The last straw?

I went on a cruise last week. I’ve wanted to have a vacation on a boat for as long as I can remember. To set sail from Manhattan, with a Tiffany blue sky is a unique experience, watching the tip of America’s centre fade away as you feel the gentle chop of waves and the brisk air against your skin. 

We were heading for Sweden, well, something Swedish actually. Ikea Redhook, for a shopping expedition. I was certain that although we had gone because we wanted to purchase just one item (a silicone spatula) that we would walk out with no end of gnargs, fnargs and komss. 

The water taxi to Red Hook is A LOT OF FUN. It’s not quite the Isle of Wight ferry, but it’s damn close (sorry Sean). It’s clean, immaculate and came in flatpack form with an allen key. Who was allen anyway?

The store really is big. I mean, like HUGE. Bigger than this season’s Real World house (currently showing on MTV, check local listings) and bigger than most of the port that surrounds it. It’s the world’s largest cobalt blue lego brick – and everything within is available in huge quantities.

So shop we did – sensibly and frugally, getting just what we needed (3 mini palm trees as 79 cents, a roasting tray, tea lights and rice bowls) and hit the cafeteria for a snack.

KK had the Chicken Nuggets and Fries – obviously to spite me. And proceeded to empty half the salt from the dead sea onto his carbohydratey goodness. 

I, on the other hand (not that KK was on my hand, as it were) had the roast salmon and vegetables. As the meal was being plated by a man who had a rare form of dyslexia that prohibited him from comprehending the phrase ‘low-fat’ his ladle dipped in to a sauce.

The salmon was 300 calories. The sauce, fruit based (Swedish) was probably 3000. I said ‘do I need that’, he said ‘it’s what you asked for’ and proceeded to deposit a bee’s nest of weight gain onto my plate. You do indeed get what you ask for.

Orange juice to accompany, in one of those irritating boxed that take a 34 year old 2 hours to open and a 2 year old 3 seconds. I looked in vain for a straw. None. Ikea are selling probably a million of these orange cartons a day and no straws. Not even the little one that used to be glue gunned onto the side of the carton. 

I walked to the cashier – who was aksing her friend something, and asked her ‘we don’t stock straws’. Who the hell ’stocks’ straws? It’s not Lladro or Petunias – it’s cutlery for drinks.

Anyway, we got it open, finished our meals and took the subway back – the thought of the water ferry at night had a ‘US Airways on Final Approach’ feel to it.

Bringing the Sling, back.

So there I was, at Vivo City (the largest mall in Singapore) ingratiating myself with the locals – in Starbucks and struggling to get online. It’s remarkable that to even use the ‘free’ internet in this wonderful town you have to give your passport number and cell phone. Finally, after a struggle and some calming words from KK I managed to connect.

So it was no real surprise when I started receiving promotional text messages from the state a little later on. Probably wasn’t a good idea to reply to them, following my two beers and glass (or two) of wine over dinner. Hey – ho. If I wake up rendered (as in illegally moved as opposed to fried until the fat drops off me) that will be why.

I had some time to kill, Anne, who appears to be single-handedly running one of the biggest clients in town, was ‘up against it’ so I was chilling with my students at Starbucks.

The dedication to learn here is nothing short of impressive, nor is the Singaporean students cunning/front in ensuring they can learn in comfort and with technology.

As I sat in the Bucks with my palm sizes Asus, 4 students came in, congregated around one table, pulled out an adaptor and plugged their four Dell laptops into the Starbucks grid (the blenders slowed a little bit and somewhere in someone’s HDB the lights went out). One of them proceeded to buy one short drink between the four, and as God is my witness, when I returned (after leaving) some 3 hours later – they were all still there.

Ratchat says often they will all go to the airport to take advantage of the free internet. Smart and economical.

So, anyway, there I was, homesick, lovesick and a littlen bored and suddenly it hit me – I had a Slingbox. Thanks to my lovely little sister (who is 24 and probably detests being called little) who had bought one as a total surprise for me.

