The long night and longer flight.

As per usual I had forgotten to eat for most of the day, so the trip from the apartment to the airport was puncuated by finding a dust covered piece of chewing gum, the sound of my stomach and the infurating yet constant dropping of calls on the journey to the airport (sorry Cindy!)…

But we arrived, checked-in and headed to the lounge – oh, after securing and exit row seat. Imagine my annoyance as after settling into the window exit row (which has a huge unnecessary obstruction in front – the exit door that is) and planning to shift to the aisle, Miss ‘Oh so smiley and helpful but probably wouldn’t be to you Mr. Gold Card Holder Who Never Get’s Good Service Ex-USA on Virgin’ decides to bring to Hagrid size, Little Britain characters up to sit in the other two seats.

After I calm myself down (KK said to ‘listen to my breathing’, imagine hearing Black Beauty after a canter across a beach type breathing was being heard) I realise that this is the beginning of a long journey and there’s no point being picky knickers.

Words simply cannot describe the discomfort I suffered in this Guantanemo inspired stress position – but it was the ONLY position as Andy and Lou next to me were convinced that I did actually want one of their belly’s exposed from their t-shirts and warmly pressing against my side like a damp human leech.

And the food. Holy moly. You’d need divine intervention to stomach it. I have never been served a meal that was entirely grey in my entire life. I’m not sure how Virgin are able to make their meals so unpalatable – there  must be an award they could win for it (I expect with Paul Charles as their head of PR it’s entirely possible they have).
I did sleep for a little while. There was nothing else to do really. Oh, and when I unfolded my tray table it was wet – and smelt like a student’s 4 days damp in the washing machine/dried too quickly on a flaky radiator’s cords.   Nice.

Arrival could not come soon enough – and with a  strong wind behind us (always preferable) we landed bang on time.

To the salvation that is the Virgin Clubhouse! Don’t spare the horses!

6 inches that make ALL the difference.

So I’ve just landed into Hong Kong. And I’m at The Wing, the Cathay Pacific First Class lounge. You are NOT going to believe where I am writing this very post… here:

 

Yes in  a BATH TUB. Can you sodding well believe it? I thought Terminal 5 rocked, but here thanks to those smart people at Cathay Pacific, you get a ‘cabana’ with bath, seperate shower, lounging area (with pebble filled lake/water features) sinks, potions and unctions and even Earl Grey served in your room.

 

I’m a little bit over fucking impressed to be honest. 

 

So how was the flight I hear you ask? It was long. 5 hours to Vancouver, one hour on the ground and then 13 hours to Hong Kong.  But I’ve discovered something about their business class seating. On the upper deck you get an extra 6 inches! It’s true – it’s like  booking a queen and getting a king (hospitality wise).

 

So now I”m going to soak, shave, prepare. Put on my new Ralph Lauren Polo shirt (in Racing Green) and then kick back before the last leg to Bali.

 

Sweet joy!

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.

It’s an economy of upgrades.

I don’t know how this happened, but I’m travelling to Denver the day after tomorrow for a 3 hour meeting and I’m in a panic about my flights. I had booked United (I don’t know why) and then used miles to upgrade (that’s why). However, I’ve subsequently discovered that the upgrades don’t clear on the day and that anyone with a higher status than me will get priority.

Clearly I’m not used to not being the highest status in any aspect of my aviation fueled world (it’s a work thing you see) so imagine my disgust at myself for realising the the United frequent flyer card I unsheathed from my Gucci wallet was in fact BLUE.

Fucking BLUE. How did THAT happen? It was GOLD all last year ‘Hello Mr. Sanchez’, ‘Sit over here Mr. Sanchez’, ‘Let me unbuckle that for you Mr. Sanchez’. ‘You like that Bitch’ type thing. Come into my lounge, walk this way, hold these warm nuts and so on.

Not now, oh no. Now I’m down with the pond-life, the ‘vacationers and leisure travellers’, I’ll even have to ‘buy snacks on board’. On American Airlines the snacks you can buy on board include a cookie so large you it has its own moons. So big it would cover Sophie Ellis-Bextor’s face. On United the snacks include ‘Deluxe cookie with hidden razor blade’, ‘Petroleum product Cheese sandwich’ and probably ‘a small packet of desease’.

The upgrade STILL hasn’t cleared.

In other parts of my life there have been upgrades. Clearly the warm rush of contentment (coupled with the tingle of ‘too much sun on the back’) delivered from our Fire Island Rental has bought much happiness.  It’s an upgrade from Nancy’s sofa and the bitches over at Ocean Beach. Summer Club is a private estate and we like it very much, thankyou very much.

My diet has been upgraded. I’m almost off bread entirely (which was always my downfall) and I’m enjoying salad. My tuna content is very high (I’m made with one quarter dolphin) and the vegetables are piling in aided with a hummous from Sabra that’s so spicy it makes me smile in ways that are clearly odd.

But by far the biggest upgrade in my life has been the inclusion of personal training. Something I spent over a year on from 2006 to 2007 and then dropped for a while is back. And boy is it back. My trainer is a number 2 trainer. By that I don’t mean he’s crap, I mean he’s highly qualified.

Most importantly he takes absolutely NO back-chat. He’s like my old French teacher, who would stop me with a ‘up-bup-bup’ type sound everytime I tried to protest and that was tous les jours.

He’s a marathon runner (that’s the old name for Snickers, but I know he’s not biffing on the chocolate) so he’s lean, mean and a bit nasty. Well of course he’s not. He’s great, and getting married and all that stuff. But the upgrade is when we train, there’s no ‘run in’, there’s no ‘easy first set’ like when I trained last. It’s straight into the heavy stuff. And I find it very rewarding.

Here’s hoping I’m not so full of lactic acid – make up your own jokes – on Thursday that my United economy class journey becomes akin to 2 hours of waterboarding.

Fingers cross (if they will)

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.