BootsnAll Travel Network



A “sense of direction” reconnects me to travel writing

February 27th, 2008

After attending the 16th Annual Travel Writer’s Conference at Book Passage (bookstore) in Corte Madera, CA in August, 2007:

From the first time I stuck out my thumb at age 14 headed north on the Merritt Parkway out of New York City and found my way seamlessly, after numerous rides, to a teacher’s farmhouse in Northern Vermont, I held a cocky pride in my “great sense of direction.” It took 38 years and several circumnavigations of the globe to have this pretense shot to hell by a short drive from San Francisco International Airport (SFO) to Marin County.

 I was familiar with the Bay Area. In 1999 I spent a month at the Presidio taking a pretentiously titled course accredited by Goddard College: “Sustainable Ethical Enterprise Design.” Five years earlier I spent more than a year in Sonoma, just an hour’s drive north of the Golden Gate, managing a 200-acre conference center ranch where, under wide-limbed grandfather oaks, amid colorful organic gardens and in mission-style cottages, spiritual warriors and seekers came for a dose of enlightenment. So I thought I knew my way around when I arrived at SFO and rented a silver-colored PT Cruiser to drive to Book Passage in Corte Madera, on the north side of the Golden Gate Bridge, for a four-day Travel Writer’s Conference. No problem.

 I didn’t factor in that for the past six years I have lived in Santa Fe, New Mexico, a 400-year-old city of 70,000 people where sitting through two red lights constitutes a traffic jam and strangers still wave at one another as their cars narrowly pass on winding dirt roads. Even as a real estate broker whose job entails driving all over the county to show property to prospective buyers, I log less than 11,000 miles a year and my car’s computer read-out shows an average speed of 17 m.p.h. I live at a meandering speed, waking to the whooping of raven’s wings and falling asleep to the high-pitched yapping of coyotes in the juniper-dotted valley as they congregate for their nightly feast on a helpless jack rabbit or someone’s unfortunate kitty-cat.  

 After landing at SFO with a single rolling carry-on bag, I trudged a long corridor to a jostling tram, taking it five stops to the rental cars terminal, then an elevator up and a stairway down and another hike through the dark, low-ceilinged concrete garage, expecting “Deep Throat” to appear from behind a dirty pillar.

Once in my car zooming the freeway toward Corte Madera at 65 m.p.h., I realized I headed south toward Pacifica, not north toward the Golden Gate. I turned around at some overpass, sheepishly considering the adverse impact of the passage of birthdays and, more-philosophically, what is known and knowable, what needs to be learned or re-learned.

Disoriented in my new-found humility, and gripping the retro-styled steering wheel to maintain my place amid 5 lanes of bridge traffic, I made my way to the conference and into the company of some 125 travel writers and photographers.

 I may have lost confidence in my unerring sense of direction, but I gained it in reconnecting to the world of travel writing, a world from which I thought I had unwittingly disconnected two decades ago.

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More Packing & Traveling Tips

January 12th, 2008

Your clothing will need to be modified (from previous entry)according to season. For example, if warmer weather, I suggest sandals and bathing suit (if appropriate) instead of turtle neck, and jacket instead of overcoat. If in the thick of winter, I might suggest an additional polar fleece, gloves and a hat.  

 

Unlike dressing from home, where you may not want to be seen in the same outfit all the time, no one will know how many days you’ve worn essentially the same outfit. As long as it’s clean (and most everything I listed can be washed in the bathroom sink and dried overnight), you’ll feel good, and grateful you’re not schlepping extra stuff.

The lighter you can travel, the easier it is to get around and enjoy the trip. As travel guru Peter Greenwald says, “when it comes to the airlines, there are only two types of luggage: carry-on and lost.”  

 

Along the way you may buy a scarf at a local market, a piece of jewelry from a craftsman, a sweater because it’s cold, etc. Try to keep your purchases for self and others light and small. By having the foldable tote bag, you can always bring back souvenirs or extras in that and carry it on along with stuffing your messenger bag; then ship through your main carry-on wheeled luggage (expanded the 2-inches, if that’s an option).

