Tuesday, July 5, 2016

3:20 am – I wake up to the sound of my alarm buzzing. It is time to drag myself out of bed. The shuttle from my hotel to Brussels Airport leaves in thirty minutes and my Ryanair flight to Tangier, Morocco departs in three short hours. Due to the fact it is an international flight, I follow the popular protocol that urges travelers to arrive two hours early. Shuttle departs at 4am, arrives around 4:20am, I’m at the check-in counter at 4:30am, sounds like a well thought-out plan.

3:50 am – With my bags slung over my shoulders, I descend to the lobby. It is empty, save for the receptionist and myself. I approach and indicate I am checking out. He smiles, prints a receipt and slides it across the countertop. I inquire about the airport shuttle and he points towards the exit. “Leave the hotel and turn left. You’ll notice a pair of taillights. That’s the shuttle!” I nod, thank him for his time and follow his instructions.

3:53-3:58 am – I board the shuttle and find an empty row, which wasn’t hard to find as I was the third person on board. I place my small backpack on the floor between my legs and the larger in the empty seat to my left. I gaze out the window into the predawn darkness. In less than five hours I’ll be standing in my 6^th continent and 21^st country in the last eight months. I grow more excited as the minutes pass and additional travelers board the shuttle. I look at each person and try to guess their country of origin and their story. That couple with four children is definitely on a family vacation. The gentleman in front of me is certainly a businessman, who else wears a suit at 4am. The two guys a few rows behind talking about the upcoming NFL season, they’re from the States.

4:00 am – Right on time, the doors to the shuttle close and away we go. The bright lights that illuminated the cabin as we loaded our luggage and ourselves have dimmed. I sit back and gaze upon the streetlights that usher us towards the airport. Traffic is light. I reach down and feel the pockets on my cargo shorts. Passport ✓, wallet ✓, cellphone ✓. Okay, I didn’t forget anything. I return my head to its resting position against the back of my seat and continue to watch dawn emerge over the horizon.

4:20 am – The shuttle jolts to a stop outside an entrance to the airport. Over the years, I have become accustomed to arriving just outside the departure hall when pulling up to an airport. Sadly, Brussels Airport was the site of a deadly terrorist attack in March 2016. Two explosive devices detonated in the departure hall killing 30 and injuring more than 230 innocent victims. As a result, Brussels Airport runs differently than most. I grab my two packs and step off the bus. I follow the small flow of people into a parking garage and we start climbing. Floor 1, Floor 2… I look over the half-wall barrier and down upon people heading in the same direction. I glance at my watch. 4:25 am. Paul, you’re still on time. Nothing to worry about.

4:27 am – I emerge from the parking garage with a layer of sweat building on my forehead. Ahead lies the departure hall. A long line of jersey barriers topped with chain linked fence separates us from the entrance doors. I join a long line of people and walk towards a large tent that stands off to my right. Anxious to get inside and check in for my flight, I do not hesitate to pass people that appear to be on a morning stroll. Inside the tent each piece of luggage is run through an x-ray machine. My packs are cleared and I sling them once again.

4:30 am – I clear the tent and proceed towards the entrance to the departure hall. A line forms but moves quickly. Members of the Belgium military check flight itineraries and passports of each person in line. I show my credentials and gain access. Right on time!!

4:32 am – I walk along the tiled floor weaving through fellow passengers shaking sleep from their eyes. Groups, both large and small, meander in all directions heading to their appropriate check in counters. I arrive at the departure board and scan the flights looking for Ryanair Flight 8073. I don’t see it…that’s odd. I must have missed it, let me look again. I more carefully scan the flights a second time. No Ryanair Flight 8073. Someone probably messed up the board and forgot to list my flight. I continue towards the check in counter for Ryanair.

4:35 am – I approach the Ryanair check in counter and above each desk sits a monitor with a destination. Passengers must check their luggage at the appropriate desk in accordance with their destination. I see four monitors but not the destination “Tangier”. What’s going on? Maybe I’m too early to check in?

4:36 am – I turn towards an approaching employee and “excuse me, where do I check in for the Ryanair flight to Tangier?”

“Where?” She asks quizzically.

“Tangier, Morocco. Scheduled to depart at 6:30”

With a puzzled look she asks to see my itinerary. I retrieve my phone from my pocket and pull up the appropriate email detailing my flight.

4:37 am – “Ohhh, you’re at the wrong airport.”

“The wrong airport?” I reply, surprised at her remark.

“Yeah, your flight to Tangier departs from Charleroi.”

Oh my, I’ve made a horrible mistake. Eight months on the road, navigating transportation hubs in remote areas of third world countries and I mess up a flight in Europe. Well I’m sure Charleroi airport must be close. I’ll still make it.

“What’s the easiest way to get to Charleroi?” I pose the employee.

“Hmmm, I’m not sure. Maybe a taxi.”

“Where do I find a taxi?” I ask, hoping that she would volunteer this information and not stand there like she was under oath during a cross-examination.

“Go down 2 floors,” she offers.

“Thank you very much.” I quickly walk away as my blood pressure and nerves increase.

