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Paris is always a good idea.”
Audrey Hepburn

 As a young man, in and out of college, my one burning desire was to travel to Europe.  It seemed the perfect destination for high life and adventure.  I had heard stories of students, armed only with a backpack and Swiss Army knife, riding the rails through the verdant countryside from city to city, staying in youth hostels and living on baggetts and brie.  I lived well into my 20s before I was able to make this dream a reality, but it finally did happen.
 One summer I was invited to join three friends (all female) on a romp through Europe.  Having no romantic entanglements with any of them, I was invited along primarily as security.
 We traveled with abandon all over Europe, visiting France, Germany, Switzerland, the Netherlands, Italy, Greece, and more.  We stayed in youth hostels for the most part, but often slept on the trains, and sometimes in the street, to save money.  
 Of all the places we visited, Paris was among the most spectacular.  It is a breathtakingly beautiful city.  I remember the tree-lined streets, afternoons spent walking along the Seine, scaling the Eiffel Tower, French bakeries, and dogs.  Dogs were everywhere, even in restaurants.  
 Because I had to return to my teaching job, I left my friends early and journeyed home alone.  Our last day together was spent in Florence, Italy.  From there I was to travel overnight to Milan, and from there on to Paris to catch my flight.  After a small mishap mid-trip (boarding mix-up - had to jump off moving train as it left the station – no broken bones – good training for what came later), I finally made it onto my train to Paris.  I did notice a significant police presence on board the train.  Officers kept making frequent bag checks and eyed me with suspicion.
 After about 12 hours, we arrived at the train station in Paris.  I was now faced with the prospect of getting from the station to Orly Airport on the other side of the city.  In a hurry to get to the airport, I made the mistake of trying to cut the taxi line.  Apparently, that is a big thing in Paris.  Taxis are forced to queue up in line, where passengers are herded into cars as needed.  Seeing a long line, I simply walked to the end of the taxi line, about a block away, and tried to hire a driver.  For this I was firmly scolded and sent back to the waiting mob.
 After waiting for what seemed like an eternity, I scored a ride with a lovely female French taxi driver.  I didn’t catch her name, so for the sake of this story, I will call her Brigitte.
 Evidently there had been some kind of terror threat in the city.  That apparently accounted for the hyper-vigilance of the police on my train earlier.  We neared the airport, and an increased police presence was evident everywhere.  As we pulled off the autoroute and attempted to enter the airport, we were met with a police barricade.  The airport had been blocked off and they were not allowing cars to enter.  This was just great.  I was going to miss my charter flight, which meant that I would be stranded in Paris.  
 After a brief exchange with the police officer, Brigitte asked me to pay her.  I did.  Assuming she was going to dump me in the street right there, I started to get out.  She leaned closer and whispered to me in delightfully accented English, “Put your bag on your shoulder and get ready.  I am not going to stop, but I will slow down.”  I couldn’t believe my ears!  
 She slid the taxi into reverse, started to turn around, but then, quick as a flash slammed her car into drive, whipped around the barricade and between the startled officers, and we were off!!!  She floored it as we flew into the airport headed for my terminal.  Looking behind me, I could see the French police officers scrambling and giving chase.  There were driving those cool little French police cars with their WEE WOO WEE WOO sirens blaring.  It was like being in a Pink Panther movie.  And I was scared to death.  It was thrilling.  But I was scared to death.
 Moments later, Brigitte swerved towards my gate and slowed down.  But she did not stop.  She yelled jump.  I threw open the car door, launched my bag into the street, and did a combat roll onto the pavement.  She sped away with the back door still swinging open.  With my heart pounding, I ran into the terminal and tried to blend in with the crowd, pulling off my ball cap and stuffing it inside my sweatshirt in a weak attempt at disguise.  Near cardiac arrest, I hid in a corner.  The police didn’t find me.  And I made my flight.  I don’t know if Brigitte was caught.  I hope not.  She did me a great favor that day.  And I was left with a good story.  Vive la France! 

© 2024 Jody Dyer
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