So I logged in, and lo and behold in 3 minutes I was watching Top Chef. The only thing that was missing was the arctic New York weather, an airbus in the Hudson and the loving arms of KK around me. Heck. I’ll take what I can get here in the tropics. It was a little touch of home and love and it warmed me up no end.

Sing-a-more!

Arrival, to Anne’s and a long day drinking and relaxing. Before bed at the late hour of 8pm.

Anne’s place is  stunning (or fantabulon as she would say) and she’s a woman who likes her AC on 24/7 so I was confident I wouldn’t spoil.

I put on KK’s shirt and snapped a pic to prove I was wearing it, like a comfort blanket and we headed out for amazing dimsum.

Then to Vivo Mall and a glass or two, then drunkenly spending about 50 dollars on 6 chocolates from a very expensive chocolatey store (Godiva) although I can’t remember eating them.

Then back to Anne’s a thimble of champagne and sleep.

The next morning imagine my horror as I awoke at 3pm. I was panicked. I had missed a whole day and no meetings. But worry not dear reader, I had forgotten to switch my watch from London time. PHEW.

It was time to make meetings. And as my recruiters and agents in NY had said – you need to see people and within 4 hours I had a brace of meetings set up.

It’s funny how when you put your mind to it things happen. People were amazingly receptive to seeing me (maybe I’m not bad at my job – bah!) but here there’s a sense of optimism that hasn’t been crushed by stupid Wall Street Bankers (I said Bankers) and people seem to want you to succeed-  like making a speech at a wedding (thank you Richard).

So off to bed with a Thai Curry (not in the bed, I mean for supper) and another night’s sleep punctuated only by waking at 3am for 20 minutes (which has continued to now).

Jonathan, the sausage jockey hits the Clubhouse.

So, connecting to a Singapore Airlines flight, I was a little confused whether I should go landside to check in (as I had online but didn’t get a boarding pass – tip – as soon as you’ve got a BP it’s hard to change seats). and use the Virgin Arrivals lounge – or if I could get a shower in the clubhouse. I went for the latter.

Checking in for SQ at Heathrow is not entirely pleasant. As a gold card VS man I hit the Suites check-in (I was on the ugliest yet most wonderful aircraft – the A380) and the brine faced woman told me that my status wasn’t in the booking. Now, as I’m slowly realising that materialism doesn’t really matter – I went easy on her. However, I wish I’d remembered to make her put priority tags on my bag; more on that later.

At the Nirvana that is the Clubhouse (that’s probably an offensive overstatement) I settled down to experience something I really haven’t found a comparison for in New York… it’s this;

And FMOSB it was proper ‘ansome. I loved the sausages most. Really moist, meaty and succulent. Close to the quality of a good Thai sausage, but not quite.

Then my evil plan was hatched. Because vinegar tits at check-in clearly thought I was trying to pull a fast one, I loosed my top, showed some cleavage and sauntered over to the Silver Kris lounge. The dragon on the desk was a love and I begged for an upper deck window seat (you see they have the little storage bins by the seat so more space and no need to get up)… she couldn’t confirm but I think my cleavage and gold card helped. I was assured of one pretty soon and proudly returned to the Clubhouse with my UPPER DECK stamped BP.

Boarding was a dream. Last row before last exit (so still in front of about 4 rows) but meant I could recline my seat through the journey. The 12 hour journey.

My seat mate arrived and promptly slept for the next 12 hours. She was 50ft high (so it seemed – odd that all my seat mates were very tall – or had I inexplicably shrunk in a hot-wash over night?).

Off we went. A take-off roll that felt like it took up half the 12 hours and we were airborn, oh not before being given hot cloth towels and menu’s and amenity kits. This aint no cheap meat flight.

Look, I won’t go on about the flight, suffice to say the last time I was on an SQ A380 I was up front, but there was nothing to complain about with this flight. Constantly brilliant service, great technology and I had 2 seasons of Family Guy on my ipod and Lunesta, so time flew (thankfully).

