On French Soil

Norwegian Air took off from JFK on the way to Charles de Gaulle Airport at 1 a.m.- a 7 1/2 hour flight. I was asleep before the plane lifted off. Norwegian Air being a budget carrier charges for everything but the air you breathe on board. So no free whiskey, wine, or needless food which in years past guaranteed that I would land in London, Paris, or wherever in a fog regardless of what the local weather was like.

Refreshed by a relatively good night's sleep, I rented a car (thank you Hertz! It has just 2,000 kilometers on it, an awesome navigation package, and, for gas savings, the engine shuts off while you are at, say, a stoplight).

My destination for the day was Beaune. The city sits some 3 1/2 hours by car south of Paris. De Gaulle Airport is located north of Paris, so the first hour and a half of the trip was late afternoon stop-and-go congestion. Finally, I got on the A6 toll road and then clicked along happily for about 2 1/2 hours at a little more than 130 kph (about 80 mph). 

A little about toll booths in France: times have changed. Aliens have abducted the booth attendants. They, to a person, have all been beamed somewhere else and replaced with large rectangular robots. You pull up to the hulking hunk of metal and insert your toll card into the appropriate slot. All is fine. The robot displays the cost of the toll (about $28 for this trip) and lights up the adjacent slot where you insert your credit card. You put in the card, and it disappears out of sight. A black button sits atop the third slot. When pressed, it is supposed to do two things: 1) print a receipt and 2) disgorge your credit card. I press the black button. Nothing happens.

I repeatedly press the black button. Neither a receipt nor my credit card appears. Mind you, the credit card inside the maw of Mr. Robot (who is no doubt thinking about munching on it for a snack) is the only one I have with me that does not charge a foreign transaction fee and is supposed to see yeoman duty for the next five months. In desperation I press the red button. A woman’s voice asks in French what the problem is. I say no receipt and no credit card. Press the black button, she responds in English.  I say I did at least 10 times.  

Her tone when she responds is one of despair. I’m thinking I may have seen the last of my credit card. But she must have flipped a switch somewhere that sent a jolt of current through the recalcitrant robot and out popped my receipt and, thankfully, my credit card.

I check into my hotel on the outskirts of Beaune. It is now going on 10 p.m. Out I go for a bite to eat only to find that all the restaurants are closing. As a last resort, my on-board navigation gets me to a nearby McDonalds. Here I am in the land of fabulous food, and I’m forced to go to a McDonald’s. However, I discover that the aliens have also abducted all the McDonald's order takers as well. Now you are faced with large flat touch screens to place your order.  

I manage to select a Big Mac, fries, and a coke.  I insert my credit card only to have it denied. In goes another credit card. It is also denied. I think the aliens who replaced the toll booth attendants must have communicated with the ones who replaced McDonald’s order takers.  

Back I go sans food to the hotel. I explain my plight to the 20-something young lady at the desk. She commiserates, walks into the adjacent breakfast area, and retrieves two madeleines and enough Nescafe crystals to keep me up all night. I thank her from the bottom of my empty stomach and go to my room, put on the hot water pot, and prepare to eat my meager fare. There is a tap at my door. I open it, and the young lady presents me with about a 1/3 of a baguette ham and cheese sandwich. Welcome to France!