Terminal 2E Charles de Gaulle airport, Paris - a traveller's nightmare

I've been meaning to write about this before as a word of warning to anyone who might be unlucky enough to arrive at, or leave from, the main airport in Paris, Roissy-Charles de Gaulle, at Terminal 2E.

But now after a second dose of 2E "Terminalitis" in less than a month, it seemed like the appropriate time to "share".

Quite simply put, the place is a nightmare - still. And it must leave even the most seasoned traveller bewildered.

You might remember that Terminal 2E didn't get off to the best of starts.

Designed by the French architect, Paul Andreu, it opened in 2003 to a hullaballoo and was described as "a stylish triumph of innovative yet practical design".

Just 11 months later of course, part of the terminal collapsed, killing four people and injuring several others.

It has since been rebuilt, and for the past year has been up and running, functioning "properly" or so the Airport authority would have us believe.

The problem is that while the main reconstruction work has been finished, there's still a fair amount of tidying-up that needs to be done.

It's a mess.

At the beginning of March, I had the misfortune of arriving at the crack of dawn at Terminal 2E on a long haul flight from Singapore.

The contrast between the two airports couldn't have been greater.

While order, calm and superb design had made the experience at Changi one to relish, the arrival in Paris brought me right back to earth - with a bump.

After arriving at a far flung gate, passengers were then expected to follow the signs leading to the in-airport train to the main terminal.

There was then a marathon walk to passport control with orange-clad ground staff directing confused passengers past cordoned-off areas (a feature of Terminal 2E) to the inevitable queues as European Union citizens looked for the chance of taking the "fast lane" rather than standing behind those from outside of the 27-nation bloc.

Any advantage gained once through was quickly lost when arriving at baggage reclaim.

The Singapore flight shared the same carousel as earlier 'planes arriving from Montreal and Ouagadougou (the capital of the West African country of Burkina Faso, in case you were wondering).

This wonderful bit of French planning resulted in the reclaim belt being chockablock with luggage from those two other flights as obviously many of the passengers were still stuck, waiting at passport control.

It also meant that the "intelligent" baggage delivery service, which automatically slotted a case onto the carousel whenever a space was available, was unable to function properly because there was simply no space available.

The main conveyor belt was full.

Nor was there any ground staff around to help create gaps by pushing cases closer to one another, or taking them off the belt and putting them to one side.

So the result? It was left to those bleary-eyed passengers to sort out the mess themselves by packing the existing luggage together more tightly on the belt thereby creating some space - which is what they duly did.

Bienvenue to Terminal 2E!

Fast forward to last Thursday and a flight out of Paris to New York's JFK, and ominously the electronic ticketing details listed - you've guessed it - flight boarding at Terminal 2E.

Groan.

"Still at least it would provide proof that departures cannot be as nightmarish as arrivals," I thought.

Wrong.

Air France - along with many other airlines - now offers passengers the chance to check-in on the Internet before arriving at the airport.

In theory it saves times (and personnel) and means you get to choose your seat.

Except of course with Terminal 2E, it doesn't really work the way it should.

Well it wouldn't, would it?

And that's especially true if you have extra luggage that can't be taken as carry-on. A fair bet on a long-distance flight.

Non-US passengers travelling to the States still had to stand in line to have details checked and show they'd completed their Electronic System for Travel Authorisation (ESTA).

Then there was another queue to "deposit" luggage and receive the boarding pass.

Next up was another line for passport control before taking Terminal 2E's very own magical mystery tour.

That of course included more orange-clad ground staff, more cordoned-off areas, that in-airport train, and those impossibly long queues at security as departing passengers did battle with those making connecting flights to see who could struggle through first.

All under the watchful and hapless direction of even more orange-clad ground staff.

Finally after all that, the boarding gate loomed somewhere at the back of beyond, and everyone who made it already looked completely shattered from the experience.

Passengers are advised to turn up at least two hours ahead of time for a transatlantic flight.

Believe me, if you're leaving from Terminal 2E you'll need every minute of that - and then some.

_________________________________________

Postscript.

Sunday evening at New York's JFK sitting at the gate waiting for my return flight and scribbling away in longhand.

Once again the mess that is 2E has been brought home to me by being here.

Plane(sic)-sailing all the way. The Internet check-in (or Web check-in as it's called here) works like a dream.

Passport control was a breeze.

Security is of course rigourous (belt, shoes, jacket, computer etc) but there are no snaking, waiting lines or interminable queues that seem to be a feature of European airports.

