Travel Time

Travel takes time. That is, getting from point A to point B takes time. In days of yore, travel time was measured by how far one could walk or paddle a boat in a day. In those days, the journey itself was a story. Now, instead of weeks or months, it takes hours by airplane. We spend our time positioning ourselves to get to airports early, then waiting. The journey itself has fewer stories.

The beach at Glyfada

Of twenty-nine days dedicated to our European odyssey, seven were devoted to getting to airports and waiting. I will not count the day in Reykjavik. That was by choice. But there was the night in Seattle beforehand. The flight to Paris still left a half a day to cruise the Seine. The flight to Athens pretty much took up that day. I am not sure why. All I  know is we left early and arrived in time only for dinner. I could blame it on losing an hour to a time zone. Twenty minute flights to and from Naxos do not count, but still, one has to arrive at the airport early. From Nafplio to Budapest was two days: one to position ourselves in Glyfada for the night; the next to fly to Budapest. Leaving Hungary we again positioned ourselves by the airport the night before, but that day was well spent with family so I can't write that it was all devoted to travel. But the next day was devoted to positioning ourselves by De Gaulle airport the night before we caught our return Icelandair flight to Seattle. Then we spent another night in SeaTac to position ourselves for the morning flight to Tucson, but again, that day was well spent with family so it doesn't fully count.

Our view from Bomo Club Palace

Glyfada is a nice suburb spread out on the beach east of Athens. It is also relatively near the airport, which is why we spent our last night in Greece there. Unfortunately, we were unable to enjoy the beach or a last swim in the Aegean because the beach was closed. A few days before our arrival, a rust bucket ship sank off of Athens and its oil slick reached as far as Glyfada.

The beach wasn't as bad as we feared. "The oil smell depends on the wind," said the desk clerk at our Bomo Club Palace Hotel situated between the beach and the highway, next to an ugly vacant lot with views of a rather industrial looking marina.

Bomo Club was on the city end of upscale Glyfada. Shari dubbed it the Russian hotel on account of the Russian language brochures and magazines in the lobby.

The Mycenean Arkadiko Bridge

To get to Glyfada, we had time for a leisurely drive along the north coast of the Argolid Peninsula. On the main road from Nafplio to Epidavros there is a brown road sign (brown is the color to demarcate something of touristic interest) announcing the existence of "Mycenae Bridge". We turned onto the side road and about a kilometer later saw the stone, corbel arch bridge. Once part of a military highway for chariots, the Arkadiko Bridge had survived 3,300 years of history. Further along our route, we drove the rugged coastline and occasional beaches of the Saronic Gulf, good for a couple of frappe coffees and watching the local sunbathers. Then we proceeded to the toll road in Corinth and circled around the north of Athens to get to Glyfada.

Temple of Poseidon, Sounia

The next day we had time for a leisurely drive the coast to Sounia, on the eastern point of Attica, where we saw a temple on a promontory. The small site had a nice restaurant, good for a couple of frappe coffees and watching the local tourists. Turns out it was the Temple of Poseidon, the god of the sea and sailors. In addition to worship, I reckon it must have served as a signpost for ancient mariners on their way south from the Black and Aegean Seas. "Head south until you get to the Temple of Poseidon, then make a right turn to get to Athens. You can't miss it."

View from the Novotel towards Roissy-en-France

We spent a final night in Paris because our Icelandair flight back towards Seattle left early in the morning. We stayed at the Novotel, one of a score or so large hotels clustered around a jumble of restricted access ramps surrounding Charles De Gaulle Airport. We arrived at the hotel early enough for lunch in the lobby cafe. We spent a sobering €60 for a burger, a club sandwich, and two beers.

The Novotel is a short walk from picturesque Roissy-en-France, a medieval village with a park and a stone church built in the 16th Century. The walk is short, once one navigates the jumble of hotel fences and limited access ramps. But the village is pleasant and the prices at its convenience store quite reasonable. That night we dined in our room on apples, baguette, Camembert, ham, and wine.

