And so it begins.

The long journey home. I’m in the ‘Premium Lounge’ in, Denpasar which is actually not bad. Good food and I’m sitting looking at the runway. Which is nice. If you’re me.

I think this has been my longest time ‘away’ for a very long time. 2 whole weeks of Indonesian climate, culture and kindness. That’s the over-riding memory I’m taking with me – kindness. There’s no doubt it’s frustrating when you’re here for a technology conference and they can’t get the internet to work (we ended up using smoke signals, but they got intercepted and it now appears we’ve elected Whitney Houston as the new Pope). 

But all issues like that, of internet and infrastructure, of long traffic delays and longer waits for room service sort of (just sort of, one step at a time Sanchez) float away when greeting with a genuine smile and passion to help. It’s enchanting.

As was the Martini Bar at the Ritz Carlton last night, with new friends and old, in shifts in fact as they departed to the airport to … depart, we sat, sipped martini’s and watched the sun go down on this stunning island. As you well know we’ve been searching for martini nirvana – and I think we cracked it last night. Which must be a fucking relief to the Ritz Carlton Martini Bar, or they’ll be up against trading standards won’t they?

 

This morning, a lazy breakfast of shared nasi goreng and babi goreng (which resembles fried pigs ear and tastes precisely like you’d imagine such porcine offal to taste) a hot bath and preparation to depart, and off to the airport.

When you next hear from me I’ll be in Hong Kong.  Toodle Pip!

Back to Denver.

Shall we just go through my day so far?

Up at 5am to catch an 8am flight from La Guardia, which is remarkably on time. It’s also jammed full and my upgrade didn’t clear, so I’m in seat 8921B. The only respite is the large quantity of quite attractive men. Denver seems to collect the rugged outdoor types. All check shirts and workers tans.

The flight lasts for approximately a week and the only food served comes for 5 dollars (cash only – of which I have none because Jet Blue are credit card only) in a acid green plain box and contains of all things a mini can of tuna. Food fit for a Guantanamo inmate I think.

Finally we land, although it’s more of a drop (I expect we ran out of petrol) and trundle the 54 miles from the runway to the terminal, land is cheap in Colorado. As the sun sets and we arrive it feels like an overnight in the cabin waiting for the doors to open.

We’re a mile high in Denver and yet I’m feeling quite low. I walk off the jet and into the terminal. Starving hungry (I had a slice of ham for breakfast at 5am, although that’s more like a late dinner really isn’t it?) I look for food, a chance to cheat my diet which I resolve in myself by seeing it as a reward for not buying one of their ’snack options’. I walk up to the McDonald’s counter and demand a cheeseburger (I was planning to not eat the bun). At which point the server, who likes like an extra from Oliver! with hair that looks like a sack of rusty nails murmurs something so incomprehensible to me I swear my eardrums were punctured as we fell onto the runway.

Having asked her to repeat what she’d said three times, I realise she’s telling me that it’s still the breakfast menu. Clearly it may be 10am in Denver, but it’s 12 in NYC and I need some food. However, as I’m now so totally infuriated by her inability to speak properly (without regard to my apparent inability to hear properly) I skulk away. And loop the arrivals hall looking for ANYTHING salty and stodgy.

Welcome to healthy Denver. There’s nothing. This is the most beautiful part of America I know, with some good rugged people and outdoorsy types, maybe that explains the drought of bad food options. I’m obviously more furious than ever.

I leave get to the arrivals hall and need food. So I find the ‘Marketplace’ a store that looks like it was decorated by someone who runs those ‘paint your own mug’ shops in destitute towns in Cornwall. There in the corner, beyond the gift cards, stuffed animals, 4 feet long strips of gum and cling filmed chocolate squares sit 2 types of cheese. I buy both and consume them rapidly.

