The Flight Over

I have arrived at Jeremy's apartment in Kadikoy, and after a good night's sleep I have had my first exploratory venture into Turkish culture. I shall write of that soon. First, however, I shall post a writeup I had done while waiting at CDG airport in Paris:
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I am writing this while awaiting my flight out from Charles-de-Gaulle Airport. The time here is 1PM, my flight leaves at 7PM, and I feel like it's 7AM. This is going to get interesting.

Yesterday was very promising. I finished packing early and made some quick plans for both lunch and dinner of the day before leaving for foreign soil. I met up with an old friend from high school for lunch in Davis Square and was informed of a fair amount of gossip regarding my old troupe. I am unsure how one packs so much dysfunctional drama into so few people, but it is truly fascinating to hear. If I could drive a generator based on strange life choices, I'm pretty sure one of them could power a small city indefinitely (note: pursue this idea). My friend and I agreed that we were better off observing this from a distance, and we parted ways.

I bacame restless around 4PM and decided to head off to the airport early, just to check in and start the trip. It was not nervousness, for I rarely get so (excepting the minutes leading up to a live stage presence, which never fails to unnerve me). It wasn't anticipation either, which would have required thinking ahead beyond the next few hours. It was merely a need to get out of the apartment and start.

My bags were checked around 5, and I sat around reading until 7:30, where I met two friends for dinner at the airport (one was arriving, one picking up). The food and conversation were quite good, but I fear that my introduction to pomegranite lemonade was a mistake. There is no known method that could stop me from consuming one of these beverages should it lie in front of me. Its existance shall cease then and there, no matter how much promise it had for its future life.

While waiting for my flight, I remember overhearing the destinations of other passengers. Les Mans, Zurich, and Amsterdam were ones I distinctly remember. After some time we shuffled onto the plane, were served dinner at midnight, and the next thing I remember I'm shaken awake being asked if I wanted breakfast. Breakfast? I just had dinner! I had apparently passed out for most of the flight, and woke up over the Celtic Sea about an hour before landing. I landed around 11AM here, and was shuffled through security gates and strange taxiing services to get to my next terminal.

I must say that the transportation of CDG is indeed strange, and not in a good way. Most airports I know have major security checkpoints, and once you are through you can walk to whatever terminal your flight is at using pedestrian measures. Here, autobuses seem to take you everywhere, and they come every ten minutes or so. Instead of major security checkpoints, they seem to have a plethora of minor ones dotted everywhere around the terminals. I have no idea where they have their zones of protection set up, but I must be in five of them right now. It is ridiculous (or perhaps I merely found the most inefficient path to my terminal? I find it difficult to believe all of it was necessary).

On the bright side, the terminals themselves are quite beautiful once you make it through the gauntlet of wand-waving security officers. The architecture inside almost makes up for the terrible transit system outside. Almost. I do not have my camera, so you shall merely have to imagine it. Curved glass windows supported by thin, white beams of steal curve around two floors. The lower level is in the center, of it looking up into the sky, filled with shops and a stairwell leading up. The upper level splits and wraps around the sides, housing the terminals and an excellent view of... well, the airport. It may technically be Paris, but one couldn't tell by looking.

The french announcements here all sound familiar, but it has been years since I have practiced my French, and the words fly by faster than I can comprehend them. At least when I get into Istanbul I won't constantly feel like I'm on the verge of grasping their meaning before the english version is spoken. Even when the flight was called for boarding I only understood the seating numbers being called. It makes me want to spend some time relearning conversational French, but I'll only be here for a few more hours. It is not really worth it until I plan a proper trip back here.

It is now about 2PM in Paris (8AM US, 3PM Istanbul), and my flight is at 7. I think I'll conserve battery life and read Faust. That is one definite advantage to travelling again - I will likely have read as much during these flights as I have read all the year prior.