Roissy-Charles-de-Gaulle : 04/09/02

In the spirit of my newly discovered understanding of travel as an experience not of countries but of the Terminus one arrives in, I was quite excited to ALMOST conquer Charles De Gaulle. How beautiful it looked in the late afternoon, tubes of glass and steel gleaming in the sunlight, like the Centre Pompidou but flat. Escalators had flattened to 'travelators', Correspondance from floor to floor was now laid side by side, Sortie et Direction signs all clearly pointed just about the right way, but with just that little touch of Gallic intuition still required. I did fail at the final hurdle however, perhaps from fatigue, and consulted a snooty French Officielle who barked something unsmilingly. Yes, they haven't forgotten that piquant dose of French 'attitude' just to add to the allure of Paris. Like a demanding mistress Aeroport Roissy-Charles-de-Gaulle beckons, aircraft of the world jostling above her spreadeagled beauty (oops I started chanelling Francois Sagan there for a second). But the plane was late, there weren't enough places to sit and crowds of tall Finns, and at least one tall Australian, huddled stoically at Gate Nine while all existing seats remained occupied by the same handful of early arrivers. Overhead the Harrison Birtwistle refrain echoed whenever an indecipherable message was to be announced. The man next to me carved slabs of runny camembert onto a fresh baguette. How European it all seemed, how Kieslowski. Why did I feel we'd met before, and in some earlier, less happy circumstance..