Parisian slingshot:
A story based on real events
"If I should come out of this war alive, I will have more luck than brains."
Chapter 1:
A U.S. military plane and all that it entails
It was 2018, the last Sunday of May.
I got to the Luqa airport sufficiently early and I approached the AirMalta check-in desk, but after checking my passport, the clerk informed me that she couldn't let me fly because my flight was late and I would certainly miss the other one, in Paris. Then she directed me to a desk where I could get my flight re-booked.
Things were not much better there. "I can book you a flight for the Monday night, sir," the lady there said.
"Monday?" I asked in disbelief and added, "I have the flight back on Monday."
"Sorry, that's the best I can do," she replied politely yet firmly.
"Let me think about it and come back to you."
"Of course."
I left the desk and called my handler, which I'll be refering to as M for the rest of the story. It took him a moment to pick up.
"What's up, Jonny? All good?" he asked politely, but also surprised.
"There is a bit of a situation here. My plane to Paris is late, and they say that I won't make it in time to switch to the another flight, and so they are not letting me onboard. They offered re-booking for the Monday night, but I need to be back by then. I cannot take more days off, so if that's the case, then we can move it to the next week maybe."
He thought for a moment in silence.
"Don't do anything, not just yet," he finally said. "I'm gonna get back at you in 30 minutes."
"Alright."
I went to sit down for a coffee, partially because there were no benches in the pre-check-in area, only the restaurants and bars. I was once dropping someone off on a Sunday, and there were a lot of teenagers in the airport's McDonald's. But maybe they were after free wifi, who knows.
Sitting there, I started thinking about the whole thing. I was taking a shot at changing my job along with the country (again), and I was being derailed by seemingly random circumastances. A vision came to my head. A vision of my then-current boss dressed as a sorcerer and sitting behind a long table and warping the reality to mess up with me, a bit like in-direct battle. But you know, I'm something of a sorcerer myself. So I decided to pick up that battle.
Over the years, I learned to think somewhat magically. I told various people about it many times over the years and even jokingly wrote about it under my shitposter personas, but I feel a bit silly putting this into words now, as if I was exposing something I shouldn't. Not that it's going to stop me because I'm describing what happened, and what happened was that I came up with a story for myself.
As humans, we evolved to be susceptible to stories. For thousands of years, that was the only way to pass knowledge to next generations, and it worked. It worked very well. Since then, we developed painting, writing, and even fancier methods like elaborate Doom maps or Tik Tok reels. But the evolution of the brain is slower than the evolution of our current technology, and we still fall for stories. This is the case of conspiracy theories in many cases because they connect various dots into an appealing story. Same with polarising stories. But the beauty of the concept of a story is that even if it's made-up, it brings value with itself because the purpose of the story is to contain knowledge, not a factual truth.
My story over the years was that I could shape my future in a manner very similar to the one I found at some point later in the infamous "Secret," a book about the power of attraction, where if you think really hard about something, your brain waves will influence the universe and the circumstances will align. You still have to work for it, but it will be easier. (As a side note, it's a smart move from the marketing point of view because if it was enough to only think really strong about something, the readers of "The Secret" would complain, while like that if it didn't work, it meant they were to blame.) It helped me that I had available parking spots more often than I would statistically expect, among other things I "shaped."
Now that I'm writing it, I think I could have taken this idea originally from Paulo Coelho, who said that "[...] when you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it." But it's just a footnote at this point.
The purpose now was to bring me motivation to go through with the events, no matter what. So if I could shape the future, I would have put all my magic into the game with my worthy opponent. Because after all, I was more powerful sorcerer with more experience in these regards than him. We can safely say that at the time, I felt very motivated, and it was going to prove to be useful. But let's not spoil anything.
I finished my coffee and the call came in, as promised.
"I booked you another flight from Paris, but there will be an alteration to the original plan," M said. Originally, I was meant to land in Orly in Paris and take a bus from there to de Gaulle's airport. But there was no time for that anymore. "You'll take a taxi from Orly to de Gaulle and bring us the receipt and we'll reimburse you just the same."
"Righto," I said and we disconnected.
I went back to the airline desk and acknowledged that I will not catch the next flight, but that wasn't going to be a problem because I had another flight booked. The other one was from a different airline, TUI, so there was no responsibility on Air Malta. The lady at the desk accepted my arguments and gave me one ticket. Then I continued through the checks, which were easy as I had virtually no luggage. On top of the years of experience with flying, I was travelling for just one day.
I passed through all the tax-free shops, withdrew a hundred euros for taxi and other expenses, and sat down in the post-check-in section of the airport. I was calculating in my head how much time will I have to go to the other airport, and it was all making sense. (Then, suddenly, I realised there was no music. Luqa has a piano and any traveller can sit down and play. All the times I were there, no one ever played. Sometimes children would approach the instrument and press some keys, but that was it. On that day, however, someone played beautifully. It was so gentle and performed so well that I didn't realise it's happening until it stopped. I managed to get a glimpse of a Japanese man leaving the piano behind him. But I'm digressing.) I started to stress out anew when the delay continued getting bigger. The plane was persistently not starting. The Evil Sorcerer was apparently on me; even if he didn't realise that, his power was skewing the reality in his favour. Thanks to my powers, on the other hand, there was still enough time, albeit less. But at this point, I decided that I am not turning back.