And all in all I skedaddled through without any problems.

Just one downside - knowing that I'll be arriving the other end at Terminal 2E.

Hello JFK. Now where's my luggage?

It's bad enough arriving in New York for a long weekend knowing that you're going to have to face interminable queues and the rigours of immigration before you can really begin to enjoy yourself.

But when your luggage goes AWOL, it can really shed new light on the whole experience.

Perhaps though I should have seen it coming.

After all earlier this month the international press was full of some frightening statistics as to the frequency with which airlines manage to "lose" passengers' baggage.

Plus there was an anecdote from a journalist on French radio just last week responding to the figures with his recipe for ensuring that his luggage always arrives.

Apparently he sends one suitcase as a back-up a week in advance to his destination and then actually travels with a second one.

In addition he takes all his "essentials" with him in his carry-on.

"A bit extreme," I thought as I only half-listened to his advice, but perhaps I should have been paying a little more attention at the time.

Ah the wonders of hindsight.

Arriving Stateside can be a bit of a nerve-wracking experience for any tourist and since my last trip across the Pond a year ago, security certainly seems to have been stepped up.

Back then it was “Left index finger on the digital fingerprint screening pad, followed by right index finger. Look into the camera and don’t smile too hard. And when asked the purpose of your trip, don’t even think about a clever reply.”

Now it's "Four fingers right hand - pressed against the pad - followed by thumb right hand.
And then four fingers left hand and thumb left hand. That's all topped off with the all important and serious (don't you dare smile and remember to take your spectacles off should you be wearing them) photo and the purpose of your visit."

Once again, no smart answers.

Oh yes and that's not forgetting the visa waiver application which has to be filled out "correctly" before you make your way to immigration, containing exactly the same information you've had to complete at least three days before your flight leaves for the United States in the online Electronic System for Travel Authorisation (ESTA).

The welcome may be somewhat surly and the wait seemingly endless, but after all they're only "doing their job" and once through it's time to find your luggage - which was where I was headed.

All right, so I've rather given the story away in the opening sentences of this piece, because of course when I pitched up at the carousel my trusty Samsonite was nowhere to be seen and the belt introducing suitcases was no longer moving.

Even though I knew there was no point, I still continued to look, until finally I turned to a member of the ground staff to ask whether there was still luggage expected from the Paris flight.

"Is your name on that list sir?" he asked pointing to a nearby whiteboard.

I scanned it quickly and sure enough, there third from bottom was my surname "Summerton" and initials "JG."

"Yes it it," I replied. "So what does that mean exactly?"

"It means sir that you are in New York," he responded. "And welcome by the way. But unfortunately your luggage is still in Paris."

Of course I knew that was what he was going to say, but it didn't stop my heart from sinking.

Everything I needed for a four-day stay in the Big Apple, clothes and all my toiletries were packed in my suitcase, and carry-on had consisted merely of an overweight laptop, a pen and a notebook for scribbling longhand.

"How useful would that be for cleaning my teeth or providing clean underwear for the morning," I wondered.

"So what do I do now?" I asked rather lamely.

"You'll have to go to the Air France office just after customs," he replied, giving directions on how to get there.

So no suitcase, but there was still there was an upside to not having any luggage to speak of.

Customs was a breeze.

"Nothing to declare sir?" asked the puzzled officer. "No suitcase?"

"It's still in Paris," I replied with a shrug. "I need to find the Air France office."

"Oh," she responded.

"Turn right along the corridor on your way out and they'll be able to help you. Good luck, sir. "

I thanked her and sped towards the exit, made a right and pushed open the door....to discover that I was far from being the only one to have arrived without their baggage.

And joy of joys after the wait at immigration, I now had another line to join at "baggage-not-yet-here!" inc.

This is where it has to be said that in spite of the obvious bad humour of most of the passengers, the staff was immensely helpful, apologetic, efficient and friendly.

Clearly none of them was French!

And it more than drove home the point as to how service-oriented Americans normally are - certainly in comparison with their European counterparts.

The baggage, I learned, would arrive on the next 'plane - approximately four hours later.

It would be delivered directly to my hotel and all I had to do was provide a description of it and leave the key with them as it was locked.

Any unaccompanied luggage arriving in the US, I was informed, is automatically searched.

There would be a "four hour delivery window" after it arrived, and I was asked for my name and home address so that "compensation could be arranged.