Thus began the most hectic forty-minute period of my entire journey around the globe. I descended two flights of stairs and emerged on an empty stretch of roadway. Painted on the street, parallel to the curb was the word “Taxi.” However, there was not a taxi in sight. This is a major airport, in a key European city. Where are all the taxis? Guaranteed if I was at Logan, JFK or any major American airport at 4:42 am, I’d be able to find a taxi. A police officer patrolling nearby saw my frustration and approached. I relayed my situation to him and he grimaced. “A taxi just left,” he informed me, “there’s usually at least one sitting out here all night.” He predicted the next taxi would not arrive for some time due to the lack of arriving flights at that hour.

“Try the train, I’m not sure what time they start running, but it’ll get you to Charleroi,” he offered.

“How do I get to the train?” I asked.

“One floor up.”

I thanked him and quickly walked away. Every minute counted and the clock was ticking.

I turned to retrace my steps inside the airport and the officer stopped me. That exit was for egress only. I crossed the vacant taxi lane and proceeded around a slight turn. I’m at the shuttle drop off point? Are you kidding me? Wait, there’s a taxi. I approached what I thought was going to be my savior. I informed the driver I needed a ride to Charleroi Airport as fast as possible. He looked at his watch and said he had another job in 45 minutes and would not be able to drive me and pick up his scheduled fare. I pleaded with him and told him to name his price. He shook his head and pulled from the curb. Okay, forget him. I have to find the train. My watch read 4:50am.

I stride back into the parking garage and began the two level climb. It was a more stressful and lonely climb this time around. The layer of sweat on my forehead never disappeared and grew to include my t-shirt. I emerged from the garage and rejoined the long line of people filing into the tent with the x-ray machine. I moved with haste and certainly drew the glances of armed military personnel. I hoped they could pick up on the thoughts running through my brain. Please, my intentions are innocent. I just need to get to Charleroi. My bags cleared the x-ray once again and I urgently flashed my passport and itinerary to the sentry at the entrance to the departure hall.

Once inside, I turned towards the same staircase that I descended minutes before when I proceeded to the taxi stand. I asked an employee which floor the train station was on and he indicated two floors down. I took off down the stairs and reached the landing. I walked along the corridor and saw no signs for a train station. I passed an employee waxing the floors and frantically asked him on which floor was the train station located. He indicted one level below. I frustratingly turned and walked back to the staircase to descend again.

Luckily there was no line as I swung open the glass doors that led to the ticket counter for the train station. I approached the employee who would have preferred to finish his morning coffee in peace and quiet rather than deal with me. I asked him about the train to Charleroi and he indicated the first morning train departed at 5:40am. He added that I needed to switch trains and catch a bus to Charleroi. Well, that’s not going to work. I thanked him for his time and retreated back through the glass doors.

A taxi was my only solution. I walked up one level and back to the curb. No taxis yet. I threw off my packs and sat on the ground, in a state of defeat. It was nearing 5:00am and my chances of making the flight were dwindling by the second. The same police officer walked over. I ran everything by him and he shook his head as if to offer some condolence to my situation. From across the road, I saw two people walk off the curb and proceed in my direction. They each pulled a small suitcase and walked towards the taxi stand. They appeared to be out of breath as we exchanged hellos. They were a couple from France and made the same mistake I did. They needed a taxi to Charleroi before their flight departed at 7:00am.

5:00am flashed across my watch and there we sat.

 5:05am and still no taxis.

 5:10am; nothing. I stood up and walked towards my police officer friend. I considered him a friend by that point because we had interacted numerous times that morning. Each time he was kind enough to pull out his phone to inquire about later flights or driving distances between Brussels Airport and Charleroi. I was fairly certain I was going to miss my flight and started to strategize for later than afternoon. Should I even head to Charleroi or remain at Brussels Airport in hopes of catching a later flight to Morocco? Brussels Airport probably has a higher volume of flights heading to Morocco. I relayed these thoughts to the police officer.

Once again he pulled out his phone and looked up flights for later that afternoon. A Royal Air Maroc flight was scheduled to depart Brussels at 12:55pm and arrive just before 3:00pm. That would get me to Morocco! Yes, a little later than I planned, but I’d still get my feet on the ground. That left me in a conundrum. Do I stay or do I go?

 I was pondering these options for a few moments when a shiny, black livery arrived. Our savior. Where was he an hour ago? I decided to load my packs in the trunk and climb in the backseat. Maybe the Ryanair flight was delayed. Maybe I’d get on board. I still did not know how long the commute between airports would take, but I wanted to give it a shot, if for nothing else than my pride. The French couple followed suit and took their appropriate seats. As we pulled away from the curb, I rolled down the window and thanked my police officer friend one last time. The driver flipped on the meter and away we went. What a morning it has been, and it’s only just begun. I was still a long way from Tangier.

After a few minutes we pulled onto the highway and the speedometer gradually moved to the right. The French couple made it known to the French-speaking driver that we needed an expedited ride to Charleroi in order to board our flights. He responded with a grimaced look as he weighed our fates internally. We continued driving and the meter continued spinning. Driving and spinning. More driving and spinning. I occasionally glanced at my watch, but it was out of my hands. I could not control the speed of the vehicle or any potential traffic that awaited us.