Arrival!

The Norma Desmond of Blogging.

OK. So I’m having a come-back. I can’t help it. So much is happening that I feel I need the comfort blanket of my blog. Someone to talk to who won’t answer back, and somewhere to capture what has become one of the most exhilarating weeks of my life.

Now, those of you who know (which seems to be an omni-present statement around this joint) will know that Barack and me have the same goals. No, not to shake hands with the world’s worst Bush (and that includes Naomi’s) next week, but for change. Change that I can believe in.

So here I am in Singapore. The EntrePot of the East, the diverse throbbing hub of the Orient. And my home for ten days.

It was late on Thursday night last week when Ratchat and I faced the fact that if there was to be change I needed to make it happen. And I needed to book a flight. Clearly the former was an easy decision, the latter led me to spending a good 18 hours online (expedia, expertflyer, ITA, Kayak and my other regular travel tools) to find the perfect flight.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered I could fly via London the next evening for about the same cost as the GDP of Zimbabwe (ie. not a lot) and  a ticket was booked.

So I’ll break the story down into days, I believe we call that ‘a diary’ of events and as I’m loathed to long stories, I’ll cut my career driven cake into easy to eat slices.

We’re off! 24 hours of travel beckons as I step gingerly (did I tell you I’m ginger) into my Dial 7 taxi on an ice-cold New York evening, Singapore bound!

Not much of a cliff hanger there – so here’s another one…

Live from 28a

I’m on board Virgin Atlantic flight 46 to London Heathrow, it takes off in 35 minutes. Well, when I say take off I mean  trundle down to join the queue to depart – if you know New York you’ll know that getting any flight out of here to take off within  90 minutes of its departure time of an evening is about as likely as getting a mortgage right now.

What makes this moment quite good is that I’m typing this on a brand spanking new Asus EE PC 901, using a cellular card thingy to be on the interweb. A few moments ago, over a shrimp salad I engaged in a video conversation with a clever clever man. And it all worked very well indeed.

What makes this remarkable is that I was completely convinced I’d need the new aluminium MacBook – but I’ve ended up spending 1/3 of the money for something infinitely more ‘right’ for who I am and what I do. Namely someone who writes a lot, surfs a lot and travels alot.

This little powerhorse makes me want to review it like Jeremy Clarkson would talk up a BMW (would he? I have  no bloody idea).

It’s fast, shiny and beautiful, much like this 747 I’m sitting on right now.

Is this allowed?

Is this allowed?, originally uploaded by J L Sanchez.

 

Hong Kong.

Hong Kong., originally uploaded by J L Sanchez.

Tanned or what? Speeding on 2 double expresso’s and toying with an
electrical purchase.

This lounge (The Pier) is actually brilliant. Table service, silver service, linens, laptops and the care you only get from an airline like Cathay.

Explanation coming.

Explanation coming., originally uploaded by J L Sanchez.

This is what you do when you have nothing to do. That nose is made from a chunk of pure white sugar-y vomit. By that I mean white chocolate Toblerone.

 

Cindy is kicking it.

Cindy is kicking it., originally uploaded by J L Sanchez.

 

Found: the perfect Balinese martini.

It’s been somewhat of an adventure in taste; Cindy Gallop’s desperate attempts to locate a martini just dry enough, with just the right twist, at the right temperature and served promptly.

 

At the Damai we had martinis the same size as an Optrex eyebath with olives. Not good.

At Ku De Ta we had martinis that were initially served with lime, and then remade with lemon. Good size. Too wet.

At the lobby at the Bali Hyatt we had martinis served with olives when we asked for lemon. Too warm, not right.

And last night, at the Salsa bar – overlooking the ocean and resort – a bar SO exclusive that we had failed to find it – and clearly as had the rest of the hotel given it’s rattling emptiness.

However, even though when I said twist of lemon they said lime, I said lemon, they said lime – when they arrived they were, as oat expert Goldilocks would say ‘just right’.

