Heathrow holding pattern - an aerial labyrinth into which many a flight enter possibly to never be heard from again.
So went the warning from the captain, but we have a trump card.
A medical emergency (which turned out to be a false alarm, but that wasn't discovered until we were at the gate).
A rapid descent and a straight in approach - no time was wasted getting us a gate. The paramedics pile onto the plane, check the woman downstairs over and give the all clear.
One way to ensure you make a tight connection, I guess.
The herd crawls its way off the plane and brings with it a revelation. I used to be of the opinion that the title of slowest moving mammal on the planet was held by the old ladies driving on No.3 Road in Richmond.
Not anymore - it is Brits with drag bags disembarking a plane. If there was a fire, long pork BBQ would the daily special.
Nary a Canuck flag visible on my kit, I take on the mantle of quintessential Yank and unapologetically shoulder my way through the gelatinous mass of frequent fliers.
I make my way through Terminal 5, following the stream of Purple Flight Connections signs to an awaiting bus to take me to ...
Terminal 1.
Take a well planned and laid out airport terminal - Heathrow Terminal 1 is everything but. Look up Charlie Foxtrot in a dictionary, you will likely something akin to see also LHR Terminal 1.
The terminal itself was a ghost town, perhaps being used as a set for the next installment of 28 Days Later. Few living souls, aside from myself and the security staff.
Not one to dwell, I get lost a few times before eventually stumbling upon the BA International Lounge near Gate 5. A few more hours killed before I make my way to the gate holding my flight to Marseille.
I am starting to learn, anything involving a mix of Brit and French travellers is destined to become a gong show. The recent French ATC strike has resulted in the flight being oversold (not to mention the mass of standbys). Bodies are packed into the tube of a waiting area, trying to inch closer to the gate door. Each knows that the last on will have no where to stash their bags and will have to use the dreaded under seat storage, eating away at what pittance of leg room BA has gifted them on the A319.
The tension builds, as do tempers. Finally the CSR relents and starts to call rows. I snag my aisle seat in Club Europe and do not have too long a wait before we depart. Another uneventful flight, aside from a cheese offering with the meal that had to rank amongst the worst things I had ever tasted. Note to self: avoid cheese sporting its own ecosystem of flora.
In Marseille, I have the info desk ring up the hotel for the shuttle, and make my way to the curbside waiting area. Tipping the driver comes with an unexpected benefit as he also works behind the front desk. A room upgrade and a half price breakfast.
Not long afterwards fatigue over takes me and I call it a night with an early start planned.
So went the warning from the captain, but we have a trump card.
A medical emergency (which turned out to be a false alarm, but that wasn't discovered until we were at the gate).
A rapid descent and a straight in approach - no time was wasted getting us a gate. The paramedics pile onto the plane, check the woman downstairs over and give the all clear.
One way to ensure you make a tight connection, I guess.
The herd crawls its way off the plane and brings with it a revelation. I used to be of the opinion that the title of slowest moving mammal on the planet was held by the old ladies driving on No.3 Road in Richmond.
Not anymore - it is Brits with drag bags disembarking a plane. If there was a fire, long pork BBQ would the daily special.
Nary a Canuck flag visible on my kit, I take on the mantle of quintessential Yank and unapologetically shoulder my way through the gelatinous mass of frequent fliers.
I make my way through Terminal 5, following the stream of Purple Flight Connections signs to an awaiting bus to take me to ...
Terminal 1.
Take a well planned and laid out airport terminal - Heathrow Terminal 1 is everything but. Look up Charlie Foxtrot in a dictionary, you will likely something akin to see also LHR Terminal 1.
The terminal itself was a ghost town, perhaps being used as a set for the next installment of 28 Days Later. Few living souls, aside from myself and the security staff.
Not one to dwell, I get lost a few times before eventually stumbling upon the BA International Lounge near Gate 5. A few more hours killed before I make my way to the gate holding my flight to Marseille.
I am starting to learn, anything involving a mix of Brit and French travellers is destined to become a gong show. The recent French ATC strike has resulted in the flight being oversold (not to mention the mass of standbys). Bodies are packed into the tube of a waiting area, trying to inch closer to the gate door. Each knows that the last on will have no where to stash their bags and will have to use the dreaded under seat storage, eating away at what pittance of leg room BA has gifted them on the A319.
The tension builds, as do tempers. Finally the CSR relents and starts to call rows. I snag my aisle seat in Club Europe and do not have too long a wait before we depart. Another uneventful flight, aside from a cheese offering with the meal that had to rank amongst the worst things I had ever tasted. Note to self: avoid cheese sporting its own ecosystem of flora.
In Marseille, I have the info desk ring up the hotel for the shuttle, and make my way to the curbside waiting area. Tipping the driver comes with an unexpected benefit as he also works behind the front desk. A room upgrade and a half price breakfast.
Not long afterwards fatigue over takes me and I call it a night with an early start planned.
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