Blog

By Suzy Ruder, Class of 2019

I’m a woman who makes plans. My 2020 Spring Agenda: improve my French and learn the CAC French language walking tour. I would polish my French while teaching English to Corinne, a middle-aged French woman. But the coronavirus had its own plan, and mine had to be adjusted to suit its agenda.

My world flipped on March 12 when French President Emmanuel Macron spoke to his nation. His message was intended to calm his compatriots about the impending virus. His first concern was for those already compromised, fragile, and vulnerable. France would show compassion and understanding for others. I silently wept as President Macron assured his countrymen that the government would side with science; the economy could wait. My mind registered the gravity of this situation; France thought the virus was real and dangerous while our government shrugged its shoulders and denied its existence.

“You must be so grateful to have such a leader at this moment.” Corinne nodded as tears slid down her cheek.

On March 16 President Macron began with “Nous sommes en guerre.” (We are at war.) He laid out a plan to halt the virus. Lockdown by noon on March 17. “Restez chez vous” (stay home) orders would be in effect except for food acquisition and medical care. Nothing else. Nous sommes en guerre.

In the following days I wrestled with “stay or go” but with borders shutting down, international flights being canceled, and the White House’s order to return, I would have to make a run right through the “coronavirus corridor”.

On March 24 I left the tiny village of St. Thibaud de Coux for Lyon’s airport 60 miles away. By federal decree,  Corinne was not allowed out of her car as she dropped me off. Bisous and au revoir to my new friend.

Entering the Lyon airport at 8 am, I realized I was alone. Elevator or escalator? Elevator…I pushed a button but no door opened. Escalator? The steps were not moving. Why did nothing work? Where was everyone? I pulled out my cell phone to scroll through the departure list. I noted in red —canceler, canceler. Finally, one in blue! MY Air France 9:30AM flight! Hurray….or not, delay expected.

I pulled out a French paperback. Lost in reading, an hour passed when suddenly I heard sounds. Lights popped on! Machines whirred. Heels on the pavement. The airport was coming to life.

I slipped around a corner to the elevator. Voilà, the door opened. Enter, ascend, exit. Superbe!! Six uniformed individuals peered out from behind desks and screens. I snaked my way to the counter and presented my passport. Ah, americaine…a polished woman exclaimed. Thank God I spoke French as workers asked for the official papers proving I was an essential traveler, then peppered me with questions: What was I doing in France? Where next? Why? My flight was delayed because Charles De Gaulle didn’t have a landing strip available. Relax, we will help. Electricity? We don’t waste it. We use it when needed. Like now.

With no other customers to serve, airline personnel sought to understand my personal history with their country. Oui, I taught in Normandy. Oui, my future husband proposed to me in Paris. Oui, I taught French. Oui, I have children and grandchildren. Oui, I loved my recent homestay. Oui, j’adore votre president. Oui, j’aime bien la France! Oui, I am sad to leave France. Oui, I will return!

They gave me tips on navigating De Gaulle Airport, warning that I MUST make the first connection. There will be no other flights through Montreal. Canada closes its border tonight. Lyon closes tomorrow! Allons-y!

I noticed a young woman whose backpack displayed a bright red maple leaf…a Canadian. Nine passengers boarded, some masked, as I was. I exited the plane at 12:15, and my Montreal flight departed at 1:05. I felt tension rise, but I saw the red maple leaf backpack ahead of me. At each intersection, an employee helped. Six intersections later I showed my passport. At 12:40 I hit a stop. I had to take a transport vehicle to a different part of Terminal 2A. Really? Would I ever get to the end? I noticed the maple leaf flag. Follow her!

Younger, longer legs sped ahead of me after stepping off the crowded bus at 12:47. The red maple leaf moved ahead, but turned around and yelled, “Are you going to Montreal? Oui? I will ask them to hold the flight.” At 12:57 I arrived at the last gate. Papers? Oui, passport, permissions, etc. One attendant fumbled around with doors closing. Another said “get on.” No seat assignment, just sit down and buckle up. Checked my watch 1:03. Two minutes to spare. Whew! Huge plane…I couldn’t find the maple leaf to say merci.

Air Canada provided only water and a stale bun for the seven hours to Montreal. I had a whole row of eight seats to myself. In Montreal,  U.S. customs dragged out the re-entry process by reading our journals and probing our lives. No COVID testing, no temperature checks. At least it wasn’t O’Hare.

I just wanted a cold beer. Nope. No water, no food, no frills; upon boarding, we were handed a bottle of water. Two hours later we touched down at a very empty O’Hare. No food. No taxis. No help. No Blue Line. I was numb. A filthy taxi appeared. I pulled on gloves, climbed inside, and held my breath.

Thirty minutes later, the 24 hour odyssey ended. I had a cold beer in my hand chez moi. Home at last, I faced 14 days of self-quarantine. I had run the COVID gauntlet, escaping from Europe healthy and strong, armed with a story that my kids and grandkids can tell when this pandemic is but a vague memory.