An eventful, emotionally harrowing, and steaming first day in Bangkok. Explored in the oppressive heat, witnessed a group of men savagely beat a Red Shirt, and leave him unconscious and for dead in the street, later realized Liz and I almost (and unbeknownst to us until we just happened to read the guide a bit later), fell prety to the the famous Lucky Buddha scam, and an off-duty Hilton employee we know from the lounge brought us to a restaurant and ordered us dinner. A full story on the days’ events later – we’re now in the Thai Airways lounge awaiting our redeye to Shanghai, then connecting on to two days in Tokyo. The lounge has so many frolicking, screaming children, I feel as if I’m waiting for my flight in a Chuck E. Cheese.
Archive for the 'Trip Reports' Category
I’m back in action after a monthlong hiatus. More on my reflective time in a bit. I’m really glad to be back writing again, after stepping back from the scene for a bit.
But . . . I wanted to begin my return with an update to Part II of my 24 hours in Erbil, Iraq trip report. I decided I’d rather add a bit each day than leave the writing completely for long stretches. I’ve added as much as possible today, before leaving work, and heading to MCAT class. I’ll add a bit more tomorrow, and slowly, and actually surely, we’ll finish up this sucker (especially, because in just a few short weeks, there will be another trip report due!)
I’ve added full disclaimers/rationale/instructions for reading the new section within the original post. Click here to be magically transported to the report.
Ah, yes – there is much to discuss – my trip to Tokyo in January, some views on the industry, and a new spring break trip back to Tokyo, and onto Thailand, using Aeroplan miles! (At least, in theory).
Welcome back, and welcome new readers. Of course, you can reach me at waapblog@gmail.com, or follow me on Twitter, for more updates.
Thanks for coming back, or just stopping by, dear readers.
Part 1: New York LaGuardia (LGA) to Washington National on US Airways
Part 2: Washington Dulles (IAD) to Frankfurt (FRA) on United
Part 3: FRA – Vienna (VIE) – Skopje (SKP) on Austrian
Part 4: Arrival in Skopje, and Day 1 in Skopje
Part 7: Daytrip to Pristina, Kosovo
Part 8: SKP – Zagreb (ZAG) – VIE on Croatian Airlines
Part 9: VIE – Erbil, Iraq (EBL) on Austrian
Part 11: EBL – VIE on Austrian
Part 12: Hilton Vienna Stadtpark
Part 13: VIE – Zurich (ZRH) – JFK on Swiss International Air Lines
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Update, 03/01/10 (More Added!):
I’ve added some of the second segment of the Erbil, Iraq section of the trip report, within the original post. If you have already read Part I of this original post, simply scroll down to the (hopefully) clearly-labeled beginning of Part II! Thanks for reading.
(Part II encompasses the remainder of my first day in Erbil (in a somewhat piecewise fashion). Part III will run down my day exploring the city, and the fun/danger of returning to the airport in a sandstorm).
* * * * * * * *
(N.B.: I realized this section is so damn long/and there existed life time constraints and did not want to overwhelm readers and force them to drop off because of something of Tolstoyan proportions. I am, therefore, dividing this section into the first day/night, and the second day. I hope breaking the the report makes it just a touch easier to read).
Part 10, Part I (For Now)
One thing’s for sure: they don’t lie about the heat here.
As I descended the airstairs from the Austrian Airlines Airbus A320 to the apron, the heat clamped down like a shop vice, in almost buffeting, billowing waves of sheer thermal energy, almost certainly overwhelming my synapses that had never felt such a heat before. I almost expected the rubber soles of my shoes to melt as they hit they baked concrete, and I would leave a trail of rubbery footprints as I tugged my suitcase to the entrance to the terminal. The heat, combined with the austere look of the sand-colored landscape, the piercing whine of the airplane’s auxiliary power unit, and the fact that I found myself in a country with absolutely no plans, and no idea where to go, crescendoed to an intense sensory experience.
Finally on the ground.
I walked towards the terminal, where a doctor in scrubs with a stethoscope slung around his neck, silently twisted my Boston Red Sox cap from my head (remember – I really liked the logo of this particular Sox cap! I’m in no way wearing the cap because I am a Sox fan, or a huge tool, like 95% of the people who wear Red Sox caps), and pressed a thermal strip thermometer to my forehead, ostensibly to assess whether I had a fever. With the heat of a kiln outside, though, I’m not really sure how he could’ve taken an accurate reading. Nevertheless, I was apparently temperate enough to pass the health inspection, and I continued to passport control, through a much cooler, boxy, slightly utilitarian terminal building with slick floors, more reminiscent of a neighborhood rec center than an arrivals hall.
Passport control proceeded uneventfully, almost anticlimactically, for the last step before my official foray into Iraq. An immigration officer, a woman, I was intrigued to note, silently scanned by passport, and stamped it with a red admonishment that I must register my address and obtain a visa within ten days, and then, stamped it with the official “Republic of Iraq” stamp, a long, elegant, rectangular stamp that I was pleased to note occupied two entire boxes on a passport page. I stopped to admire the stamp, and made sure to let the ink dry (I can’t tell you how many passport stamps I’ve marred because I’ve snapped my passport closed before the stamp has fully dried) . I felt as if I had accomplished something already, simply by having an Iraq stamp in my American passport.
And then, I stepped out of immigration, into the official arrivals hall, suddenly confronted with the immediate reality that I had cleared a health inspection, cleared immigration, and now, found myself, actually, in the country, free from constraints of airport security, and, well, free from someone guiding me, and telling me where to stand, and which line to occupy. As I had many times before on this larger trip, replete with lack of preparation, I found myself standing, autonomous, forced to make a move.
Actually, for this part of the trip, I had planned significantly more than I had Skopje or Kosovo – by which I mean, I had read a blog post from ultra-hip-and-high-on-life writer/blogger/subversive Chris Guillebeau (who, incidentally I might add, once followed me on Twitter, I was quite pleased to note, but, then sadly stopped, probably because my posts didn’t always sound as if they are written by someone on a constant IV drip of MDMA) about his 48 hours in Erbil, from where I learned of a hotel at which to stay, and perhaps more importantly, after the debacle taxi ride from the airport in Skopje, the name of the taxi company that would ferry me from the airport to the main part of the city.
The arrivals hall at Erbil is quite small, with a few advertisements on the walls, an unoccupied tourist information booth, a rather sorry-looking snack bar, and a few benches. I spotted an advertisement for the one taxi company from the airport, “Hello Taxi!” This time, I was certainly prepared to pay the 25 bucks it would cost to take me from the airport to the city, except I had no cash in my wallet. A perpetual bad habit of mine is not to carry cash, because I spend it relentlessly. Instead, I rely on plastic, which gives the impression/illusion/false perception that my spending is more controlled. If I need cash, I reckon, I can always find someplace to use my ATM card and obtain cash back, or find an ATM machine. Perhaps it was my American ethnocentrism, but, I assumed with today’s almost universal connectivity, that I would certainly find an ATM machine in the arrivals hall of the airport. That dream ended quickly.