You can also mail back any purchases, but I personally avoid buying stuff overseas because now, with the dollar being so valueless, you can buy almost any comparable thing in the states for less.

Digital photos can be your most precious gifts and memories. Get a large memory card so you don’t have to worry about downloading at a cybercafé to make room on the card.  

 

Do not bring a laptop (unless absolutely necessary) as cybercafés are almost everywhere and easy to use for checking email and staying in touch.

Your US cell phone will NOT work overseas unless it is tri-band or quad-band and specifically “unlocked” for a SIMMS card, which you can buy at local news stands and tobacconists. As far as I know, T-Mobile is the only service with both U.S. service with international capacity…although AT&T must have it too.

There are services online by which you can rent or buy an international phone, shipped to your home, and take it with you overseas. Most have toll-free numbers your family and friends can use to call you from the U.S., and plans for your charges to call the states and elsewhere. You will be given an international phone number. I found this method confusing to use and the mobile service sketchy. I would love to hear about other solutions!

Keep you passport, credit cards and cash in a safe place, and always know exactly where they are. I used to use a money belt and still, sometimes, use an around-the-neck cache, but depending on the place (Western Europe), I now just use my purse, with my wallet, journal and digital camera inside, and carry it diagonally across my chest, always zipped up. I try to leave my passport in a hotel safe or well hidden in a vacation rental.

My Eagle Creek purse comes with a side-net for carrying a water bottle, which I find indispensible.

Avoid fanny packs as they scream “tourist”.

Be aware of your surroundings. Be neither naive or paranoid. Stay organized, travel light and enjoy it all! 

 

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Two weeks, One Carry-On: What to Pack

January 12th, 2008

I was asked: “How do you travel to Europe for two weeks with one carry-on bag?” Here’s how I did it:

Use the largest carry-on permitted (I believe it is 24-inches). I used Eagle Creek Hovercraft, but any wheeled luggage will do. Attach Messenger bag (with purse inside that can lie flat diagonally across front of your body when carried by itself for sightseeing and daily use) to the wheeled bag’s handle and zip thru airports and cities as needed. This luggage can unzip to provide an extra 2-inches of loft for returning with purchases but, if you do that, it will have to be shipped-through, not carried on. 

* = wear on airline

Two pair pants:

v     Black Chico’s Traveler pants (light-weight, drape nicely, can wad up; never wrinkle) – bring black Danskin tights to wear underneath for warmth.* The only downside to these and many similar travel pants is they have no pockets. How can clothing companies manufacture “travel clothes” without pockets? Sheer idiocy.

v     Black jeans (simply hip, everyone wears them in Europe)

Shirts:

v     Black shelf-bra camisole (Chico’s Traveler)*

v     Black long-sleeve V-neck pull-over (Chico’s Traveler)

v     light wool turtle-neck pullover (lavender-colored)

v     Long-sleeved big shirt, button-down, with black background and many colors in a pattern (to wear over pants and goes with any lighter shirt)*

Outerwear:

v     Silk sweater, button-down, long enough to cover big shirt, has hood (olive-sage green)*

v     Overcoat (a lightweight black leather, mid-calf); TravelSmith has some great rain-proof or rain-resistant overcoats*

Shoes: Dansko clogs (any excellent walking shoe will work)*

Accessories:

v     wide fashion belt (woven black leather with large silver & gold buckle) to spruce up and compliment all outfits as needed

v     Pashmina wool/cashmere scarf in golds & greens to match all outfits (doubles as a shawl)*

v     Wristwatch, one pair of gold small-loop earrings, and the 2 rings and gold pendant I wear all the time*  

v     Folding umbrella

Underwear:

v     5 pair cotton panties (wear one pair)*

v     4 pair socks, 1 Danskin black tights (wear one pair socks)*

v     1 black bra (smooth cup, very comfortable)*

v     Long T-shirt for sleep shirt

Toiletries:

v     Nail clippers, emery board, blush, toothbrush, throat lozenges, brush picks (like floss), small flashlight, Band-aids 

v     All liquids must fit into a clear 1-quart Zip-Lock bag, less than 4 oz each:

