I missed the flight back back because of a delay in the Paris airport having something to do with radar failure that caused all planes departing CDG Paris to be delayed by 2 hours.
I reached Amsterdam cursing and swearing hard after seeing the word ‘departed’ for my flight status – more infuriatingly so, the KLM/Air France service desk refused any more help other than rebooking the flight back home 24 hours later, stating baldly that it was the fault of the Paris Airport and not theirs. Realised that there were 3 other people (unfortunately French) who also missed the same plane, and like unwilling stragglers who needed to bond quick, we now had to move ‘as a herd’ with the language barrier. Everything had to be on our expenses including transport, hotel bills, and meals – and nearly cash-poor, we wondered what to do for long moments.
The service desk sent us on our way with an excuse for a care package that contained everything but shampoo and soap. At the last moment, we got a measly 10 Euro for airport meals. I wonder how they deal with the constant stream irate passengers (and there were many who missed their flights because of the Paris delay) who insist they ought to do more.
We ended up at Hotel Barbacan that looked forbidding in the night when we arrived; the creaky stairways and isolated rooms are atmospheric enough to force re-play scenes of zombie/slasher B-grade movies.
The morning dawned bright yet dreary – it is drizzling as I type and I’m about ready to check out with the bulky things in my backpack.The only positive bit of the flight delay had been the chance to catch Amsterdam yet again for a day and it is as pretty (and liberal) as I remembered.
But bathed but in dirty clothes and looking like a barbarian, I truly look the part of the vagabond.