I was almost immediately approached by an enthusiastic guy from Hello Taxi! asking me if I need a ride into the city, and to where. Another ethnocentric fault that sometimes ethnocentric fault that sometimes plagues me – I assume that everyone in a foreign city knows the location of everything within their city, quite a stupid assumption, I know, because I often realize in San Francisco, I can barely communicate to people names of streets and routes because, I, myself, do not know names of all the streets, and instead, know routes by sight. After telling the driver I wanted to head to the Hotel Shahan (another Chris Guillibeau recommendation!), he really seemed as if he had no idea where to find it. I whipped out my laptop to show him a copy of the image of the hotel I had found on another website, and after conferring with some other taxi drivers, seemed to know where to go. A larger problem, however, loomed prominently – my lack of cash. Apparently, another guy translated, the driver would not take me into the city without seeing the money first.
“Okay,” I responded. “Are you willing to take me to an ATM” – then, I remember that ATM is a distinctly American term and I must be clearer – “a machine to get money? I’ll most certainly pay you in town – I just don’t have any money on me now.”
The drivers conferred for a moment.
“No,” one said. “He is concerned that that machine will not be working, and that he will have to pay the owner of the company out of his own pocket.”
I try once more – saying, I really, really promise to pay the money, but my attempt is refused, to which a burly Australian man in sunglasses and a Hawaiian shirt, standing with a cellphone took an amused noticed.
“Who are you with?” he asks, a question I would hear about a million more times over the next 24 hours. Everyone assumes visitors to Erbil work for a military contractor, or for the UN.
“Oh, I’m not with anyone,” I reply sheepishly. “I’m just here for tourism. I thought it’d be a cool place to check out.”
“You just came here,” he replies, leaning coolly on a table next to the exit.
“No, I’m on a larger trip through Eastern Europe, and thought I’d pop of to Iraq.” Yup, I thought, just like that – I’m just a casual traveler who decides to head to Iraq.
“How long do you have here,” the man asks.
“24 hours,” I reply.
He shakes his head. “That’s too bad. I think about three days would’ve been perfect. Where are you trying to go?”
I tell him that with no ATM, the taxi company didn’t want to risk taking me into town, and that I needed to head to the Hotel Shahan.
He doesn’t seem to know the hotel either, but a guy standing next to him, a shorter, bearded Iraqi guy, after repeating the name to himself a few times, said he knew where it was.
The Australian guy was still clearly amused. “You should always have a bit of cash on you,” he chides nonchalantly.
“I know, I know,” I say contritely. “I should’ve gotten some before leaving Vienna.”
“By the way,” the Australian guy asks, “Did you happen to see three African guys on the plane?”
Actually, I had, boarding in Vienna, but told them that they may have left already.
“Hmmm,” the guy says. “Those are who I”m waiting for.” In the midst of our entire conversation, the man kept checking with the Iraqi guy next to him, who I found out was the driver, discussing, in seemingly cryptic language, pick-ups, drop-offs, which vehicle would rendezvous where, and most scintillatingly, where the dogs were. I found myself utterly mystified by the conversation, wondering who the hell were these guys, and just for whom were they waiting at the airport.
I stepped outside for a moment, into the pounding heat, just to see if there were any other taxi options, or shuttle options, outside. From Chris’ blog post, I knew no other taxi company in Erbil, for some reason, could legally drive up to the airport, and thought I might find a larger taxi stand, or some sort of shuttle away from the exit to the arrivals hall. Nothing. Nothing at all. At that point, I considered trying to walk into town, or, well, perhaps, spending the next 24 hours camped at the airport. I re-entered the arrivals hall, and, well, stood around, wondering what the hell I should I do.
The two guys were still standing around the table by the exit. I decided to try my last possible option. “Could I pay you guys to take me into town?” I ask, essentially using the line, once again, that I promise I will head to an ATM and pull money. The burly Australian man, still waiting for the African guys, tells me to hang tight for a moment, and that they should be able to accommodate me. I take a seat on the bench, and wait, still wondering just who these guys are, and what they are doing.
Eventually, three tall, lanky African guys appear from immigration. I stand up an head back over to the table, where I find myself whisked into a world of cryptic language, jargon, and codewords, as if I am missing some much larger message. The Australian man is looking at papers, asking when the dogs should arrive, and seemingly coordinating some sort of lodging situation. He also tells his driver to pick up one SUV, and for the driver to tell another driver to bring another vehicle around the front of the airport. Then, still confused, the three African men, and I, all have a seat on the benches. “We’re going to take you,” the Australian man says, and introduces himself to me as Shane, and his driver as Ali. “If you don’t mind running a few stops.” Sure, I think, besides the fact that I have absolutely no idea what is going on, with the dropoffs, and the dogs, and that I am about to jump into an SUV with people I don’t know at all, I found myself extremely excited. The danger/adventure seeking traveler loved the idea of jumping into a random SUV in Iraq for a ride, and the unprepared/previously-shit-outta-luck traveler loved the idea that I had secured a ride into the city!
We waited for a bit longer, and finally, Shane motions for us to head out. I step into the heat towards a white Toyota Land Cruiser. Ali and Shane head to the front, and one of the African guys sits in the back. Shane tells me to toss my suitcase in the back, apologizing for the smell of diesel, saying he had spilled some in the back a few days ago. Not a problem, at all. Heading into a random SUV, with random folks, about to drive through the streets of Iraq, with a vehicle redolent of spilled diesel, welled my excitement even more, and made me think that I was, just perhaps, the most hardcore individual on the planet, and away from the cushy world of elite status, reserved lines, and hotel loyalty programs, doing perhaps the most badass thing anyone could ever do, if not, perhaps, the most stupid. I absolutely loved the moment. I couldn’t believe the absolute serendipity, the gravity of the situation, and its colossal momentousness. Situations like these, I thought, was the travel high I wanted to chase – away from comfort, protection, maps, and direction – simply relying on instinct, a bit of luck, and flexibility. Why the hell not?
With still more talk about where who would be staying where coming from the front, I finally asked Shane what exactly what the hell was going on, and what exactly he did. While I thought I may be heading out with a team of gun runners to make a delivery, with Shane about to hand me an M-16, asking me to cover him, and inquiring, “Do you know how to lay suppressive fire,” he was a security coordinator on an oil field in Northern Iraq, and managed the hiring, living arrangements, and coordination of security personnel on the oil field. He had been in Erbil for three years. The African guys were dog handlers, roaming the grounds with the bomb sniffing dogs to inspect vehicles entering the field. Now, we were on our way to the housing developments where the Africans would stay. With the uncloaked mystery, I still couldn’t believe how cool it was to be riding into town with an Iraqi security team.
After a short ride in the SUV out of the airport,and onto a dusty roadway, we stopped at a strip of staggeringly-western looking apartment buildings, and pulled into a small parking lot paved in fresh-looking asphalt, and surrounded by extremely precisely manicured grounds and hedges. These, Shane said, were the living quarters for the security workers on the oil field. He told me to leave my stuff in the car, and come on up for a look, if I wanted. The group rode an extremely modern elevator up to an extremely well-appointed apartment that appeared as if it had been transported from an Ikea catalog. Not exactly, I must say, what I had envisioned when landing in Iraq.
Welcome to Iraq! Western-style apartments.