                        Leave-in hair conditioner

                        Liquid make-up, mascara

                        Small tube toothpaste

                        Lipstick/gloss

                        Body lotion

                        Eye cream

                        Cologne Splash

                        Clear nail polish

                        Packets of hand sanitizer

                        (You can always buy shampoo and/or soap wherever you go if needed)

Messenger Bag & Shoulder Purse (Eagle Creek) placed within

            In Purse:

Hairbrush

Wallet

Passport & tickets

Itinerary

Pill case (Advil)

Lip gloss

Business cards

Sunglasses*

Regular Glasses

Digital Camera

Cell Phone (International)

Address Book

In Messenger Bag:

Travel Guides

                        Magazines

                        Journal & Pens

                        Book (paperback) to read

                        Foldable nylon tote bag

                        Snacks (energy bars, mints, etc.) For more tips, see next blog entry

 

                         

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Three months after France, the rental car

December 13th, 2007

In the pinky-blue sunrise of a crisp Santa Fe winter morning, I think back on five days in Paris and three days’ driving adventure around the west of France, soaking in images of rolling countryside, stopping in Giverny, Rouen, Honfleur, Mont Saint-Michel, Vouvry, Amboisie and returning to the insane traffic and confusion of navigating to Charles De Gaulle Airport, and how describing each rich and tasty encounter, each “aha” and delight, each “ya gotta laugh” moment is like trying to stuff a king-sized down comforter into a quart-size bag; it’s impossible but you compress a corner and keep pushing. 

I was in Spain for a week in November and I’m on my way today to ski Vail. I’ve researched, written and published articles, kept real estate deals moving forward, studied fractional ownership and website design, rearranged the house and spent time with friends. In the fast-forward mode, as the past rapidly receeds, the best I can do is make a brief recount, save the photos to disc and trust that someday the earth will spin slower and days will spread out before me with time to recollect, reflect and recount.

We left Paris on Friday morning in a rented Toyota minivan, but not without a story or two! I had made reservations online through Auto Europe/Hertz, for a 10 a.m. pick-up, and received a travel agent discount. Train stations seem to be the major pick-up/drop off points for rental cars in Paris. Not knowing how to best depart Paris for Giverny to the northwest, I randomly chose the Montparnasse station from a map because it was on the west side of the city. Not a bad choice. The taxi from our apartment on Rue du Seine dropped us at the Hertz office where a line of people snaked out the door and around half a block. Inside, there were two agents, taking an interminable amount of time with each reservation, an enormous amount of paperwork to fill out, questions to answer. This is crazy, we’ll be here all day!

My pushy New York self went into high gear and I “excuse-a-moi’ed” myself to the “gold club” reservation desk where one old gent kept up a lively conversation in French with the attendant as if there weren’t dozens of people waiting. I coughed, I made eye contact with the man behind the counter and finally, in desperation, I asked as nicely as possible, “Can you please help me?” Sure, he replied, folding the old gent’s papers into a folder and wishing him a good trip. He turned to me and began processing my reservation and within 10 minutes we were out the door, past the line of the terminally patient and looking for a car in some underground lot to which we were vaguely directed.

As there were several underground lots in that general direction, we wandered, schlepping our rolly bags behind us, frustration mounting. Finally we saw a small “Hertz” sign across the street, took an elevator down 4 floors and stumbled into the Hertz rental. Once in our minivan we followed the “sortie,” exit signs, powering out of the depths of the earth, descending, rising, going in tight circles until some 10 minutes later, exhausted from stress and carbon monoxide fumes, we emerged into the Paris streets and joined the stop-and-go traffic headed west to the Periferique (ring road) and the highway to Giverny.

