A journey to places known, with luggage unknown

I have travelled via Frankfurt on many occasions on my way to Greenland for business, it being a major routing hub in Europe. Each time I have visited, I have remarked on how little I like it, so while the story that follows may not be directly attributable to Frankfurt per se, everything that transpired, happened there.

We routed to Paris via Johannesburg, then Frankfurt. This is a common routing, and mixed in with the German, we heard French being spoken on the plane – many happy tourists leaving a wet and wild Cape Town winter back home to their wet and wild Euro summer.

Everything went fine as expected. The food was marginally edible and the seats sufficiently uncomfortable to prevent even a modicum of peace and rest. How people travel for a living is beyond me.

My long-term, multi entry Schengen visa worked a treat – Cris carries a Portuguese passport, and being married to her, I qualify for free visas… Joy hath no bounds…

But, I digress… Frankfurt Airport, I hate you! My luggage didn’t arrive!!! Ok, so in truth, it wasn’t Frankfurt’s fault. The luggage never made it on the plane… So really, it was a team effort by SAA and ACSA that conspired against me. Again.

Normally, missing luggage wouldn’t a problem. Indeed, the people behind me in the queue that suffered the same fate seemed nonplussed by the whole affair. Our scenario was markedly different – our holiday was BEGINNING, their’s was ENDING. Even worse, it was beginning a different town. But, not just a different town, a DIFFERENT country!! The kind lady promised to get my luggage to me. But HOW??? Were we going to be in rural France in a few short hours with little communication.

Looking back retrospectively at the situation, it was always doomed to fail, and fail it did. Five days later as I write this, my luggage has made it to Paris, and no further. I have pleaded with the airline to just leave it there. I’ll pick it up on the weekend.

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