!
“Anyone who needs more than one suitcase is a tourist, not a traveller.” So wrote Ira Levin, American novelist.
But who are you when you don’t have a suitcase?
We hail our hero who takes photos while we show ID.
Postscript
In Canada, it is the middle of the night. But we perform one last important task. To Son S, we text: Mission accomplished. Suitcase delivered!
“Anyone who needs more than one suitcase is a tourist, not a traveller.” So wrote Ira Levin, American novelist.
But who are you when you don’t have a suitcase?
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