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Our Paris Apartment

October 28th, 2007

Behind the massive royal-blue doors of #23 Rue de Seine, on the Left Bank, half a block from the Quai where the Pont des Art intersects the Louvre, hides a courtyard with an art restoration shop. Within this courtyard is a locked double-door into a 6-story building of apartments. Marie Noel (Merry Christmas) meets us with the ever-lilting two-tone doorbell-like intonation: “Bon jour!”

Marie Noel is our greeter who works for France Homestyle, the Seattle-based property management company through which I booked this apartment. There is an elevator that goes to the fifth floor and is rated for three people, but they’d have to be three stick figures. Like most Paris elevators, it can barely fit one within its accordion doors. Instead of people, we pile in our luggage, push the 5th floor button and walk up the five flights of marble steps adorned with Oriental red carpet runners that wind in a dizzying pattern past oval windows, past the elevator and up to the sixth floor.

Our apartment welcomes us with rich honey-colored wide-planked flooring, creaky with age and character, a wall-hanging coat tree with mirror, a small hallway to the right with a half bath sweetly scented by delicate lavender soap. At the end of the hall is a compact U-shaped kitchen. “It is small but has everything,” says Marie Noel, opening cabinets to show the colorful China, wine glasses and basic provisions. The window above the sink frames the gilded dome of the Institut de France, and I gasp at the closeness of its magnificence. “Qui,” says Marie-Noel with a nod, as if seeing a monumental dome out one’s kitchen window were a normal occurrence.

Back in the entry and straight ahead is the public space. A narrow wood stairway spirals down to the guest en suite and up to the master suite, but first, the room opens into the dining area, with French doors on to a small balcony overlooking the inner courtyard. In the center of the room is an imposingly elegant square wood table with 6 straight-backed upholstered seats. Against the wall a marble topped buffet sideboard of carved oak, with statues from the Far East in ivory and porcelain. Beyond there is the living area with sofas draped in white muslin and dappled with red-striped silk pillows, side tables stacked with picture books and billowy-shaded lamps, a blood-red wood coffee table with carved legs, perhaps from Indonesia, a large leafy plant and another French-door balcony. Mirrors, paintings and art nouveau sconces adorn the walls. There is a stereo system and telephone, which Marie Noel explains how to use. There is a bookcase full of interesting reads for which we will have no time. It is elegant and chic and all ours for the next five days!

Marie Noel next guides us down the creaky spiral which enters into a unexpectedly spacious room. To one side is an inviting queen-sized bed with draped canopy, a romantic nook. To another is a large desk backed by a wall of built-in cabinets, including a TV which she apologizes does not work but can be fixed. We assure her we do not care. There is a storage room with one of those marvelously absurd European washers, which take forever to cycle, and unvented dryers that go to a thousand degrees to fry but not dry one’s clothes. And there is a bathroom, more spacious than most Paris hotel rooms, tiled in small black and white octagons, featuring a giant claw-footed tub, and a sturdy deco-era lav, plus a toilet and bidet. We ooh and ahh, grateful that this flat more than compensates for the disappointment of the one in London.

Finally, we tromp up the spiral, past the main floor to the piece d’ resistance: the roof-top 3-sided glass room I’d seen in the website photos. The Eiffel Tower is straight ahead to the north, Sacre Couer gleams white on the eastern hillside, the towers of Notre Dame rise to the south, as do the spires of St. Germaine and St. Supice to the west. For the next 5 nights, on the king-size futon that fills this room, I will fall asleep to the gaudy light show on the Tour Eiffel and wake to the view of it over the Mansard rooftops of Paris.

This glass perch is so above-it-all that even sitting on the toilet one has a clear view of the Eiffel Tower. Who’d have thunk it?

But that’s not all. The glass room opens to a terrace and it is here, on folding cafe chairs around a large wrought-iron and glass table, that the four of us will share meals and laughs and stories and, most of all, create memories to cherish for the rest of our lives.

“It is OK then? You will be happy here?” asks Marie-Noel. Yes, we will be very happy here.

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The Chunnel: No Claustropobia Here!