I never thought a part of the upside of the iMedia Asia conference would be to become a martini afficionado – but QED.

When the conference lost it a bit.

Was when the host (who’d flown over from America actually) opened the conference with a stunning 10 minute monologue that should have been entitled ‘What to say to people who’ve experienced 2 terrorist attacks in their small island in the past 5 years alone to ensure they are shocked, stunned and speechless by your lack of decency, intellect and courtesy’. 

I think using the phrase ‘there are a lot of terrorists in this region’ is a sure fire winner isn’t it?

And then discussing how your small company came together to hold a meeting about media buying at the time (actually ‘a few weeks later’ as later disclosed) to demonstrate the passion of the company.

 

Wow. The host MUST have been on something; a course in public speaking most certainly not.

R.I.P Kindle.

I suppose where the Kindle falls down is that if you accidentally turn your airline seat into a bed and forget to remove said Kindle from behind the seat, it’s destroyed; unlike a book which is mostly just pressed together.
R.I.P Kindle., originally uploaded by J L Sanchez.

 

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!

Please buy my new album.

I’ve decided to release a new album. I’m expecting that amongst business travellers and ‘Americans Of A Nervous Disposition When Travelling’ it might go down well.

I’m not giving it to the iTunes store until Mr. Jobs reinstates ‘Pull My Finger’ as an iPhone app – but it will be available on Apple records in the bargain bucket at Woolworths.

It’s 10 amazing tracks inspired by and from the hit travellers’ TV channel CNN. Imagine being whisked away to sleep by the ‘hour close and tease’ tune, or being awoken by the ‘breaking news sting’.  And what better way to shower than to the iconic ‘World Weather Temperature Highs’ music bed. I’m telling you – this puppy is going to fly.

As I sit drafting this piece of poorly constructed life narrative, it’s on in the room. Only CNN can make me want to watch the world’s sports round up. I’m fascinated by the weather in Taipei – and indeed I know now that I shouldn’t fly out of Manila right now as there are delays of up to 30 minutes – really? Try Heathrow of a Monday morning.

I was going to put Anderson Cooper on the cover, but that’s a bit gay. Instead I’m going to have Richard Quest. Yes, much more sensible and respected. I hear he likes to ‘explore local cultures’ during his travels – so he’s perfect isn’t he?

Innovation Innovation Innovation

I’m so SICK of that word. Why can’t people just say ‘let’s have some new ideas’ or ‘let’s do something different’. I’ve spent 2 days with people who use it so incessently it makes me want to innovate their heads off. I know the intent is good but it’s the hallmark of our industry to continually find new phrases for old processes.

Look at James Webb Young, and his ‘Technique for Producing Ideas’ – a technique first described to students in 1939 and then published in 1965, but a technique so right, so timeless that it’s been constantly rebranded and renamed. Fundamentally he says, immerse yourself in the product/brand, look at the new, look at the old, take a break, ideas will come. Nurture them.

Could there be anything more right for ‘innovation’ than this process that’s some 70 years old? Do we have to keep topping our marketing salads with balsamic and techno wank dressing?

Here in Saudi Arabia innovation is happening for the first time, it’s incredibly exciting – and because the marketing community here is still developing, learning and growing it’s brilliantly empty of self-serving phrases, rhetoric and pompous techniques. They just want some new stuff that’s great. Works for me.

What’s a little more difficult is the dinner time here. 10.30pm. Let me share something with you, I’ve been secretly taking salad in my room – that’s not a euphemism – more an act of selfless indulgence whilst my new colleagues from this remarkable land pray and break fast.

As many of my friends (and family) knows, I’m prone to return from anywhere the first time and demand that I move there immediately. Not so with Saudi Arabia, I’m more excited about coming back, time and time again, and helping in some way to grow their expertise without the colonial implanting of talent which has no local knowledge or respect.

What these people lack in brilliance in advertising (and the fetid language that involves) they make up for by being remarkable business men and quite inspiring leaders.

