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Getting there – Part 2

Pit stop with extra Andouilelette

Ah, “transit.” That magical state of being where you’re neither here nor there, but you are legally allowed to spend 24 hours eating and drinking your way through one of the most beautiful cities on Earth. Honestly, if this is what transit looks like, we might start booking all our connections with layovers long enough to qualify as sabbaticals.

We began our day of “not-tourism” with a rebellious 9am breakfast—clearly throwing caution (and time zones) to the wind. The plan was simple: take the RER from the airport into the heart of Paris, land at Les Halles/Châtelet around 10am, and spend the morning pretending we were chic locals instead of well-dressed jet lag grenades.

Our first arrondissement of attack? The 1st, naturally. It’s classic, it’s walkable, and it’s got the kind of Parisian charm that makes you want to immediately invest in a silk scarf and start saying things like “Mais oui, c’est la vie.” A quick flânerie through Samaritaine—half department store, half art installation—and it was suddenly apéro o’clock.

Next stop: Poppy’s Bar. But wait—priorities. On the way, we made a strategic detour to “Chez Denise,” the quintessential Parisian bistro where the walls have stories, the food has soul, and apparently Jacques Chirac once had the munchies. We secured a table, and soon I was elbow-deep in a plate of andouillette. For the uninitiated, andouillette is… let’s call it a “commitment sausage.” Not for the faint of heart, but glorious when done right. Washed it down with a cheerful pichet of Brouilly, chased it with an île flottante roughly the size of the Pont Neuf, and topped it all off with an espresso strong enough to restart a heart.

After that glorious gut-busting experience, we needed a walk. Not just for digestion, but out of sheer guilt. Back through the city, onto the RER, and back to the hotel to collect our bags—which, by some miracle, still fit in our hands despite the food baby I was now carrying.

And then, CDG Val: Take Two. This time, mercifully, it wasn’t rush hour at the human zoo. We glided back to Terminal 2E, feeling like seasoned pros. With our business class tickets in hand, we breezed through the Priority Lane like we’d just won a reality show.

Immigration? Security? Minimal fuss. Lounge access? Oh yes. Air France, take the wheel. We’ve got hours to kill, drinks to sip, and maybe even a pre-boarding shower to pretend we’re still fresh humans before the 22-hour sky-marathon ahead.

And that, dear reader, is where I’m writing this from: lounge seat, feet up, very large whisky in hand, and just enough smugness to call it a holiday already—even though the Pacific is still thousands of miles away.

Next stop: actual Polynesia. Probably. Unless I get too comfortable here.

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