October 20th, 2007

If you have never ridden the EuroStar train between London’s Waterloo Station and Paris’ Gare d’ Nord, you may, like many people, imagine it to be 2-3/4 hours in an ominously dark tunnel far beneath the cold rough seas of the English Channel; “claustrophobic” and downright unnerving.

But you’d be wrong. In fact, this sleek, comfortable high-speed train whizzes you through pastoral landscapes, ever so typically British on the one side, with red-brick row-house villages, and so tres French on the other, with white-plastered farm-houses dotting rolling fields. For a brief 20 minutes you are in the actual Channel Tunnel (Chunnel), and may not even realize it as the train car is brightly lit, the windows darkly-coated and the atmosphere often festive.  Before boarding, we buy gourmet snacks from the impressive, pricey and popular Mark’s & Spencer food store at Waterloo Station — ready-made salads, chicken wraps, sesame-coated nuts, chocolates and wine — and are ready for our lunchtime feast to enjoy while traveling through one of the greatest engineering feats of all time. Imagine, this $15 billion dollar tunnel, completed with unlikely cooperation between the British and French governments (who, you recall from history class, have been battling each other since…well, since before there were Celts and Gauls) is the first post-Ice Age link between Britain and the Continent. 

First, we show tickets (purchased online before leaving the states for 98USD each), are given a boarding pass with seat number, snake through a 10-minute line to security with typical airport-style X-ray machines and finally pass the French immigration booth where our Passports are stamped. Welcome to France. And we hadn’t left London yet! The main waiting room is boring — an insufficient number of attached orange and blue molded plastic seats, a sterile coffee bar and a couple of kiosks offering you your last chance to buy a Paddington Bear or cardboard face mask of Prince Charles, or otherwise throw away your last precious Pounds Sterling before arriving in the land of the Euro. However, if you possess a first class ticket (for about four times the price), there are sumptuous lounges with broad leather chairs, big screen TVs, drapery-laden walls and hostesses to serve you drinks from the bar. We try to ingratiate ourselves but no way — hoi polloi must await the cattle call in the main area. An hour later the train is ready for boarding, the coach class hoards troop through glass doors, up flights of stairs and on to their assigned cars. The tight-rowed seats, two to a side, are comfortable and high-backed with pull-down trays, but the few facing one another are taken so we are unable to converse with our companions and, once underway, pass provisions back and forth over our heads. In the front of our car is a party of kilt-wearing Scotsmen en route to the Rugby Championships being held in Paris. Their boisterous brogue is indecipherable but they are clearing having a good time and are not yet drunk enough to be totally obnoxious(as we later see some of their countrymen at the Eiffel Tower). Time passes quickly with charming countryside to observe, good food and drink, a bit of reading and map study, some shut-eye, and soon we’re in the industrial outskirts of Paris. 

As the train pulls into Gare d’ Nord, one of the Scotsmen sweetly plays the entire Marseilles on a high-pitched but pleasantly melodic recorder. People stand in their tight rows and smile. When he is done, we all clap and many shout, “Viva la France!” just like in the movie Casablanca. It’s great to be back in Paris, and a marvelously convenient way to arrive!  

 

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London in summation

October 9th, 2007

OK, so our London adventure was not seamless. One could say it was disasterous, but I would not. Humor forbids it. But the trip did improve in every respect, and that’s what I remembered after it was over, when I began this blog sequence.

Yet London was full of laughs and delights — the live-like plague-rat puppet purchased from The Globe gift store, which Jan used to torment her younger brother into fits of laughter; The absurd justification by the owner of our expensive Kensington flat as to why he didn’t provide soap or shampoo; The British Museum’s Rosetta Stone and the Elgin Marbles (pilaged from Greece and still controversial); Discovering architect John Soan’s surprising house/museum; The view from the Tate Modern’s restaurant, where we walked in without a reservation, just before it opened at 6pm, and were seated at the window; Westminster Abbey after it was closed to the public; and, most especially, the company of friends:

Di and Andre are an artistic English couple living in Wales who, in 1992, took a shower at our mountain home west of Denver (since the distant relative they were visiting had no running water) and drove the three hours from their hilltop farm to spend the evening with us in London. “It was the least we could do,” they said.