Now, off for 21 pounds of prime steak. Zantac at the ready.

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)

How not to behave/the art of bad travel.

Now, as you might know, I’m a ’seasoned traveller’. What this means is I know what I need and what I like when I travel and I’m very specific about it. If I don’t get it, I’ll make sure someone in charge knows, and I’ll be firm and fair in requesting that it be corrected. Often Ben won’t unpack in hotels until he knows I’m ok (see the Gansevoort South review here and just posted on tripadvisor) and its even worse on flights.

 

I’ve taken about 20 longhaul roudtrips this year, across the globe and it’s been hard work so I’m more tense than usual; let me share a few examples with you.

 

1) I flew into London on BA arriving Monday morning from Miami, and it was a great flight from a service perspective. However I relocated downstairs from my favourite seat at 64k  after I’d gone a bit shouty-crackers at a family on the upper deck who thought it was perfectly reasonable for their heft of a daughter to practice her Miley Virus moves in the aisle.

I’m good with kids, and it was her little donut eating angelic face that annoyed me, it was the way her swarthy Spanish father threatened the cabin crew that did it for me.

Of course, I excused the crew (it’s not their fault) but then of course had to sigh and roll my eyes to demonstrate my frustration.

 

2). Do you think it would even be possible that at Terminal 4 Heathrow there is not one place to buy a pair of shoes for men? Not ONE place. The Bally has closed and is being replaced by a sausage shop, Zegna used to but don’t now. I PRESUMED that as T4 was a big terminal there would be a shop to sell footwear to accompany the vast retail choices in fashion.

 

No. There isn’t. So, with 70 minutes till my flight to Dubai closing I set off to discover the terminal transfer options. Not good. Buses and enough x-ray’s to deform children. I made it to Bally at Terminal 3, and the shop-boy spent one hundredth of a second too long not looking at me (the bastard was probably blinking) so I exacted my revenge by strolling straight into Gucci opposite and scornfully and rapidly ‘Don’t even box them’ purchasing a substantially priced pair of shoes.

 

On return through the x-ray hell, Jesus had seen to it that I arrived at Terminal 4 precisely one second AFTER a seemingly full jumbo jet from somewhere like Prestwick, or, heaven forbid, Oban had unturfed 300 15 year old girls on their way to Lourdes all with lipbalms (or probably lipgloss) left irritatingly in their carry on and therefore meaning it took 12 lunar years to get back through. I walked straight onto the plane, doors closed and off to sleep.

 

3) On return from Dubai, some 16 hours after arriving and near sheer exhaustion I check at the airport (as online check-in wouldn’t let me) to discover I’ve been given the second worst seat on the plane (after a loo). In the middle middle. Not good.

 

I get to the BA lounge and decide to not complain, but rather the show sadness, exhaustion and tears. Surprisingly I realise that I’m not acting, that I do feel all these things and as if they can help me. No, nothing they can do. I then say that I’d like to consider being offloaded (that means removing my checked bag) and put onto the 9am flight or refunded. This freaks them out. Clearly were I to do this I’d be stuck in Dubai without a pot to piss in, as it were. But I say it to vent my frustration. It doesn’t work.

 

Back to that pot to piss in. At the gate I’m sitting reading my Kindle when I look up to see a dark patch appear and spread on the Rohan style combats of a man of age. At first I’m shocked and stunned and a little disgusted. Then I’m angry that the man he is having an animated conversation with doesn’t help him. Anyway.

 

We start to board. My line isn’t moving and their calling business class passengers. It’s then that  I do something I’ve never done, ‘is anyone actually in business class and could I get through’ to which about 6 people start saying bad things to me to which I reply, to one prick in 80’s popstar style hat and glasses ‘yes, actually I have had a bad day’ and storm ahead, angry, humiliated and tired. Into my shit seat and guess what Jesus did for me? Put the hat/glasses cock right next to me.

 

So not a great experience.