Why you should never drink wine at Schiphol
A whole weekend with a girlfriend to the South of France: that sounds like one big party. And it was. But it went a tiny bit, very much, completely wrong.
The reason: we drank wine. At Schiphol. And I don't want to sound very motherly and preachy, really not. But I do say: never drink wine at Schiphol. Because it so happened that I was already at the airport 2.5 hours before my flight to Nice. Passport not forgotten, hand luggage through the scan and of course my 150 milliliter body lotion pulled out of the bag by customs. So far, nothing strange going on.
My girlfriend and I had a lot to catch up on – it was finally Friday night – and we did that while enjoying some sushi (19 euros per thin slice of sashimi) and several glasses of Chardo (those big glasses, after all, we had all the time). The wine tasted like a well-deserved treat. We were on VACATION! THREE WHOLE DAYS ON THE CÔTE D’AZUR! Ups and downs were discussed. The relationship, the beach dresses we brought, the workweek – so far, nothing strange going on.
With a cheerful tongue, we clattered gemütlich on our golden flip-flops towards the gate. Gate B982, to be precise; that is, the one on the other side of Hoofddorp. We certainly hadn't counted on that. Also not counted on: we still needed to pee on the way. Also not counted on: after a few sips of vin blanc, you are just a bit less quick and agile over those conveyor belts.
You can feel it coming – but it's even worse than you think. At gate B982, a blonde lady from KLM was waiting for us. I read the destination ‘Aalborg‘ on the screen. I fervently hoped for a gate change, because even though my geographical knowledge is poorly developed, I do know that Aalborg is not on the French Riviera. Blondie smiled: not unpleasant, but clearly entertained. ’You just missed the bus to the plane. Two minutes late. No, you can't walk there now. Au revoir.“ I'll repeat that, in case you didn't read it correctly: Twó. Minutes.
There went our 3 days of sun, 3 days on the beach bed, 3 days drinking mimosas in a bikini. Gone. Because a later flight was no longer possible that Friday night. Now I can say that we were unlucky that the plane was not attached to a jet bridge, because then we would undoubtedly have been allowed to board. Or that we were unlucky that it didn't say on our ticket that boarding only takes a quarter of an hour. Or that we were unlucky that our fellow passengers didn't board slower so that the bus was still there. But no, I'm not like that either. It was completely our own stupid fault and I hate the Bubbels bar with that ridiculously expensive wine. I've flown all over the world, from Australia to Costa Rica to Vietnam, but I can't manage a weekend in France.
We just slept at HOME again on Friday night. With my packed beach hats and short denim shorts at the edge of my OWN bed, yes.
Ne pleure pas, ne pleure pas…
Perhaps it was our honesty that saved us from that inevitable after-no-holiday depression. At the KLM desk, we sighed about nothing other than how incredibly stupid it was of ourselves. And that we were so annoyed with ourselves, not with KLM. Did you know that if you miss your outbound flight yourself, your return flight is also canceled? A new, last-minute return ticket: 400 euros. This is no joke. For 2 days then, because day 1 was already lost. You could go to Bali for a month with that, by the way. I was already thinking about which bags and shoes I might want to sell to still be able to go when our SAVING ANGEL said: “Don't say anything, but I'm pretending you had a delay and I'm rebooking your flight. Tomorrow you will fly anyway. Without extra costs.”.
We enjoyed EVERY second in la douce France. We had to, because after all, we didn't have much left. And we drank light pink rosé in the shining sun. That white wine somehow didn't taste good to us anymore.