It is good to plan a little extra for travel time just in case something goes wrong. It did in Athens. We dutifully arrived at the airport early for our flight to Budapest, but our scheduled airplane arrived an hour late at Gate B-9. We boarded and waited. Technical difficulties. Some twenty minutes later, all passengers were told to disembark and take their carry-on baggage with them. We did. We waited by Gate B-9 for about an hour. I could see mechanics fussing around one of the wheels under the right wing.

We boarded again. The airplane taxied on the tarmac ready to turn for the take-off when it started making a horrible grinding sound. The pilot taxied off to the side where all passengers were told to disembark and take their carry-on baggage with them. Busses took us back to Gate B-9 in the terminal building. Amazing to us, Aegean Airlines had an extra jet available. It pulled into the gate, loaded our baggage from the first plane, and we boarded a third time.

As the attendant scanned our frayed boarding pass for the third time, Shari joked that it might have worn out. The attendant smiled. As our neighbor in the aisle seat sat down (we typically surged in early; he was more deliberate) we joked, "Nice to see you again."

Shari is a master at working the self-serve check-in machines.
Arriving early at Athens for our flight to Budapest.

We flew to Budapest some three and a half hours late.

It was on the plane that we checked the paperwork for the rental car that Shari had reserved at the Budapest Airport. The plan was to drive the car in the afternoon across town to our hotel on Castle Hill. We noticed that on Mondays, the U-Save office closes early, at 8 PM. It was Monday. We got really nervous. The flight pulled into the gate at 7:50 PM. Shari and I executed our a plan. She stayed by the baggage and I ran outside to the arrival hall to find the car rental desk.

Now the curious reader might wonder, why didn't we just make a phone call? We still had one smart phone in operation. (See Gamers Warehouse.) It was not just because the call would have cost $10. We tried, only to discover that we did not know how to dial the number, country code and all that.

In a previous post I have already mentioned my skepticism regarding out-of-local-context business names designed to attract tourists. They were the Nemo's and Flamingo named restaurants in Naxos. I could add Orange Car Rental at Keflavik Airport, Iceland. I am adding the name U-Save which certainly is not a Hungarian name.

Like Orange, U-Save does not have an office by the arrival hall. One has to connect with a person carrying a placard bearing your name or that of U-Save. That person gives you a ride to the car rental office hidden somewhere in the airport environs, but not near enough to walk and drag baggage. The arrival hall was crowded with placard-bearing Hungarians and tired and mournful looking tourists hoping to find their connections.

There was an information counter. I had my first opportunity to try out my Hungarian. The young man at the counter was a bit surely. Poor fellow had to deal with throngs of impatient and concerned foreigners trying to figure out how to connect with their car rental, or how to get transportation to the city, or how to find a toilet. Turns out, the young man spoke English and disliked struggling with his basic knowledge of Hungarian. When I slipped in some English words, he complained about the difficulty of Hungarian (actually, he used a strong word to describe his frustration with the language) and suggested we stick to English. "Call them" he suggested. I said we were unable to phone. "Okay, since you made the effort to speak Hungarian." He made the call, spoke with someone at U-Save, then announced the girl would meet me there shortly. "Don't worry. They should be happy getting paid overtime."

I figured I had time to return to Shari. I ran back inside the airport, down long corridors, and in through the "no entry" exit to the baggage claim area. Fortunately, there was no guard to prevent me. I found Shari and we rushed back to the information counter and waited.

A regular queue of distraught travelers attended the information counter. They struck me like penitents waiting for their confessions to be heard. I could see the same young man at the counter, his name was Zoltán (there must have been a story there, but I didn't ask), rolling his eyes in disgust at some query he regarded as silly.

The crowd thinned as an hour passed. I asked Zoltán to telephone again. By this time, he had long forgotten who I was. Reminded, he made the call. Turned out that the young girl had been there a long time before but could not find me.

The good news was we ended up driving through the center of Budapest at night when traffic was less. We had been concerned about finding our way. I worry about driving in any unfamiliar big city, much less in the dark. Shari worried because Hungarian is completely foreign to her. We only made one wrong turn and arrived at our hotel at about twenty minutes before ten.

But I am ahead of myself because this post is about travel time. Budapest is a different subject.