Now that really was service - I hadn't even thought about requesting it.

While the staff clearly knew what they were doing, the same couldn't have been said for the unlucky passengers who still seemed somewhat dazed from learning the fate of their luggage.

When asked to "describe" my suitcase for example, I was somewhat flummoxed. "Er, medium-sized and black," was all I could manage.

But somehow the clerk managed to tease the size, brand, shape, colour and material out of me, and done and dusted, I was presented with an "emergency" pack of toiletries and assured that, "everything would be with me by the morning."

And what do you know, true to her word, that's exactly what happened as the hotel lobby rang me at 7.00am to inform me that my suitcase had been delivered.

So in a sense "All's well that ends well" and one person in particular had learned a valuable lesson the rather hard way.

I'm not sure that in future I'll resort to having a second case sent on in advance, but I might give some consideration at least to taking on a few more essentials in carry- on rather than stuffing everything into my suitcase.

And I should be thankful of course that mine was not among the reportedly 1.2 million (and rising) irretrievably lost each year.

Hallelujah for the remote control. Zap

It must be hard work being a television addict in the US. Not only are there far too many channels to choose from, but you can turn on the box just about any time of the day or night and be guaranteed to find something that’ll keep you watching – even if you don’t really want to.

Mind you, much of it seems to be regurgitated reruns that weren’t that spectacular first time around. Of the more up-to-date stuff available there’s an unlimited supply of semi-talent shows that come in all shapes and sizes, endless reality programmes trying to out-vulgar one another and so-called complex cutting-edge dramas whose plots are so contorted it becomes impossible to decipher what’s going on.

On top of all that of course comes the constant barrage of commercials guaranteed to break whatever concentration was needed to follow what was happening on the small screen. They’re so invasively pervasive that it’s difficult not to shake off the feeling that perhaps there’s some subliminal undercurrent at play.

But the really disturbing thing about US telly is that as easy as it is to criticise what it has to offer, it makes compulsive viewing. And for this particular jet-lagged European traveller on a recent visit to the Big Apple there was only one thing to do ahead of a day that was to be spent tanking up on culture.

Grab the remote control and settle back for some wild zapping. All right it was only 3 o’clock in the morning local time. But this was too good an opportunity to miss and with more than 30 channels at the ready, a voyage of discovery was about to begin.

First up – and I kid you not – was one of those wonderful half-hour advertorials. Unwittingly I had got to the very heart of what makes US television tick without even trying. But boy was I surprised by the content, which was clearly only for adult consumption.

It was all about some product that promotes growth in the male “appendage." Yes that’s right. Here in what is normally considered to be one of the most puritanical Western nations, there was a whole 30 minutes devoted to advertising the fact that apparently “size does matter”, with the show’s winsome brunette hostess “spontaneously” vox-popping couples to discover the results of the “wonder drug.”

I was transfixed. Does this work I pondered? No not the product, but the sales pitch. To that question, I knew I would never find out the true response so after about 20 minutes (yes I’m ashamed to admit I was glued to it for that long) it was time to Zap…

…into a blast from the past as “Roseanne” made me question why on earth I had ever found it funny back in the 80s. Still, it didn’t take forever to drag me back in time and somehow I managed to catch the best part of two episodes-worth of gale force yelling before Zap...

…Some sort of CSI nonsense – Miami, New York or Las Vegas - whose plot I couldn’t fathom after five minutes. So as soon as the next commercial break came up it was Zap…

…At last, one of New York’s local news channels complete with mandatory over-coiffed anchors (one of each sex) and a rather orange looking weather forecaster who was surely wearing a wig that had seen better days.

This was just what the complete news junky in me needed. I had heard about the influence of Fox News on other television networks – its tendency to redefine journalistic objectivity into one-sided conservative rants. But I hadn’t really had the opportunity to experience it first hand. Now was the chance to witness for myself what stories Americans were being served up for breakfast on a regular basis, and make a decision for myself what I felt about it.

This is where I’ll have to own up to not remembering which of the local morning shows I was actually watching or when. Perhaps I saw them all. It’s hard to know as they sort of blurred into one another as I channel hopped, and appeared to have (for the uninitiated and unfamiliar) a lot of letters, which supposedly meant something to regular viewers.

But to me it seemed that whatever they were called WCBSTV, WABC, WNBC, WNYWFox, the bottom line was just about the same. Lots of fast-paced banter, grins and perfect teeth as crime, crime and more crime followed hot on the heels of one another to keep my attention well and truly grabbed.