While Shane and the others discussed various pieces of business, and finalized pickup times for the workers the next day, I asked the building manager if I might have a look around. The building manager gleefully responded by showing me around himself, clearly proud of the new development, modern furnishings, and louche appointments. He also offered me a beverage from a huge refrigerator several dozen times, and encouraged me to photograph everything, including the bathroom. I have to say – in a developing country, these buildings were much nicer than any apartment in which I have ever lived in the United States, especially my junior and senior year of college apartment in Berkeley, which featured a group of crack dealers living under our back stairs, a homeless woman who camped in our garage, several robberies, and whose architecture can best be described as bombed-out Motel 6. I would later find out that renting or owning one of these apartments contains prices that match the aesthetics – close to 5,000 bucks a month, rendering it all but impossible that any Iraqi, I was told, could rent such a place, and keeping them fully reserved for oil, defense, and security company business. I guess gentrification takes hold in the most unexpected of ways.
Well-done living room. Check out those hardwood floors!
Bedroom.
Simply beautiful kitchen, with the famous drinks refrigerator at the background.
We returned to the parking lot, where Shane, Ali, and I waited for Chris to arrive. Chris, as Shane explained, was another member of the security team, and tonight was his last night in Erbil, where he worked for three month stretches before returning home.
Chris was a slight, wiry, sandy-haired Brit dressed in quasi-camo with large Gilligan hat and sunglasses. I immediately found out he was a former SAS paratrooper, who now worked for three month stretches in Erbil, managing security on the oilfields. Based on his terse demeanor, and clipped phrasing, I’m guessing Chris saw a lot of action and probably killed a lot of people in his day. I would not mess with this guy at all – even with his slight stature. Chris, moreover, was the only person I have ever heard use the phrase, “I’m not at liberty to say” – and actually mean it – when I asked him about how many dog handlers patrolled the oil fields. Every time he mentioned a time for something, as well, such as the departure of his flight early that morning, he referred to the event with Zulu time, such as “I’ll be at the airport at oh-three-fifty.” His main advice to me: “I’d stay out of federal Iraqi territory, if I were you.” He then proudly recited that Kurdistan, in terms of terrorist attacks, statistically, was safer than Spain at the current time, a fact that, no doubt, I’m sure, his hardcore security measures helped bring to fruition. It was Chris’ last night in Erbil, where he would return home to the Canary Islands, where he went scuba diving, and said his ex-girlfriend watched and took care of his house while he’s away. “Oh, that’s nice!” I said in response. “Yeah, it’s a great arrangement,” he said wistfully. I thought about asking him whether he still got to sleep with her, but kept my mouth shut. Knowing Christ, upon hearing such a lascivious question, he’d have me in a sleeper hold within seconds, with a Ka-Bar poking into one of my carotid arteries.
Ali dropped Chris at his apartment. Before dropping Shane at his apartment, he and Ali gave me a quick tour of the area, which, again didn’t feel very Iraqi, mostly, because it was the predominantly Christian area, Shane said. Shane also pointed out a great expat bar/restaurant where, for 20 US dollars, you could drive racecars around a track. Normally, I cannot stand expat bars – usually filled with drunken, foul-mouthed Irish people, kids from Villanova for whom this particular study abroad program was the only one that had no language requirement and whose lax scholarly requirements provided an opportunity to drink nonstop, one creepy old Dutch guy with a turtleneck under his blazer, who tries to talk to much, much younger girls, and convince them he knows the location of a much superior party. For some reason, there is always one such drunk guy. But – with racecars, and being in Iraq, this expat bar intrigued me. We also stopped at a hotel, where Shane inquired at the price for a room for me. Upon hearing the response of 180 dollars per night, Shane narrowed his eyes, furrowing his bald pate in incredulous response, asking what on earth for what 180 bucks paid. “Wireless internet,” the suit-clad man at the front desk responded proudly. Shaking his head, Shane muttered, “too expensive,” and we left.
We then drove to Shane’s apartment in the Christian district, where he was picking up his car, to meet his wife, and later everyone would join for dinner. Shane said I could tour the building, but was not allowed inside, because of security purposes. He told Ali to make sure he gave me his cell phone number, in case of emergencies, told me to sit up front in the SUV, and pulled the seatbelt down for me, before bidding goodbye. I thanked him profusely – the man had, after all, saved me from camping in the bushes by the airport. One of the nicest people I have ever met – unassuming, casual, and in his mild amusement for my unprepared traveler predicament, strong in his efforts to make sure I had a ride, knew where I was going, and even that I had things to do in the evening.
It was then me and Ali, he piloting the manual transmission Toyota, and me, in the passenger seat, cruising the streets of Erbil, Iraq, just like I do every day. We began chatting, freely, easily, at first, about school. Like most everyone seems to be, I stunned Ali with the cost of my premedical program, and almost caused him to drive off the road when I told him the cost of an American medical school. In Iraq, university, and medical school, are mostly paid by the government, amounting to a cost of maybe 2,000 dollars a year. We soon stopped for gas.
As I stepped out of the Toyota into the fierce evening heat, I couldn’t tell if it was slightly ironic, or not, to be getting gas in Iraq – such a pressurized epicenter of oil controversy of the previous years. I couldn’t stifle my chuckle when I asked Ali where this particular gas came from. “Turkey,” he said. Mulling the irony soon disspated when I had a moment of existential simplicity – holy shit, I thought. I’m getting gas in Iraq. As I’ve mentioned in previous trip reports, while I love the siteseeing, museum going, and popular-route walking, I have a particular love for fitting into the everyday and quotidian. As I’ve said before, the richest and most profound travel experiences come from when I get to sample the everyday life of a citizen – where do I purchase my office supplies? A spark plug? An industrial-sized tin of cocktail sauce? Those experiences make me feel as if I am truly there, and not just some temporary itinerant with a passport and a hotel reservation. Now, I was purchasing gas (well, standing around while Ali fueled the car) in Iraq. Goodness gracious.
The rather unfortunately-named Khak gas station.
Now fueled, we returned to the car, and continued our conversation. Ali, only 26, had a degree in hotel management, and had before working for Shane’s security company, had a job translating for the US Army in Bagdhad. His parents still lived in Basra, which, he assured me, had become much safer since the outset of the war.
Ah, I knew we would most likely get to the war at some point. I told Ali that I was a senior in high school when the war began, and we, as students, had attended war protests and walkouts, and marched like a bunch of quasi-hippies up the main streets in San Francisco, waving peace signs, blocking cars, interrupting the flow of traffic, and evading walls of riot police. “Yes,” Ali said with an earnest smile. “I remember seeing all the protests in the United States on television.” Here, Ali said, Bagdhad was getting better in terms of safety, government, and infrastructure, but was still quite dangerous. To compound the issues, he said, Americans, once greeted as liberators, were no viewed as simply having an aimless direction for the country, as placing federal Iraqi territory into a state of stagnation, with little progress over the past years. Again, I had to confront myself with a moment of existential lucidity – I was now discussing a war, literally happening just a few hours down the road, with a lifelong inhabitant of the country.
There were, of course, constant reminders of just how close the war stood to our position:
One of many freeway signs I would photgraph for the route to Baghdad.
With just a few turns, one could be in Baghdad in four hours from Erbil. To me, that reality seemed truly eerie and simultaneously impossible – as if it simply couldn’t be true that I had parked myself in the north of a country whose south remained embroiled in battle, a battle I had only ever watched from 8,000 miles away, in the US, in the media. The roadsigns for Bagdhad almost seemed just pieces of phantasmagoric imagery.
