Our Return Journey: Part 1
It's just after 3 AM when the alarm goes off. We know what we've got to do to get ready.
Get up, get cracking. One showers while the other makes the sandwiches. The other showers while one checks messages and confirms details. A quick breakfast. An espresso while going over the check list. Finally packing and we're out the door. Load the car, drop off the key and program the GPS.
We're out the gate and on the road. It's 260 km to P1 parking at the Aeroporto de Lisboa. The GPS tells us that should take 2 h 25 minutes. We hope there will be no traffic. If all goes well, we should arrive at the airport over four hours before departure. Repatriation. That's a word I never thought would apply to me. Resuscitation? Let's not even go there.
We drive through darkened communities and along two-lane highways. There certainly is no traffic. That's reassuring.
We make it to the A22 autoestrada. We see headlights off in the distance but, otherwise the highway is dark. We didn't have to worry about traffic. For kilometer after kilometer, the only light we see is the reflection of our headlights on the white lines of the roadway. We drive over 150 km before we see the lights of another vehicle heading the the same direction as us. That's like seeing three vehicles heading in the same direction on a drive from Hamilton to Ottawa! We see evidence of traffic going in the other direction about once every four or five kilometers.
The traffic picks up a bit as we approach Lisbon but it's still light and moving smoothly. We trust the GPS and it rewards us with accurate guidance into the airport and to parking, P1.
We unload quickly and head with our luggage to the nearest entry. There are police that signal that we're not allowed to entry. I raise my palms. "So where do we go?" my palms say. One officer points to the right.
We head off in that direction and end up just by-passing the outer doors but end up face-to-face with those same police.
No entry here, we are told. We don't speak the language but we get the message. We ask for directions but neither of the officers speaks English. Finally, just as we're starting to despair, one of the officers turns to the other and then just waves us through.
The entry plaza has few people but they all seem to know where they're going. We find a set of elevators and happily recognize that departures is the floor with the sign for the airplane taking off. We press the button --- our hands now gloved --- we reach our floor and get off.
There are two terminals in the airport and we're in Terminal One. There's a sign indicating the direction to Terminal Two as well a signs pointing to the various departure halls in Terminal One. We're already here, so we figure we can ask someone or, at least, see if there are signs indicating where we want to go.
We walk pass food concessions still selling food but with their seating areas boarded up. People just make there own seating areas leaning against railing or posts. Off in the distance, we see a line of people maybe queuing to check in but maybe not. The line's straggly but with some big spaces between people so it looks promising. We head in that direction. It's in departure hall D. Indeed, it is a line of people queuing at an information desk in the middle of the hall and they are Canadians! Why are they queuing here? Why are there only two check-in counters open? Ah, but they're Air Transat check-in counters!
It turns out the the information counter is a control point. After your documents are checked, you are allowed to queue up for service at the check-in counters.
More check-in counters open. Things are moving. As we wait our turn, we hear voices of frustration. We see tears being shed as a young woman walks away from one of the counters, obviously dejected.
Now it's our turn to check in. Our luggage is weighed and tagged. Our boarding passes are issued. Before we can leave the agent gives us a warm smile and wishes us a safe trip home.
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