“And this just in from our out on-the-spot reporter in Harlem, where a man was found stabbed to death this morning after three men allegedly tried to stop him from urinating in the vestibule of a building. A live report coming up.” Indeed. Zap…

…America’s Next Top Model series 9. Or was it series 8? Apparently the whole thing was going to be shown over the course of the day, so even if I flipped the remote now, the chances were that late evening I would still be able to discover who turned out to be the next Tyra Banks' protégé.

Alternative viewing on one morning on the same channel I think (to be frank it became a little hard to tell) was the delightfully tasteful “Parental Control.” Mom and Pop were given the task of setting up their goofy son with two alternative dates to the foul-mouthed monster he had been “seeing” for the past eight months. Son has a great time with both lasses but of course when asked to choose he dismisses Miss Perfect and Miss Perfecter in favour of the tearaway his parents had been trying to steer him clear of. It was (in)credible TV with a vengeance. Zap…

…Straight into a commercial for a vacuum cleaner that the manufacturer promises sucks with the “power of a hurricane.” Pardon? And it comes complete with a 21-year guarantee. Why? Zap…

… Slap bang into yet another commercial this time for refinancing home loans and allowing up-to-their-necks Americans to “consolidate” all their credit in one place. Um is the US Advertising Standards Authority living on a different planet or has it simply not heard about the country’s subprime lending debacle that has sent shockwaves reverberating through the international financial markets? Zap…

…Back to the orange-faced guy still wearing a rug and waving his arms about energetically as he goes into raptures over Highs, Lows, Fronts and other magnificent meteorological marvels that await me outside.

A glance at the clock tells me it’s nearly 8 o’clock. I’ve been watching nothing and everything for almost five hours, armed only with my new best friend and constant ally – the remote control.

I’ve discovered that there’s forever something to watch and always nothing worth watching. And I’ve revelled in the delightful couch potato pleasure of serial zapping.

It has been the very best start to the day I could have imagined and at least I now know I’m not an addict. I’m a snobby, cultivated, intellectually superior European…who will be back same time, same place tomorrow for another healthy Zap…

An Erotic Reading Room

When you’re looking for a hotel in New York, you’re rather spoilt for choice. The range can be mind bogglingly confusing and first-time or just occasional visitors might feel just a trifle overwhelmed.

Well here’s a tip. If you are looking for something slightly different, and are prepared to dig a little bit deeper into your pockets to treat yourself and your family, consider booking a couple of nights at the Library hotel.

When staying in such a great city of course you don’t want to spend all your time stuck in your room. But by the same token you do want and need somewhere welcoming and relaxing to kick back your heels after a day pounding the streets. And of course there’s that sensational service for which the Americans are so famous.

The Library delivers on all fronts, with the added bonuses that it’s a fabulously unique place to stay, is an essential stopping-off point for any bookworm and won’t leave you bankrupt.

Billed as a concept hotel and bordering on the boutique, the worry is that it’ll fail to live up to expectations.

After all both are rather catch all phrases to which many hotels aspire, but few achieve. They can often leave travellers not only disappointed, but also wondering why on earth they shelled out so much money for so little.

This is so clearly NOT the case of the Library hotel.

First up it’s situated in midtown Manhattan on Madison and 41st (it’s easy to slip into the foreigner’s wannabe impersonation of NYC locals). That means it’s perfectly central for everything and anything. Broadway and the theatre district are a very un-American walk away, and the major museums, stores, opera, tourist sites, trendy quarters - in fact you name just about everything for which the Big Apple is famous – are just a few stops along on the subway.

Then of course there’s that “concept” – worrying perhaps to the uninitiated. But it works – 100 per cent.

The whole place is stuffed to the gills with over 6,000 books and each of the 60 well-sized rooms has its own theme. Those range from classics to fairy tales, music to fashion design, maths to dinosaurs, political science, journalism, ancient history, health and beauty, medicine…. and so the list continues. Oh yes and of course not forgetting that erotic literature! Everything’s organised using the Dewey Decimal System of classification practised in libraries around the world.

In short there’s something for everyone’s tastes, and you’re guaranteed never to be bored. If you are, then just flip on the flat screen TV, borrow a DVD or go surfing the Net. At long last, a hotel that doesn’t charge for Wifi access.

OK so no matter how “neat” the idea of the hotel might be, guests also want to feel pampered and looked after. A good hotel needs to balance efficient and friendly service with a smile and obvious pleasure.