Early on in our drive, I realized I should have stayed at Brussels Airport. My realizations were confirmed when the driver estimated our fare would be close to 200 euros, or 223 USD. I’m spending 100 USD on a taxi ride, to an airport, to catch a flight that I already know I’m going to miss. Yup Paul, your poor decision making is off the charts today. With that in mind I sat back to enjoy the scenery that passed by my window. A haze of mist hung in the distance and shrouded the grassy hills and quaint towns from my view.

Vivid taillights welcomed us to the Charleroi Airport access road. Increased security measures at this airport caused traffic to slow to a crawl as we approached the departure hall. Armed personnel peered inside the car as we neared the checkpoint. They waved us through and I glanced down at my watch. 6:15am. I’m too late. We pulled into a parking spot and the French couple bounded from the taxi. They grabbed their luggage and handed over 100 euros. I slowly exited, knowing my fate was sealed, and walked to the trunk. I wished my fellow riders good luck and pulled my bags from the compartment. I deposited 100 euros into the palm of the driver and walked inside.

The Ryanair desk sat off to my left and I approached. The agent confirmed my suspicions. The gates were already closed. I missed my flight. I walked away and proceeded to the appropriate ticket window. I relayed my situation to the saleswoman and inquired about future flights from Charleroi to Tangier. She indicated the flight I missed runs on a Monday, Tuesday, Thursday schedule. I did not want to wait two additional days. She did suggest another airline that departed the following morning. That was an option, but I’d have to book a hotel in Charleroi in addition to purchasing the flight. I thanked her for her time and walked away.

I found a bank of empty seats against a nearby wall and walked over. I placed my bags on the floor and sat down. It was not yet 6:30am and I needed to map out my European exit strategy. I wanted to get to Morocco. Europe is a beautiful continent but I planned on leaving and that was what I wanted to do. GET TO MOROCCO! I opened a trusted website that searches discount airline tickets. The number one result was the 12:55pm Royal Air Maroc flight from Brussels Airport to Tangier. I never should have left Brussels Airport. My mind was made up. Get on the 12:55pm, no matter what it takes.

My next obstacle was returning to Brussels Airport. I wanted to avoid an additional 233 USD taxi ride. I walked to the customer service desk and asked about modes of transport from Charleroi to Brussels Airport. The representative instructed me to take Bus #4 from outside the departure hall to the local train depot. Ride from Charleroi to Brussels Midi Station; change trains and proceed to Brussels Airport. This was definitely the way to go. It would be considerably cheaper than the taxi ride. The bus fare was 4 USD, both train legs of the journey were free with my Eurail Pass save for a 5 USD tax at the airport; 9 USD as opposed to 233 USD. I’ll take public transport.

The journey back to Brussels Airport was uneventful and I arrived minutes before 9:00am. I stepped off the train and looked to my left through the glass doors at the same employee whose morning coffee I interrupted hours earlier. Luckily, I was already inside the airport so I did not have to climb the parking garage and clear the x-ray machines outside the airport for a third time that morning. I rode the elevator to the departure hall and looked around for the Royal Air Maroc ticket counter. I approached the sales agent and asked for one ticket on the 12:55pm to Tangier. She responded that they do not handle ticket sales. In my mind I wondered about her role with airline. Ma’am, you’re behind a ticket counter, emblazoned with the words “Ticket Sales” yet you don’t sell tickets. Exactly what do you do? I asked where I might be able to purchase a ticket and she replied, “over the phone or try that kiosk over there on your right.”

“Thank you,” and I was off.

I walked towards an empty section of wall, placed my bags on the ground and took a seat. I retrieved my phone from my pocket hoping to book the flight from the discount website I perused in Charleroi. The Wi-Fi in Brussels Airport was inconsistent at best so I turned on my cellular data. I opened the browser and clicked to the booking page. Royal Air Maroc…12:55pm…Brussels to Tangier…that’s the one. In went my personal information and credit card details. I clicked purchase and a confirmation page instructed me to await an email detailing my reservation. An email arrived minutes later. However, it read that my flight was reserved but my ticket had not been issued because my method of payment had not been confirmed. I can’t catch a break. Five minutes passed, then ten, fifteen and my payment remained unconfirmed.

I dialed a contact number for the third party I used to purchase the ticket. A representative picked up immediately, which was surprising, and I ran my problem by him. He put me on hold while he looked into the issue. He returned a few minutes later and said the payment was expedited and I should receive my ticket in the next 7-10 minutes. He provided his personal extension for me to dial if I had additional issues. I graciously thanked him for his help and hung up. Okay, 7-10 minutes…

 Sure enough, exactly ten minutes later an email arrived with my ticket. MY TICKET!! I was officially exiting Europe and on my way to Morocco. And what a thirteen days in Morocco it turned out to be.

 

 

* In addition, the remaining photographs from Europe and Morocco, along with photographs taken since my return have been uploaded to the PERPETUAL FOOTSTEPS homepage.