The holidays this year found me away from home for the first time ever. However, as much as I would have loved to experience a "real english christmas", I was fortunate enough to get away from this little island for a bit and head to another little island. One of the brilliant things about being here in the UK, as many of you know, is the that you are so close to so many awesome places, and travel can be quite affordable... Everything is so close together here - which is something that is so different from home. So, it was Christmas in Corsica for this little vagabond, but happily not a lonesome one. I hopped on a plane and flew to the home of that Napolean character to meet my dear friend Amy and the rest of the Johnston bunch.
The travel day was a long one. My early flight from B'ham was delayed; as I waited, I received a phone call from Amy (who was at the airport in Paris) informing me that there was an Air France strike in Paris (I believe striking may be a national pastime in France). She was pretty sure it was all going to be fine, but wanted to warn me as I was meant to transfer planes in Paris. I went online to double check my itinerary, and discovered (much to my chagrin) that I not only had to transfer airplanes, but I had to get from Paris Charles de Gaulle to Paris Orly Airport. The first airport is not adjacent to the second. They are actually quite a distance apart, to say the least. But I discovered there was an Air France shuttle, and I was optimistic it would not be a problem.
I arrived in Paris, and my luggage was the first to come through on the carousel. I picked it up and headed to find my shuttle, which was supposed to depart every 30 minutes. I found the shuttle stop, parked myself in line, and began waiting… patiently. Time ticked by, and it inched closer and closer to my check-in time for my connecting flight. I found out that there was an accident on the motorway, and for this reason the shuttles were delayed. A few others were also getting connecting flights at Orly, and seemed to be panicking more than I was. Over conversation I discovered their flights were actually later than mine, and began to think that perhaps I too should be panicking. Eventually it began to seem like a good idea to hop in a taxi – the shuttle could come any minute, but better to be safe than sorry. So, along with two other travelers I got into a taxi to take us to the other airport. As we began to drive away, the shuttle bus pulled up. We were now taking the more expensive option; but with limited time it seemed the better idea.
There was quite a bit of traffic on the motorway. Paris on a Thursday afternoon, was one can imagine, is not a good place to be if you are in a car and late. Eventually we got to Orly – I threw my temporary taxi friends 20 Euros, grabbed my luggage, and ran to check-in… 30 minutes before my flight. I by-passed the line to check-in, and ran to security. It was then that I found out my flight to Bastia was also delayed, thanks to the strike. The first time I have ever been thankful for a delayed flight.
Hours later I arrived in Bastia. I thought I was going to miss the last bus from Bastia (the city) to Morsiglia (the town) due to the delayed flight, but I arrived to discover there was no bus. At this point, however, nothing really bothered me: I was in Corsica, and I could find my way to the town. Amy left a message for me with the car rental company, leaving me details about where I was to go, and I got myself a Taxi. The taxi driver I had was, coincidentally, the same one Amy had spoken to earlier that day to ask about prices – and he was kind enough to chat with me, despite my embarrassing French language skills; he was even kind enough to tell me I spoke French well.
The drive was not short; but, almost two hours and 150 euros later I was in Morsiglia with Amy, having a drink and a chat in a 16th century tower. I could not have been happier at that very moment, and for that I am grateful.