And again, for fear of waxing just a little too lyrical and sounding like a commercial for the place, the Library hotel delivers.

Front desk are charming and delightful, responsive to the jet-lagged needs of a couple recently arrived Europeans and pointing them in the right direction for restaurants, shows, shopping and just about anything else that can be packed in to a long weekend.

Breakfast is only a letdown if you’re looking for an American-type fried-up blow out. But as that’s available just about everywhere else in the city seemingly at any time of the day, what the Library has to offer doesn’t really come as a disappointment.

Fresh pastries, proper real coffee or tea while leisurely browsing through the New York Times set just the right tone and don’t leave you feeling bloated and sleepy before venturing forth into the rest of the day.

Drop back in mid-afternoon and there’s another extra special treat awaiting guests on the second floor – wine and cheese - something this particular resident of France was not going to pass up on lightly.

And in the evenings there’s a great bar on the top floor, the Bookmarks Lounge that mixes some killer cocktails including the Great Gatsby, the Capote and this particular guest’s favourite Tequila Mockingbird. Of course if your tastes run to the more genteel then there’s always the Writer’s Den combining all mod cons with the luxury of quiet comfort. Bliss.

Let’s be straight up about this – it all comes at a price – and it ain’t cheap. But there are deals available and let’s face it, you get what you pay for. The service, quality, food, décor – in fact the whole package is top notch. And it’s definitely a hotel to recommend.

Go along and find out for yourself - just keep it a secret and don’t tell anyone else.

No Guns, No Drugs and Not a Terrorist

It can be a bit of a gruff experience trying to enter the United States as a tourist, and there’s one thing certain on arrival at New York’s JFK airport – a surly welcome awaits the visitor.

And unless you’ve been lucky enough to make it off the ‘plane at double-quick speed, the chances are the first sight of the good old US of A will be from the back of a mighty queue agonisingly snaking its way back from passport control.

There’s no chance of line hopping. This is democracy at its most intense. Everyone seems to be a potential alien and is treated with the same suspicion. Young, very young, old, very old and of course all those in between, patiently awaiting their turn.

Odd really for a country that prides itself as a cultural melting pot and service at a speed. Somehow rather than greeting holidaymakers with outstretched arms, the US seems to have gone to the other extreme and it’s easy for the infrequent traveller to feel unwanted or even guilty for no reason whatsoever.

Without doubt September 11 has left its mark – not that immigration and customs was a cakewalk beforehand. Now however, there’s a tinge of the slightly offensive - at least to continental Europeans used to having their individual rights enshrined in data protection laws - all in the name of Homeland security.

The procedure is fairly straightforward, but be warned, these guys are not ones to be messed with. Clearly one prerequisite for becoming an immigration official is to have a low humour threshold.

Not even a winsome smile or tapping into the charm factor can raise the glimmer of good intent from these guys. They are serious with a capital “S”, so it’s best to say as little as possible and follow the posted instructions to the letter.

“Left index finger on the digital fingerprint screening pad, followed by right index finger. Look into the camera and don’t smile too hard. And when asked the purpose of your trip, don’t even think about a clever reply.”

And woe betides if there’s an error on the visa waiver application form or the customs declaration. No mistakes, no crossed-out corrections – otherwise it’ll simply be rejected; no questions asked no appeals accepted.

Everyone has been forewarned before disembarking from the ‘plane and there have been several chances to check and double check just in case.

All these regulations certainly made the news when they were introduced, but it has been fairly easy to dismiss them as just another daft US idea - along with the constitutional right to own a firearm, which is basically just unfathomable to most the other side of the Atlantic.

But when confronted with them for the first time, the realisation hits home as to just how seriously they’re being taken here.

While getting in to the States might require a struggle with patience, leaving is in wonderful contrast made so much easier.

Is the traveller being told something here or is that just paranoia setting in? But there was just a tad too much pleasure from the ground staff as they checked passports and boarding passes. Smiles all round and a delightful “Y’all have a good day” send-off.

Of course the security strip-off check is a bit of a palaver – no shoes, no belt and laptop, coat and carry-on all shoved through the scanner. Then with trousers making their own way southwards, it’s a hasty stagger through to the other side.

When all is said and done, even though the security checks – especially on arrival - might be a real pain and not an entirely pleasurable experience to say the very least, there is a point to them. And this is one visitor at least, who’ll bite his lip and patiently wait in line next time around.