The talk shifted to the perceptions of Erbil. Ali drove, pointing out the massive pockets of developments in the new, modern, western style apartments, reminding me that only security and defense personnel could ever afford such a place. Most people in Erbil, lived in modest apartments, with rent closer to 400 dollars a month, with decent chunk going towards utilities and internet, leaving little to save. ATMs, Ali said, as we drove towards one of the few machines in town, were just only starting to catch on as a viable method of currency storage and transfer. Most all transactions, still, Ali said, were conducted in cash.
And, sadly, we will end abruptly there for the night. My sincere apologies – have to do a ton more tonight to get ready for the next week of traveling, and then have to be up early for a busy day tomorrow. Stay tuned for the next sections.
Part II Begins Here!
We continued to speed towards another higher-end hotel, at which Ali said I could find a working ATM. With our already loose and easy conversation, I decided to raise the fact, a bit triumphantly, about how friends and family expressed skepticism at my desire to travel to Iraq, and worried even further at my insouciance with any ostensible safety concerns over traveling to Iraq. People warned me in a varitey of ways, from empassioned (if even a bit angry) text messages imploring me not to travel to Iraq, to Facebook messages advising me not to become decapitated. While I concede I had moments where I questioned my decision to travel to Iraq, not in a manner where I would actually considering canceling my trip, but simply shaking my head in a stunned fashion at the somewhat, uh, unorthodox travel decision. Overall, though, I admit I wasn’t too worried about safety – especially with Chris Guillibeau’s article I read shortly before departure on travel to more tumultuous countries. On Erbil, he said, and forgive me if I paraphrase just a touch, “No one will bother you, and you will be perfectly safe. ” It seemed, I told Ali, that people almost overreacted to my travel plans, and simply would not be consoled by the idea that I planned to visit the Kurdish region, and area not involved in the war since the first week.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “When people from the company visit, they want armed guards, and armored cars.” He shook is head. There existed absolutely no need for such alarm and caution, he said. Moreover, the Kurds are very proud of their country, president, and safety record, and just how little their region has been involved in the fighting. Erbil, as he mentioned before, is slowly growing with outside commerce, bussiness, and visitors to match the demeanor of its populace, with housing complexes, companies, and neighborhoods proliferating more highly than ever before in the past years. The country just hasn’t, however, really embraced the concept of the ATM. I was about to visit one ATM machine of about two in the entire city.
In the late afternoon light and elongated shadows, we pulled off a main road into quite-full parking lot of a glistening hotel, a sparkling piece of evidence of recent development. Its modern, if not too aesthetically pleasing, design reminded me of the Intercontinental Hotel in Tashkent, another recently built hotel in a developing country, the edifice seemingly trying to just promote a pastiche of Westernism and globalization, while at the same time exhbiting all of the cheer and architectual prowess of an interstate office park. The lobby of the Erbil hotel felt the same as the Intercontintal in Tashkent. After passing through a metal detector (which, no one seemed to be manning or monitoring), I stepped into a high-ceilinged, slighly dimly-lit, and densely furnished lobby, that seemed quite obviously bereft of soul, and as if every appointment was simply selected out of a pre-determined set in a catalogue and installed like a row of tract houses. In both lobbies, it felt as if everything, from the rugs, to the couches, to the plants, was coated in plastic, or perhaps, Teflon, to try to preserve an upscale-shiny-sheen that apparently the hotel needs to manifest to cater to UN contractors and security specialists willing to fork over 350 dollars a night for the apparent air of safety (read: unmanned metal detector) and the palliative feeling that so many unadventurous travelers need as a reminder that no matter how far they travel from home, and no matter how different a culture, hotels can still look the same and provide the same insipid sterility that they seek, thousands of miles away.
Luckily, the ATM worked – one machine quickly giving me that oh-so-wonderful fright that I suddenly have no money in my bank account (hey, a little money is still some money), when its screen reported severely that it could not dispense American dollars. Luckily, the machine dispensing in the local currency spat out a few crisp bills. I only pulled about 80 bucks, seemingly quite sufficient for just about a 24-hour stay in Erbil. I did not want to pull too much, and risk having to leave the country with my precious American dollars tied up in a surplus of local currency, and have the person working the currency exchange window laugh or pretend to be asleep when I tried to change money to American dollars (the experience of the uprorious cackles and paroxysms of derisive laughter from the person working the currency exchange booth at the airport is still vivid ihen trying to change my remaining stack of Uzbek Soum in Tashkent back into ten US dollars last spring). Ali assured me I could change money in the bazaar, as if even my asking of such a question of currency exchange location was so utterly simplistic and obvious. Where? I thought? Were there stands? A currency exchange office? Where in the bazaar? And, most importantly, where the fuck was the bazaar? I made a note to ask later.
We pulled out of the hotel into slighly heavier evening traffic, the Toyota SUV chugging in and out of lines of cars. As we drove, I tried to ask about offering some money to Ali or Shane, or at least paying for gas. Ali shook his head, almost offended that I had even asked, claiming any payment was supremely uncessary. “Well, you’ve been so helpful, you and Shane, I’d be stuck at the airport without you,” I stammered again. Ali shook me off once more. “You’re a guest in this country. And now, you can say you have friends here.”
Frankly, when I travel through more developing or rebuilding countries, I’m always so damn impressed by people’s relentless and unabashed altruism, and always so damn ashamed at my inadvertent skepticism. Yes, of course, in developing and rebuilding coutnties, there exist hordes of people happy to screw and scam you with what appears to be relentless and unabashed altruism, but in some of my favorite and most meaningful of interactions, there have been times where I have met people, most notably in Erbil, and in Romania, that simply give without attachement, pretense, or thought of receiving something in return. In traveling through Romania in early 2007, my friend, Ryan, and I, met a group of social workers with whom we became fast friends, and with whom we spent most of our time in Bucharest. One night, they offered to take us to dinner. Ryan and I refused at first, bawking at their offer, and tried to fork over money for our share. In turn, our Romanian friends seemed to take umbrage that we, apparently, would refuse their kind gesture, and at that point, questioned our refusal. Inadvertent skepticism, I reason. This idea that someone would never, ever, ever simply offer something, or give something away sans conditions or stipulations simply does not exist in America. If someone seems too nice, one immediately wonders where one will be screwed, scammed, or possibly thrown in the trunk of a car, robbed, and left for dead in a ditch. We’ve become so cautious, as a people in first world countries. Now, I realize my examples aren’t always so extreme, but they seem to manifest themselves in this fashion that I should always expect to pay for a service abroad. I wasn’t skeptical of Ali, Shane, or company, but then again, I wasn’t expecting to receive anything for free, either. But, no. True generosity does exist. Once again, I found myself incredulous at how much my new friends seemed to care for my safety, well-being, and favorable impressions of the country.
And, again, it never fails to impress me, either, how people somehow mistake the servile and obseqious attitudes of some hotel and airline employees, working for wages in the name of customer service guidelines detailed in a corporate handbook to pander to those with elite status, as authentic manifestations of human kindness. Take a chance, and find an authentic interaction.
Nearing the hotel - more signs for Bagdhad.