A thought came to my head that they could track me through my company phone. I had one, despite not really needing it. The bossmang saw me using a Caterpillar armoured dumb phone and decided that this cannot be. At first, I had Windows Phone, which I then switched to iPhone SE (the small one). There were no tracking shenanigans, but something could ping them that the phone entered roaming abroad (and in more than one country), so I set it into the airplane mode. The armoured Caterpillar was the one I was using for communication with the recruiter, anyway. For the Internet, I was using airport wifis.
There was no further delay and we onboarded. As I was sitting in my seat, I noticed probably the largest airplane in my life. It was one of those military bastards that open in the back, like a ferry, and can take in probably even a truck (also military). I assumed that the U.S. Army was conducting an operation and were using Luqa as a stop, taking priority in the process and delaying all the other flights. I didn't know if it was truth, but it fitted my story, so I decided to go along with it. Living in Malta, I heard some stories about the U.S. operations conducted from that small island, but it's a story for another time (also, those were rumours and speculations, and they were not true :D).
I decided to relax because nothing depended on me at this point.
Chapter 2:
The only two hours I spent in Paris in my entire life
Easier said than done, though. I kept calculating timeline all the time: how much time will I have to get to the taxi, how quickly they will offboard us, is there going to be a traffic on the way? So many moving parts. I was checking the time every 15 minutes to make sure we're getting to Paris without even micro-delays (we were). I don't remember reading or listening to anything during the flight.
When we landed, I was ecstatic because we were a couple of minutes before time. But the Sorcerer didn't have his last word. "Due to being out of our time slot, we need to wait a little longer with offboarding," informed us the captain suddenly. Oh captain, my captain.
"Little longer" translated to 20-30 minutes, which my body decided to take as an opportunity to stress a little more. It's not even that my heart was racing or something. I was just very tense; my shoulders, namely. Anyway, there was no time for that. After what seemed like the entire eternity, we were let go off the plane, and I started running to the airport exit. Luckily, all the airports are alike to a degree, so you don't really need to know them exactly to find your way, even if you're in the rush.
Somewhere on the flight, I decided that a European taxi driver would not be fit for the job, as risk averse and playing it safe. No, I needed a descendant of an Algerian immigrant. Someone young and wild at heart. Upon reaching the area by the main entrance, I noticed a group of young cab drivers fitting my plan. One of the man, from Sub-Saharan regions, noticed me scanning their group and I was approached by all of them.
In this moment, someone was passing me by and said something that I registered, but my brain stored it for later. The man said to me, "Don't do that." It was very brief and persuasive, as if spoken from experience. A warning to a fellow traveler passed in a way safe for the massenger. For now, it barely registered. This would, however, come back later.
"I need to get to the Charles de Gaulle airport," I said to the men.
They looked at me analytically.
"Are you alone?" the one who spotted me asked.
"Yes."
He looked at my backpack.
"Is this all the luggage you have?"
"Yes."
"Alright," he said to me and then called another guy.
Now, this was the driver I envisioned on the plane: young and fearless.
"Come," he said and started running.
"Okay, but I need to do this super fast!" I shouted after him.
"Yes, yes, super fast, super fast," he responded and started running faster.
We ran down to a parking lot and at this moment, at this very moment, I had a second thought. "What the hell am I doing here?" I asked myself. Was it safe? Was he going to rob me? What did that man meant by saying "Don't do that?" DONT DO THAT? Do what? Why? All these questions were running through my head as we were navigating between cars. And then, suddenly, all became clear. We were ended up next to a motorcycle. Well, more like a scooter. But still. This can work, I thought. In your face, Sorcerer.
Meanwhile, the rider opened the trunk, or whatever you call this box that scooters have, and took out a helmet, a jacket, and a pair of gloves. He even had a spray for my hands before he gave me the gloves. It was fully professional. We put my backpack to the trunkbox (let's settle for this name), we sat, and he started the engine.
"Music okay?" he asked.
"Yeah, sure," I replied. But watch the road.
It was the first time I was riding a bike and it was happening at a really high speed. Later, back home, I measured the distance and the time it took us, and the result was 160 km/h. And that's on average because we were slowing down here and there. This might sound stressful, but I was relaxed. During this ride, nothing depended on me. I was being transported and all I could do was to observe the surroundings. At the same time, I was wondering if I'm going to get robbed: alone, in another city, all someone ill willed needed to do was to take an exit from the highway to a group waiting on the side. This is classic thinking that my grandfather thought me. He saw World War 2, et caetera. But I was also following the signs and we were getting closer to the airport.
And all this to blasting Arabic techno in the headphones hidden somewhere in the helmet. At one point, the rider even turned around and asked, "Music good?" to which I replied that it was very good, but it's hard to say if he heard me.