Jonathan, a man I met via the internet only a few months before while attempting to rent a flat in Paris — of which he has a gorgeous one in the Marais but it was not available for our dates — drove from the northeast side of London to meet us for a drink at a Kensington pub on our last evening.

Ben, a friend-of-a-friend who came through Santa Fe three years ago and stayed at our home, guided us with brilliant narrative through Soho, Trafalgar Square, St. James and Green Parks on a Friday night, after pints and great Indian food. Then, he spent Sunday afternoon with us wandering Southwalk amid street performers, big bronze statues and riding “The Eye,” a bird’s eye view of the sprawl of London.

To have better appreciated the history and architecture, we would have needed more time, more guidance and a more-comfortable bed. Four days, including two in the daze of jet lag, is not enough. For people traveling to London (or any major city you do not know) for just a few days, I recommend a tour — it’s more cost effective and less stressful than my do-it-yourself approach.

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Love’s Labour’s Lost and Found

October 3rd, 2007

The Globe Theatre, on the south bank of the murky Thames River in London, is an impressively exact replica of the theatre built in 1599, in which the plays of Shakespeare, himself a part owner, were performed. It is so authentic that to spend 3-1/2 hours sitting on a straight-backed wooden bench, cobbled together for tiny people, is to appreciate the novelty of live theatre for “the masses,” the durabilty of the Bard’s legacy, and how literally “hard-up” they were for entertainment.

I would not have dreamed-up spending the pounds sterling and the time to attend a performance here but, for my sister-in-law, Jan, who has spent 15 years adapting Shakespeare for children’s theater in New Hampshire, this is a pilgrimage to sacred ground and, as she bought the tickets, I go along willingly and ignorantly, hoping to fall in love, as she has, with William. I am determined to enjoy every moment. The original Globe Theatre was built in Shoreditch by James Burbage, father of impresario Richard Burbage, in 1576, but when his 20-year lease expired the building was moved timber by timber and rebuilt near the current site on the very dodgy side of the river. Destroyed by fire in 1613 and soon rebuilt, banned in 1642 by that happy-go-lucky lot, the Puritans, and finally demolished to make room for tenements 1644, it took the persistent vision of American actor-director Sam Wanamaker to shepherd the historically-accurate reconstruction of the first thatched-roof building permitted in London since the Great Fire in 1666. Sadly, Wanamaker died months before its completion in 1997.  

The theatre is built in the round (thus the name Globe) with three steep tiers of wooden benches and a stage that projects into a circular yard open to the sky. Every performance throughout the May to October season is played to a packed house and 700 hearty souls, seeking the authentic 17th-century peasant experience, stand for hours, rain or shine, with necks craned upward toward the stage. These “groundlings” pay five pounds for this, a chiropractor’s delight, and risk recrimination by somber theatre matrons should they violate the “no sitting or leaning” rule. We are lucky to have our straight-backed seats — be careful not to kick the poor sot in front of you — but even the gratis cushion issued upon entry is not enough to stem the mind-and-body-numbing ache of a corny 400-year-old sitcom full of archaic political commentary espoused through muffled vocalizations. 

You see, true to the past, there are no microphones, so you only get the words that are thrown in your direction. Straining to hear adds to the tiresomeness of 210 minutes of physical discomfort. Although there are no mics, electric lights, sprinklers to protect against fire and a maximum capacity of 1,300 per show — compared with 3,000 in Shakespeare’s time — are concessions to modern safety. In the drowsy muffled darkness, my mind drifts to the image of 3,000 filthy, stinking, plague-ridden men and women, drunk on grog and out for an afternoon of bawdy theatre. I dose and wake abruptly as the woman in front, whose back I’ve been kicking, grabs my foot. So Sorry! I stand to stretch in the back row. A matron appears: what are you doing? I shrug, trying to stay awake. The minutes stretch like silly putty and I berate myself for being the only Philistine who is bored to tears. I don’t want Jan to suspect that I am having less than an incredible time. 