As we continued to drive, we talked openly about our potential futures and aspirations, with Ali telling me he’d like to use his hotel managment degree to open a five-star restaurant and hotel. “You should do it!” I cried enthusastically, my eyes widening at the prospect. Ali did not share my overly-apple-pie-laced sense of America can-do optimism, of simply taking charge and, though it sounds cliche, following a true aspiration (I guess I felt something similar, myself, when I shed my former life as an English major to study pre-med in a post-graduate program in New York). “How?” he replied. He continued to explain – practicality and financial considerations constrained practicality and optimism like a vice. I shut my glib mouth for a moment, and let the lesson fueled by my own ignorance steep for a bit. Soon, we found the wending city center, packed with people and traffic, and Ali began explaining some of Erbil’s layouts, pointing out a neighborhood only filled (and I mean filled) with doctors’ offices, main government buildings, the direction to museums, how to catch a taxi, and finally, after some circling, and asking for direction, the main citadel across the street from my hotel.
Initial shot of the citadel across the street from the Hotel Shahan - much more on the citadel in Part III.
Part II will continue!
I have to run a bag over to my friend Ryan’s house for storage in his trunk, before our roadtrip tomorrow. I’m just not too keen on lugging my bag around tomorrow while I am out.
I have written most of the segment. I will post it sometime after midnight, Pacific Time.
I hadn’t pulled an academic all-nighter since sophomore year of undergrad, but in the churning fray of the end of Fall semester, on the night of the 22nd of December, well into the 23rd, somehow found myself up all night feverishly typing to finish two lab biology lab reports, and rewrite another. Let me say, too, that all-nighters sucked then, and they still blow as much as now. Perhaps they were a bit better sophomore year, when plied with dining hall pizza, and a can of Coke could keep me awake for hours, and I hadn’t become the relentless caffeine addict I am today. But, I digress.
At around 7.00am, I left for the airport, with my work still unfinished. I was still typing on the Long Island Rail Road to JFK, and typing out calculations on the AirTrain, and with about 40 minutes to go before boarding of my Virgin America flight to San Francisco, I was slumped in a seat in the AirTrain station, trying to find a wireless network, at which I ultimately succeeded, to the tune of $4.95, to e-mail all my documents to my lab partner, who, bless her soul, said she would print and hand in my labs before she left.
So, suffice it to say, I was in rough shape when I finally arrived at Terminal Four at JFK to catch my Virgin America flight to San Francisco. Though I had flown out of Terminal Four at JFK a few times before, in my haze from final exams, I was utterly stymied at the layout, and at first, couldn’t figure out where to go, milling about like an idiot on the arrivals level, until some brilliant idea entered my head that I should look up to find a sign that indicated the location of check-in. Infinitely intelligent. I climbed an escalator, now with just about 30 minutes remaining before my flight, and somehow found the Virgin America check-in area, nestled in a corner, somewhat away from the main ticket counters. I clumsily strode to an automated check-in machine, and, after trying four or five cards in my wallet to attempt to search for my reservation, the machine and I both gave up, and I headed to a ticket counter to have my boarding pass printed. “They just began boarding,” the Virgin America (VX) rep said. Fantastic, I thought. Now, I found myself in true danger of missing the flight, which only heightened my sense of urgency because I had read that VX has some sort of RyanAir type fascist regulations on missed flights that conveniently escapes their contract of carriage on their website, that states that missed flights require a ticket repurchase. Hey: I hadn’t caught a flight to San Francisco on an airline other than dear United in a few ice ages. I could navigate through the Terminal 7 at JFK drugged on chloroform. Please forgive my neophyte behavior in Terminal 4.
Security, of course, at Terminal Four, stretched to Massapequa. The TSA, per custom, had too few lines open, for too many passengers, but of course, still managed to employ a healthy glut of people pacing the line barking out mindless reminders and orders that I couldn’t carry an X-Box through the metal detector and that babies shouldn’t be placed on the conveyor belt. Here’s an idea, TSA: Why don’t you remove your carnival barkers that pace the lines of the traveling public shrieking orders and “helpful” suggestions to which everyone has already inured themselves, and use them to staff an additional screening line? I know we’ll remove that air of TSA authority and the sense of fear in the passengers that they will be indefinitely detained if their liquids are not held by a Ziploc bag, but, hey, it might move things along.
I made it through security, bleary eyed, and positively a mess, as an automated final boarding call announcement played through the terminal that the tug driver’s foot was itching to stomp the gas pedal and move the Airbus A319 away from the gate, stranding me at JFK until next semester. I loped through the terminal, like a horse with a broken leg: no shoes on my feet, belt slung over my shoulders, trying, fruitlessly, to keep my pants about my waste with one arm, while a tugged my rollerboard with another. With a few moments, I made it to the gate, composed myself to the point where I didn’t look like a deranged, escaped convict from Sing Sing, and handed my boarding pass to the gate agent. Without a word (where were the ultra-friendly Virgin America personnel about which I heard so much? That was downright United-esque, there), I snaked down the long jetway, chuckling to myself that the last time I had used on of these long gates in Terminal Four was to board Singapore Airlines flight 25 to Frankfurt on an international award ticket. I made it aboard “Let There be Flight” (how cool is that?” with minutes to go, found room for my carryon, and plunked myself down in the seat.
Sadly, I barely stayed awake long enough to record some initial impressions of the airline. First, immediately, and aesthetically, the mood lighting is quite nice. Gimmicky, yes, and probably unnecessary, but makes for a much nicer boarding as opposed to some airplanes bleakly lit by old fluorescent lights that render the cabin as friendly as a police interrogation room. The purser was a young guy with a goatee, probably late 20s (as in, he was probably 28, or so, not late 20s, as in the 1920s, the decade in which many of the United pursers were born). He wasn’t wearing a tie, which immediately promoted a welcoming, relaxed atmosphere on board. Nor did he bombard the airplane with the threatening announcements I hear so often on United, cautioning people Auntie Marge’s gift from Crate and Barrel, if it doesn’t fit under the seat, will summarily be chucked from the airplane, and berating people not to store their laptops in the seatback pockets. Moreover, a Chris Cornell (he of the band Soundgarden) played in the background. Now, I understand VX probably took a kickback of sorts to promote Chris Cornell’s new album, but coming from United, and airline so stodgy and out-of-date that they most likely consider any music with a drum the work of dirty hippies and what’s poisoning the teenagers of America with their swinging hips, malt liquor, and crass attitudes, the music selection was downright progressive. The pilot introduced himself as the captain, but then made sure to mention that his “teammate” (love it!) was also a captain, and would be flying the leg from Las Vegas to San Francisco (yeah, I found out the hard way that this airplane would make a stop in Las Vegas, and wasn’t a nonstop flight. Oops!) The captain also made a Star Trek joke in relation to his teammate’s appearance, which, I am (very) pleased to say, I didn’t get.
Fighting to stay awake, and feeling guilty that I could soon pass out, but my lab partner had to make a four hour drive to Vermont later in the day, after also pulling an all nighter, we pushed off the gate. The tug pushed us backwards, as is usually the custom, then, drove us forward, a bit, then, decided, what the hell, to push us backwards once again. The famous Virgin America safety video played, yup, the actually creative safety video with the sarcastic, exasperated narrator and the grotesque animation, prompting more than a few laughs from the passengers. I love the safety video. Not only is it a hallmark of creativity in the constantly uptight world of aviation (the only safety video that comes close in terms of hilarity is the Austrian Airlines safety video, with the little circa-1992 computer graphics man running into a sign at the beginning of the video, and then missing his flight at the end). Again, like most of the legacy carriers, Virgin America doesn’t waste their time with the excessively formal crap and platitudes of “it’s our pleasure to have you aboard,” which is immediately negated by the scowling flight attendants.