To the taxi and into it straight away (having remembered to get cash). The driver looks like he’s auditioning to be Eddie Murphy, but from the 80’s when it was all Thriller Leather, smiles and copious amounts of ‘recreational drugs’. We exchange dialogue, supposedly but once again I don’t understand him and ask him to repeat what he just said. Unfortunately I can’t hear that either as we are suddenly travelling so fast his words are lost in the sonic boom.

Clearly he doesn’t know how to get to Golden (the other side of Denver and in the mountains and quite lovely) and obviously nor do I. Enter the iPhone 3G, a product so refined and beautiful but burdened with the energy efficiency of a Sherman Tank. I plug in the address, and the little blue dot tells me where I am. Apparently I’m on 14th Street by 10th Avenue in Manhattan and the route is 3 thousand miles and will take one and a half days.

Once again, the iPhone is iAnnoying and promptly rebooted.

GPS working we race to the offices, from what I can see through the speed induced distortion, the landscape is as ever captivating.

Within 30 minutes we arrive at the offices, and I arrive to meet my client, it’s 1030am. I’ve been up since 5am, travelled a couple of thousand miles and eated a stick of processed cheese and some ‘wafer thin’ ham. I’m greeted with ‘how nice to see you, you’ll have plenty of time to prepare, we’ll start the meeting at 2pm’.

Bingo Bango Bongo.

Terminal 5 – the solution arrives, on time.

So I flew to Cannes, for that so called ‘advertising festival’. And I flew British Airways, why? Because when I travel I value consistency over character.

But on arrival to Terminal 5 I was taken aback; it was like being in Singapore (I don’t mean hot, sticky and full of filthy Australians) but it was ordered, fluid and classy. Yes, classy, I actually loathe that word but given it’s nearly 2am here in Nice I can’t be arsed.

Once off the plane (and the inevitable ‘if I keep my legs in the walking position but sprint to arrivals I won’t look like I’m rushing event) it was through immigration in less than 2 minutes, straight to the baggage belt and all done and dusted in 10 mins. Blow me if the arrivals lounge doesn’t trump the Virgin Clubhouse. It really does. It’s remarkable. Shower rooms with hot strong water, Elemis toiletries, a pressing service (where they ask you the same question urgently and many times) and a hot breakfast bar that extols all the virtues of what I call a ‘hotel breakfast’ – namely one where your aorta doesn’t groan ’should you oughta’ when your eyes clap sight of a sump of oil over a depressed egg…

The colours work – and by that I mean the lounge dragons actually have a skin-tone, the coffee is strong and the  blend of space planning, food, spa and calm is captivating.

Until I was called for my car (on time) ‘Mr. San-chaze’. ‘Mr. San-chaze’ flooded the lounge. But I was at one. In to the car and speed to Knightsbridge in just shy of three weeks (that traffic sucks).

So good was the flight and arrival experience (I refused ALL service on the plane, it’s the only way I know I won’t be let down) that I proceeded to spend all day working really bloody hard. Which is some achievement given the aggregated exhaustion of the previous weeks.

Then to Nice. Not so good. Terminal 1. Everything about check-in was great. In fact BA and BAA did all they could. It’s fair to say I was a little ‘over-refreshed’ the previous night, so probably not in the best of spirits. I thought to myself that the only thing that could break the miasma was a Pret a Manger latte. So I approached, paid ordered and waited. And waited and waited. The only aroma coming towards me was the subtle fumes of anger.

No coffee 5 minutes later. So I complained. Abruptly. Lied through my teeth and said that my flight was boarding. No help. The till-bitch called the manager, he continued to clear tables. ‘Fine,’ I said ‘I can’t be bothered’ and walked away leaving said tepid late latte on the counter. As I walked past Mr. Can I help You I have a Badge and Stars, I spat out ‘Well thank you for your customer service, top bloody marks’ and did the ill-fated and loathed ‘GFOTHAA’ – that’s ‘Gay Flourish of the Hand And Arm’ without once casting my eye back.

So frankly, I was a bit of a dick. But boy is terminal 5 an improvement. If you’re listening Julian, sort it.