I am convinced that layover is this cruel game that the airlines play with us. Like lab rats, we are temporarily released from the confine of one freezing and cramped cabin and encouraged to frantically dart about in the maze that is a typical airport, in search of another equally cold and cramped confinement, usually located at the very opposite corner of that maze. The only difference between the rats and us is that there is a nice nibble of cheese waiting for the rats at the other end, while we get fed airline food that looks like the bottom bits left out too long on the buffet table.
On my recent trip to South Africa with a layover in Paris, I declared my unwillingness to participate in the game. I was determined that if I must layover, I shall do it my way and love it. I shall not curse the French inefficiency, but give myself time, plenty of time, to enjoy what the French actually do well. I shall have a fantastic and leisurely lunch with interesting friends.
To be continued.