At that point, I fell asleep. Usually, I stay awake during taxi and takeoff to get a peek at the fantastic ramp and runway action, but couldn’t make it. I awoke upon descent into Las Vegas.
With a 45-minute early arrival time in to LAS, an ultra-cool gate agent boarded the flight, and made the announcement that what was going to be a direct flight with the through pax staying aboard while the passengers originating at LAS boarded, everyone could deplane, and go play the slots in the terminal. He was my kind of personality – gregarious, sarcastic, and just at touch edgy, making sure to remind us that he would take any items left in the airplane, and pawn then for Christmas money, and that he would love us forever if made sure to remove all of our carryons when deplaning. Some would call these types of announcements “unprofessional,” but, simply, I say, get with the times. Why not bring a little creativity to an uptight world?
The gate agent’s fun continued with the reboarding announcements, making sure to remind of us of the A through F lettered boarding order, and that another gate agent would tackle us if we attempted to board out of order (hilarious!). After boarding each section, A through F, the gate provided a funny reminder of something about Virgin America with each letter, such as “C – Can you believe that Virgin America is the only airline worldwide to offer free wireless on every airplane until January 15th?” I’ll take it. Simply, it was wonderful to see a group of gate agents enjoying work, enjoying making passengers laugh, and upending the excessive formalities promoted by so many of the legacy carriers. The problem seems to be, I think, that legacy carriers are so bent on trying to preserve the glamor of air travel in its heyday – but, realizing that goal is absolutely and inconceivably impossible in today’s day and age of cruddy service, dirty planes, and angry employees, realize the only way to try to appear glamorous is to spackle their announcements with superfluously formal and calculated language, that makes it appear as if each announcement is embossed in a gold, medieval script on an invitation made of heavy cardstock, and sealed in a vellum envelope. Nope, I contend. It just appears archaic and anachronistic in today’s day and age. Air travel isn’t glamorous, and sure as hell ain’t formal (okay, we do need to do something about people whose traveling outfit is jean shorts, Tevas, and a size XXXXXL Big Dogs t-shirt, or trashy velour sweatsuit with exposed thong – mmmm!), but let’s bring the announcements up to modernity. Spice in a bit of slang, jargon, a few laughs, a few zingers, some self effacing humor, and wow – suddenly, the mood is about lighter, people are less angry, and wow – sweet Jesus forbids – someone actually smiles. It’s not unprofessional. It’s human.
I re-boarded the flight for SFO, and before passing out, again (hey – I had slept four hours in the last 35, at that point), managed to remark that the purser made an announcement encouraging passengers to ring their call button if they needed help stowing luggage – “that’s what we’re here for.” Call me cynical or jaded – but – I couldn’t believe it. Flight attendants actually wanting to help with baggage? Again, forgive me, but I’m used to sour-faced flight attendants folding their arms across their polyester uniforms and making some poor joke about not helping lift a bag so as to not require wrist surgery in the future. As well, in keeping with the theme of humanity on VX, Red, the in flight entertainment system installed at each seat, displays a little announcement encouraging people to lightly and considerately tap the screen when making a selection, so as to not disturb the passenger sitting in front of you. How nice. People wrenching my headrest or grabbing my seat and shaking with ferocity of an 8.0 earthquake to exit the row is perhaps my number of annoyance during flying.
After a short flight, we made a feather-light landing on 28-Right at SFO. I immediately noticed the odd feeling of turning off the runway much earlier than usual, and heading to the international terminal. Normally, United airplanes turn off the runway much later, as they head to Terminal 3. Home, once again.
I admit my review of Virgin America is a bit flawed because, well, I couldn’t stay awake, but I took away a favorable impression. Did it blow me away? Not really. I’d have to say that, yes, I was actually blown away by JetBlue the first time I flew them across the country, with their funny flight attendants, IFE, and their kick-ass catch phrase, “Hope you enjoy the experience.” I absolutely loved seeing a bit of humanity and humor in airline employees, reminding me that, yes, in terms of attitude and human dignity, Southwest, JetBlue, and Virgin America are the best airlines this country has. I’ll make a fuller report of aspects such as Red, the in-flight entertainment system on the way home. But, seat pitch, in economy was not terrible at all, though I may be a bit biased, because I really don’t mind traveling in economy, at all.
Hmmm, though – will I fly Virgin America again? Well, unless price truly reigns supreme, I’m not sure. I really missed earning Star Alliance miles for my flights. I guess I’m too much of a frequent flyer miles whore/junkie, and yes, would rather put up with United’s (often) poor service, caustic cabin crew, and fake formalities, just to earn miles. I like my crazy Star Alliance trips too much. I don’t need first class, someone to address me by name, and a prison-grade first class meal, but, like a junkie willing to steal side mirrors off a car to sell them for the money to buy another rock, I’ll gladly pay out for the opportunity to earn miles. I’ll miss the fun and humanity, but, I need the miles. Do I have to love United? No. Does it make me an apologist? No. Does it make me a tool to fly an airline I don’t really like just for the miles? Probably. But, simply – award redemptions and bonus miles are just too sweet.
Oh, and my lab partner made it Vermont, without even taking nap. A helluva girl, and much stronger than I.
I know I’ve been saying I will finish the Iraq trip report a few times in the past few days. I think, though, I will have to put the trip report project on hiatus for a week, or so, until finals finish. I hate to sound like a whiner, but with three finals, a problem set, and three major assignments due by the 22nd, I’ll already have plenty of writing to complete, and sadly, will not have the hours to sit down and publish the longest section of the trip report, my day in Erbil, Iraq. Though the quality may seem suspect, the proofreading deplorable, and the jokes cheap, each segment of a trip report takes me hours to write, based on my simple enjoyment and love of laboring through writing, and trying to concoct the most descriptive, visceral, and humorous trip experiences possible. I not only want you to feel as if you are with me when you are reading, but to learn about me, my travel patterns, thoughts, and the way I view the world. With my somewhat feverish commitment to that type of depth, I simply cant jury rig a jalopy of a trip report together in a few minutes, with vague, insipid descriptions, cliches, and clunky prose, and especially could not simply cobble together a trip report for a day in Iraq.
Thus, dear readers, I will finish the trip reports by Christmas day. Consider it a pathetic attempt at an x-mas present from this blog. I’ll have the Erbil portion up when I return home to San Francisco on the 23rd, the return flight to Vienna, and the Hilton Stadtpark segments on the same day (both shorter), and finally, the epic/horrendous return in Swiss International Air Lines (gotta call it by the full name if it’s that cool sounding) to New York on the 25th.
It’s one of the two cruddiest times of the year to be a student.
It’s going to be a long one, but – such a truly incredible and enriching travel experience deserves a full rundown, methinks.
I’ll have it up tomorrow evening – might be a bit later, on the East Coast, but up, nonetheless.
Gracias.