Suddenly, Jan’s husband Richard, an avid Shakespeare fan, makes a hasty retreat down the winding stairs. I assume he has to find a loo. But he does not return and some 20 minutes later, when the play mercifully ends, we find him in the courtyard. “I couldn’t take it any more!” he exclaims, almost giddy. “That was the longest three hours of my life!” Jan corrects him, “Three and a half.” Even she concedes it was painfully long and apologizes for our suffering. We all have a good laugh, glad we experienced The Globe, and glad it is over.  With the lanterns along Southwalk casting a romantic glow upon the quiet Thames, we walk across the artistically-stretched steel of the Millennium Bridge, use our international cell phones to check in at home, and head back to our cushy, plague-free 21st century reality. 

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La-Z-Boys for Everyone!

September 24th, 2007

I paid for an upgrade with United Economy Plus guaranteeing “up to five extra inches of legroom.” That’s nearly $70 an inch, if indeed you get a whole five inches. It makes a difference if your legs extend beyond your knees. We got the bulkhead seats, just behind business class, and our magnanimous legroom must have been 24-inches extra, reducing the per inch cost to $14.50. A bargain.

But while the leg room is “sufficient for seating,” (in airline jargon), the seats are so narrow, there’s is no where, no way, no how to turn. On bulkhead seats, arm rests do not rise, backs do not recline more than a few inches and there is no way to enjoy those many extra legroom inches. Why are not all seats on long-haul flights like those in business class? Those La-Z-Boy recliners, where the leg supports rise elegantly with the touch of a lever, look mighty good.

La-Z-Boys were invented in the 1920’s in Monroe, Michigan by two cousins who designed a chair for “nature’s way of relaxing.” Before incorporating in 1929, the cousins, Edward and Edwin, considered such names as Sit-n-Snooze, Slack Back and Comfort Carrier before settling on La-Z-Boy and becoming one of the most-marketed names in American furnishings. An irresistably arcane fact from the corporate website: actor Jim Backus and his alias Mr. Magoo made more than 15,000 TV commercials for La-Z-Boy, earning a spot in the Guiness Book of World Records.

A black mesh curtain is all that separates me from the coveted wide-seated, leg-supported comfort of a recliner; something everyone’s grandma has in her living room. That, and double the miles or dollars. Why the class separation for such a basic human need as a comfortable seat when hurdling through space and time?

Since everyone on a plane pays a different amount (that’s a fact) — and many, like me, are trading rewards for dollars spent on other goods and services for my seat — might it not make sense to upgrade every seat to a recliner, figure out the real (OK, subsidized) cost of each seat per flight and charge that? It might cost somewhere between coach and business, and everyone would have a healthier, more enjoyable experience.

In lieu of re-fitting whole planes, the airlines could at least ingratiate themselves to a few by having a drawing on each flight to give away business and first-class seats to lucky coach customers. But then, the flyer who has paid a lot for his superior position would resent some schlump being given a seat beside his. It could be more offensive than affordable housing!

This is the kind of thing I think about as giant engines drone on, shades are drawn against an inevitable sunrise, TV-dinner has been served, $5 paid for a glass of mediocre wine, three bad movies have been endured, and two burly men across the aisle keep track of their bets as they play cards all night under miniature stadium lights which keep me awake. Somewhere over Greenland, I cracked the shade and there, filling the entire northern sky, is the Big Dipper. I am flying into the night and the dawn of meaning.

And I am sitting on a puny airline-issue pillow to protect my butt from the steel bar in my economy-plus seat. Only a black mesh curtain separates me from comfort and sleep.

 

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An (almost) Seamless Trip: Our London Flat

September 24th, 2007

(please see setails and advise under “Note” throughout article)

Optimism dissipated immediately upon entering. The entire apartment was tiny — as in not-able-to-turn-around-without-hitting-something tiny, and shabby (not even shabby chic!). A living room, 2 side-by-side bedrooms, a bathroom, a kitchen and a patio with table and chairs. While the photos had not been a lie, they had been taken at such close range (which is all that there is) that we naturally assumed larger spaces surrounded each item.

