Mercy, Mercy

Overnighting at Charles de Gaulle, to save £1000 on the airfare, I couldn't help noticing the yanks. Well one couldn't: each of them in the hotel bar weighed twice as much and spoke twice as loud as the europeans. Sadly they had almost nothing to say and certainly weren't interested in the football.

You could see the disbelief, and possibly terror, as they were given the menus. Only three main courses? Salads differing in ingredients rather than which creamy dressing they'd be smothered in? Their protestations were met with a gallic shrug.

Me, I went for the entrecôte. Now I know that it is physically impossible for a French chef to cook a steak any more than medium. So I ordered mine well done... and it came perfectly medium-rare served on a wooden board with a garden leaf salad in French dressing, accompanied with typically good bread and superlative French fries. The French and food, eh? And this was an airport hotel. Doubleu tip: if you want medium ask for it to be burnt.

One sleep later and I hopped onto the bus back to CDG and again at the next stop there was another American embarrassing the English speaking world. "Are you the shuttle to the airport?" he yelled slowly to the driver. Well no, he'd be the driver of the shuttle, wouldn't he? And did the bus not have "aeroport shuttle" emblazoned on it? Yip, looks foreign.

In a quite unfrench manner, the driver humoured this chap's poor grasp of English. "Wait here!" said the tourist as he dumped his leather fanny pack on the floor of the bus and scuttled off after his other bag. He returned hauling a huge wheely bag after him.

As he crawled aboard, he sang out, "Mercy! Mercy!" Now I suspect he was trying to say thanks to the driver, but he sounded more like a mediaeval penitent.

Let's be frank: if this guy was going to insist this bag that he could barely wheel was his "carry-on" luggage, well no, there was going be no mercy.