The following runs-down the festivities of the Regional Airplane Tour of America, which I chronicled in an earlier post. Click here to read the background and philosophy of this mileage run.
Goodness gracious, what a mileage run. I’d better break it down, flight by flight, to best rehash the insanity. Warning: it’s a lonnnnnnng rundown, of an even longer day, but hope you will enjoy the nerdy mileage run goodness.
Overnight at JFK and Doubletree JFK Review: To avoid the 3.30am A-train ride to the airport, I overnighted at the Doubletree, near JFK. I decided to overnight because the A-train, running local from 125th street in Harlem to JFK, makes no fewer than 300 stops, and takes close to two hours to get to JFK. I swear – sometimes, they must open doors between stations just to see if they can add a stop. I burned 30,000 Hilton HHonors points for the night, wanting to make drain my account in anticipation of no longer collecting points with Hilton because of their asinine award chart devaluation. Well, what a waste of 30,000 points. I’m quite disappointed, and can say, with confidence, do not stay here.
The hotel is simply run and maintained in a slipshod manner. It was an inauspicious beginning since I called for the hotel shuttle at Federal Circle AirTrain station, and what looked like a dented pedophile’s van stamped with the Doubletree logo, pulled up to the curve. I swung open the doors, climbed in, and the driver simply grunted, “Going to the Doubletree?” No, sir, I’m going to the fucking Hampton Inn, because your pervert van is stamped with a Doubletree logo. Inside, the van looked like a vehicle used to smuggle immigrants across the border, with most of its side panels removed, which is common place to hid people for smuggling people. Worst of all, when we arrived at the hotel, I think he expected a tip. Now, I am morally against tipping shuttle drivers (if you advertise your shuttle as complimentary, and the driver sure as hell ain’t collecting his wages solely in tips, why should I shell out more money for a driver doing his job?) but, in this case, his desire for a tip was even more laughable. If you even want me to think about tipping, at least get out of the van, and open the doors for me. Gee, why didn’t I just drive the van myself to the hotel?
But, I’m not going to dismiss a hotel based on its van. No – I could begin to dismiss a hotel based on its front desk staff, as a semaphore that the experience is rapidly about to burst into flames. Now, I’m not one who needs sycophantic, obsequious behavior from a hotel staff member to remind me and thank me for my Hilton Gold status, but, I would like some basic human acknowledgment. The ex-con working the front desk, with a chinstrap, and, I’m sure, a switchblade under his polyester suit (in case someone gets a little too cute and demands an extra Doubletree check-in cookie), didn’t even acknowledge my presence in line, and without a clear communication cue, I wasn’t sure if he was actively checking people in. When I approached the desk, he simply grunted, “Last name?” (he and the van driver must’ve been in the same training courses), asked if I’d like a king bed (no, I’d rather have a rollaway cot by the fire exit), and then simply shoved a packet of materials at me. Again, I don’t need to have my Gold Status acknowledged, but as someone who is relatively new to Gold status, I would’ve liked to know what benefits Golds receive in this particular property. Apparently, it is only a letter fraught with typos, that looks as if it was printed on a mimeograph machine circa-1954, and addressed to “Ms. Roberge” (beg pardon?), late checkout, and a breakfast coupon that I couldn’t use because of my early departure. What a nice welcome to the hotel! I don’t care if you’re elite, or not, but that greeting is entirely bereft of humanity. Even the elevators themselves were shabby, more befitting of parking garage elevators, and had this, I soon came to realize, supremely irritating quality of not making an indicator noise when the doors opened. Now, this may sound a bit petty, but I don’t think people realize the importance of the elevator opening noise. With three elevators, I kept wondering why the elevator would not arrive despite pressing the button multiple times. In my tired-from-the-week haze, it took me a bit to realize that the elevator had arrived several times, but I had just not heard the door.
The room itself was mostly fine – clean, and and a squishy enough bed bereft of anything crawling. I had been upgraded to an “Executive Room.” Apparently, “Executive Room” means an additional quarter couch-type piece of furniture (looks as if someone took a Sawzall and hacked out a section of a normal-length couch, and then sold it a discount furniture liquidator store on the interstate somewhere). There existed a noticeable dearth of power outlets in the room – only four – the majority of which were occupied by desk lamps, the only source of light in the room. I had to play a kind of roulette to decide between which items of my phone, camera, and laptop to charge, and ample light. I found the bathroom rather deplorable: bleakly lit, sink cracked, metal handicapped bars rusting, and barely any hot water for a shower. Look, I’m not too picky of a person – but, these little items, for supposedly a more upscale Hilton-family property, made spending 30,000 points seem like an utter waste – which, well, it was. Caveat emptor, I know, but I feel like writing Hilton and asking for some of them back.
Next Morning: I awoke at 4am, and headed downstairs shortly thereafter to catch the 4.30am shuttle. Cripes, it was early still, but at least I wasn’t riding the A-train. What a pity to leave the hotel that early – looking at the Calendar of the day’s events, I was going to miss the Revival Center Prayer Church breakfast at 9am, and the “Living in God’s Provision” segment that followed. I should’ve called United right there to see if the could change my flights. What a pity.
Only a few people took the shuttle at that early hour. On board was a family of four, a mother, father, son and daughter. I found the family notable only because of their permitted of standard dress and appearance for their two young children. The son, with a hideous bleached strip down the center of his hair, was only wearing a short-sleaved shirt on a freezing NY morning. The daughter was bedecked in a matching pink-velour sweatsuit, and smacking gum so loudly, the windows in Astoria rattled. Kudos, parents. You’re demonstrating negligence with your son, and letting your daughter dress as if it’s the morning after a night in Las Vegas of too many of those three-foot-tall alcoholic slushies that come in containers that look like novelty-sized chemistry lab equipment and an afterparty of cocaine and bodyshots in the hotel room of a group of Long Beach State Sigma Chi frat brothers. At least give her her dignity when she’s eight years old.
I arrived at JFK, initially wondering why I had taken the 4.30am shuttle when the ride from the hotel took about seven minutes. Then, I saw the security line that reached all the way to the terminal entrance. After 15 minutes of waiting in one line, the typically sharp TSA figured out that two stations, with two sets of security screeners and breaking travelers into two lines would make the entire security screening process move more quickly. I don’t know how they figured it out. Must’ve taken some advanced math. I headed through security, and sat to wait for my flight to Washington Dulles, with Amanda Knox news blaring from the overhead CNN monitor.
JFK – Washington, Dulles (IAD), CRJ-200:
Uneventful flight. Arrived at Dulles at the A-gates. Briefly contemplated a Five Guys Burger for breakfast, but stopped myself, when I remembered I would consume upwards of 5,000 calories at In-N-Out at LAX later that day. Met friend of the blog CP@YOW briefly at the gate (he arrived from Pittsburgh, on a mileage run of his own, on the same airplane that would take me to Dallas).