Note: When renting, assume nothing! Have all your questions answered to your satisfaction.

The living room furniture — a dingy white loveseat and two squat chairs upholstered in gold velvet — shared the common theme of broken springs. The bathroom featured a tub with hand-held shower head and black mold growing in the corners, a small sink and a toilet scrunched against the wall, requiring side-saddle use. We had been left one roll of toilet paper. There was no soap, shampoo or any amenity. Cheap thin and stiff towels were drapped over radiators, no doubt left by the previous vacationers who, like us, had committed to a cleaning fee which was obviously never spent.

Each bedroom fit a queen-size bed with about six inches to spare on each of 3 sides. The linens were of charity shop quality. One bed felt like a futon atop a loose box spring, dense but do-able; the other was raw springs onto which one sank against the plywood box beneath. Jan and Rich, being good sports and not knowing what to expect, tried to insist they could sleep on it.  

The kitchen was adequate but, again, no basics — not even tea and sugar, the British mainstay! The small patio, perhaps the most-redeeming aspect, was littered in dead leaves. I called the landlord who happened to be in London (he and his wife, who own and brilliantly market a number of London flats, live part time in the Bahamas) and began my litany of complaints. Their motto is “We offer more than a set of keys and a flat; we offer personal help and service to ensure your stay is a success.”

His response to my concerns: No one has ever complained about that bed before. (Wow, I guess only vampires slept on it). What if I provided toiletries and they weren’t to your liking? (What if I flew 5,000 miles and just wanted a shower with soap and shampoo?). Basic kitchen supplies like tea and sugar: Well you wouldn’t want to attract ants between visitors, would you? The leaves and dirt covering the patio must have just happened in the last heavy rains. And didn’t he advertise it as “self catering?”  (What was I thinking have such huge expectations?) He assured me that the couple who had last stayed there “just loved it!” Surely, there must be something wrong with me and my group of malcontents.

To his credit, he and his wife delivered that day a laughably-named “heavenly” mattress cover from another flat they own nearby, and covered the box spings so Jan and Richard had a dense, futon-like bed on which to attempt to sleep. [Sleep, we discovered later, was further challenged by the bedrooms facing Holland Road. The double-glazed windows and storm glass had to be closed to shut out the din, making it necessary to leave the door open for air, and no privacy…which was the whole point of getting a 2-bedroom flat.]

He also bought us one small bar of soap and a hotel-sized bottle of shampoo along with directions to the local supermarket “just a 5-minute walk.” It was more like 15 minutes and by this time we were exhausted, aggravated and I was angry at the shoddy surroundings for which I had pre-paid by wire 800-pounds ($1,600!) for 4 nights. If I had any means of recouping my money, I would have ven forfeited the deposit and moved us to a suitable hotel.

NOTE: DO NOT EVER pay for a vacation rental by wire. If they do not take credit cards, or payment in cash upon arrival, do not deal with them!

In all his literature, everything was just a few minute’s walk away. For example, Kensington High Street Tube, he claimed, was a few minutes; it was at least 20 at a brisk walk. The nearest tube station, Kensington Olympia, was touted as “a one minute walk” when, in fact, it was at least five. The owners verifiably skewed sense of time is as perverse as their skewed sense of quality and cleanliness. I believe they sincerely wanted our stay to be a success, but their values and ours were worlds apart and I cannot see how, even at London’s insane prices, this would be considered anything but a rip-off.

Did I mention that instructions at the flat cautioned that the scalding hot water quickly ran out, requiring a squat in the tub for a quick rinse?

Rather than let this miserable flat ruin our vacation, we decided to laugh. What the heck? We were in London and had planned too long and come too far to not enjoy ourselves. Fortunately, this accommodation was by far the worst of the entire trip. (Although we narrowly escaped another in Rouen, France, that would have beaten this).

(article continues in next entry)

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