Cars were mostly letting us through by making space, but some were insistent on taking road to themselves. The rider would slow down and show them his middle finger in a very methodic way, through the entire length of the car. His meticulousness in this regard was actually funny, if anything. After that experience, I always let the motorcyclists go. Not because they might show me their middle finger, but because there is nothing to be gained by blocking them, and someone might be in a hurry, even if for their own funeral. But well.
Then I was robbed.
"It's two-hundred-seventy euros," the rider said.
The time was so tight that I didn't even allowed myself to disbelieve. Perhaps, that was the warning from the man back at Orly. I was quickly calculating the money I had left on the account attached to the debit card I had, and it was exactly three-hundred euros. Sweet. The worst thing at this point would be to not have enough funds and try running or fighting the guy.
"I have to pay with a card," I said.
"No problem," the man replied politely and took out a card terminal from the trunkbox! Let's talk about preparedness.
I paid and went inside. M had me installed an app for perks and this app would show which gate to go to at the airport, so at least there was that, I thought approaching the departures desk.
"Sir, you are in a wrong terminal," said the clerk, however.
This was an unexpected complication because despite driving really fast between the airports, I had 20 minutes left. And I was in a wrong place. The clerk directed me where to go to catch a train [sic!], but I ended up in some sort of lobby, paralised with choices because there were stairs going up and down, and all the signs were in French, and this is a language which I know how to pronounce but I don't speak it. My brain was overloaded with everything and there was no time to take a break and calm down. Somehow, I made an educated guess, based on my experience with airports, and chose the right path. I remember this only because I ended up on the right train. On one hand, it might sound like not much because there were only five stations, but on the other hand, you don't wanna go in the opposite direction with less than 20 minutes left. I've seen really small airports (with room for only two airplanes and two booths where they stamp your passport) but also really big ones: in Istanbul, there are lanes and roundabouts for buses driving you from an airplane; and in Frankfurt, there are two buildings the size of the one in Istanbul (this is how I perceive it, not the actual metrics), and I was there in a similar time constraint, driving and driving and wheels of the bus went round and round, round and round, and suddenly, there was this second terminal bulding; and in Munich, they have a train too, but it goes back and forth between two buildings. And here were five. Bonkers. There was even a schema inside because it was not a straight line.
I jumped out of the train only to learn that there are renovations on the way, and the remaining part became a maze build with metal fences everywhere. No rest for the wicked. Luckily, the end of May is not hot by my standards. The labyrinth took me outside! And from there, I had to go to another building! But that was it. I hit the proper terminal building and the proper check-in desk. The clerk was very nice.
"Well, sir, you should go to--" he started and took a peek on my boarding pass, and you could see he was in this chatty mood and suddenly went dead serious and said, "Sir, you have to go now!"
And so I did. From there, though, it was like a next door. (Although, I'm thinking now that I had to go through scanning at some point. Where? When? It seems I never registered that.) I sat down in the waiting area and texted M, "We got it." "Good," he wrote back.
We got it. Take that, Mr. Sorcerer Boss. I won. Now I could finally rest for the day.
Epilogue
That flight was uneventful and there was a designated driver who took me to Marbella from the Malaga airport. For some reason, this was this big car for six people in the back, but I didn't mind. And there was a glass bottle of mineral water for me. And by the floor, there was blue LED stripe. It felt very high-end to me. And I liked that. They were probably luring all the candidates with these cheap tricks, but as we say in programming, if it works, don't touch it.
The driver passed me printed instructions of how to get to the apartment and a set of keys, which further felt like taken out of "Mission: Impossible," but at this point, I was a natural. The complex they had apartment in looked like taken out of the first Star Wars. The first and only thing that I checked in the apartment was if there was mold in the kitchen. I sniffed all the cupboards, but there was nothing. Mold was the reason we were leaving Malta, so apart from selling myself in the interview, I needed to check that too. I was praying it'd be all good because there was no plan B.
We missed each other with the recruiter from LinkedIn twice, and I went in by myself in the end. I told the story of my journey to a couple of people, but they seemed to take it with a grain of salt. "I see this as our first bonding experience," I said to the director. M was surprised that the "taxi" between airports costed that much and I even offered to cover part of it, as this was not what we agreed for, but he handwaved it.
The funniest part was that I had three interviews, of which only one required me to fly in. The internal recruiter (they call them talent people now) was somewhere in Norway, so it was a videocall, and the third conversation was with a product owner... in Malta. Seriously, I could just take a bus and talk to her on my lunch break. However, there was also a quasi-interview where two devs from my future potential team took me for tapas where we talked nonsense. The key is to talk nonsense in an interesting way.
I walked a couple of streets to get more of this trip, but in my state, I could only notice there were blossoming trees and I made a picture of a blackbird I spotted. I could use the pool in the complex, but I didn't take swimming trunks with me.
In the end, I got the job and moved to Spain where we forgot about mold creeping in from every freaking corner. Six years later, the airline that messed up my original flight went bankrupt, although, I doubt those two events were connected.
The first glimpse of how crazy all that was happened to me the very next day. I went normally to work and a colleague, whom I trusted, asked me what I was up to, and I replied, "I went to Spain and back yesterday." And I heard it myself, and it hit me. I went from Malta to Spain and back within 24 hours. Through Paris. Bonkers.
THE END