IAD – Dallas/Fort Worth (DFW), Embraer 170:
Uneventful flight. Passed out after takeoff. Vibrant, funny crew (what I saw of them before falling asleep). Flight went out, finally 68 of 70. Gate Agent even put my name on the VDB list, but, no luck. Snow began to fall in Dulles as we pushed off the gate, and each regional airplane headed to the pad for deicing. I had never been deiced before – I had seen it, but, had never personally experienced being deiced. I thought it was pretty cool . First, some guy in a cherrypicker sprays the wings an fuselage with a fluid that looks like an orange highlighter stain. Then, he comes around, and sprays them again with fluorescent green highlighter fluid, for good measure. Had no idea deicing fluid came in designer colors. BTW: Absolutely love the 170 – such a sweet, sweet airplane. Oh, and still not dead yet, after two regional airplane flights, as I thought would happen, based on the histrionic ravings of some FlyerTalkers.
DFW – Los Angeles (LAX), CRJ-700:
I love DFW. I hadn’t been to American Airlines country since December, 2006, when I flew DFW – Frankfurt on the eponymous leaders of the country. With the billions of AA airplanes lying around DFW, it feels a bit sneaky, even rebellious, to roll through the grounds on another airline. Upon arrival into DFW, I realized I had a missed call from the main United phone number (we frequent UA flyers all recognize the 1-800-864 – and then, don’t know the rest). Oh, boy, I thought – finally – the irregular operations for which I had been hoping, had surfaced. Indeed – because of Dulles weather, my redeye that night, San Diego – IAD, had been canceled! Sweet! Furthermore, United hadn’t forced me onto a rebooked set of flights – yet. The DFW gate agent said I could either head back, nonstop, to New York, from Los Angeles later that evening, or head back from Los Angeles to Dulles, then connect up to New York, on the last flight of my original itinerary. I said I’d have to wait to see what I wanted to do.
Waiting for my flight, I rode the beautiful SkyTrain around DFW, and admired the tens of thousand of American Airlines airplanes in various states of servicing. I also checked out the Lufthansa lounge at gate D21 – highly disappointing, and not even comparable to the Senator Lounge at Dulles. Basically, an RCC with free booze.
Flight to LAX was quite nice. I generally find Skywest employees pretty excellent – and they seemed to have a flair for making first class on a regional jet remotely dignifying. They even pre-opened the snack boxes for people, and made a display of all the horrendous, processed, artificial items. A nice touch – but still, can’t hide the crud inside the United snackboxes. At least the remaining supplies radioactive can of pasta United Express used to serve has been buried deeply within the earth, where their half lives will allow them to decompose in 28 billion years, and no long harm any United Express passengers. I read my organic chemistry textbook, and took a quick nap.
LAX – Carlsbad (CLD), Embraer 120:
Once on the ground at LAX, I immediately motored outside security, and caught the ostentatious Parking Spot shuttle on the lower level to the garage. Using of the Parking Spot’s services is a well-known trick among FlyerTalkers, with the Parking Spot garage located on Sepulveda, next to the LAX In-N-Out burger. I hadn’t had a chance to hit In-N-Out when I was home in San Francisco over winter break, and decided I would have to make the trek on a mileage run to California. I couldn’t believe how easy it was to take advantage of the Parking Spot shuttle – a two minute ride from the United terminal, hop off the bus, and then, head through a gate that Parking Spot themselves has placed with information that the In-N-Out tabernacle lies just across the parking lot. The Parking Spot staff must know people are heading to In-N-Out, but must really not care.
I enjoyed an always-divine meal under the final approach paths of one of the LAX runways – and simply stared in simultaneous awe of the taste of food hand-crafted by a god in my mouth, and airplanes screaming towards the runway threshold so closely it felt as if I could reach out and grab one, if I wanted. I wish I had had more time – I could’ve easily spent another hour watching planes land, and, oh, probably eating another Double Double, but with my flight for Carlsbad departing in an hour, I hopped on the Parking Spot shuttle back to the terminal, went through security (wow – couldn’t believe the ease of LAX security that day – normally, I would rank their TSA among the most incompetent in this country, along with Dulles and La Guardia. They, of course, had to screw something up – one agent taking issue with the appearance of my iPhone on the x-ray monitor, and another agent countering that it was much too small, who cares, just keep the belt moving. Their exchange lasted a good 30 seconds).
Once through security, I headed to customer service, and inquired about alternate flight options. The agent informed me the Dulles flight that I had originally been offered, was now full, and massively oversold! No! I had my chance to be part of a massive oversell, and I had missed it. Why hadn’t my addled brain considered the fact that with a SAN – IAD cancellation, the most pertinent outcome would be to get those displaced passengers to Los Angeles, and then get them to Dulles! I had made a terrible mistake. Now, it looked as if my only option would be to grab a seat on the conspicuously-undersold LAX – JFK redeye.
Crestfallen, I got on the phone to the 1K desk, where, I received an agent in India. After taking, 15 minutes to explain my itinerary and situation to him, and have him continually question where I was (I told him I was in Los Angeles, awaiting the flight to Carlsbad, and he said, “Okay, so you are in New York still). He told me that I had been protected on the LAX – JFK flight, but, he could protect me, as well, on the LAX – IAD flight. Score! Sounded good to me. He told me he would have to delete one of the last flights on the itinerary, my LAX – SAN, flight, because he could not get me back to LAX for the redeye, because the SAN – LAX flight, on the same aircraft, “[was] completely sold out.” Stay tuned for that development. The agent told me my reservation was being sent to ticketing for final processing (always sketch when the international call center tell you your reservation is being sent somewhere), and once I got back to LA, it would be finalized.
I boarded the flight to Carlsbad – still perplexed about my reservation status (I had just received an e-mail confirmation from United showing I was booked on both the LAX – JFK and LAX – IAD flights – uh oh!), but excited to fly the Embraer 120 for the first time. Seat 9C was wonderful – plenty of legroom, and the airplane was just as much fun as I had originally anticipated. Let me say – that thing hauuuuuuls. It’s noise level, especially when the engines are spooled to about 98% for takeoff, is incomparable, and simply enormous. The flight to Carlsbad takes 20 minutes – a climb, a five minute cruise, and a descent where we were buffeted and thrashed about in the wind and turbulence.
At one point, I saw the lone flight attendant talk on the interphone for a few minutes, then head back, and clinging to another passengers seat in the turbulent approach, say, “Is your name Gray?” Oh crap, I thought – here it comes – Police will be meeting you on the ground at Carlsbad. We know you’re a mileage runner. “Yes,” I responded. “Are you going to Kennedy or Dulles?” she asked. Apparently, the flight deck had been radioed that I had been scheduled to fly back on the same airplane, straight to Los Angeles, and they thought it was some sort of mistake – the flight deck was confused, she was confused, and the Carlsbad staff had no idea what the hell was going on. I told her I was flying for the miles (well, it was the truth). Amused, she told me to stay on the airplane, and that customer service would bring me my boarding pass for the flight back to Los Angeles.
On the ground, I waited with the crew. The pilots emerged, and asked “Is this the guy?” The first officer, a really nice young pilot (props to him – he was probably making 22,000 dollars a year in that right seat) asked me what in god’s name I was doing and how he and the captain had never heard of such a thing. He was clearly amused, as well. I also told him that I wanted to fly the 120 for the first time, which cracked him up, as well, and he asked if it was too my standards. The next FA for the trip back to LAX boarded, as well. The even more amused customer service rep came aboard, shaking his head, and handed me my boarding passes – one to LA, and uh oh – the next to JFK! Looks like the reservation had been screwed up, somehow. In the few remaining minutes of boarding (a total of four passengers showed up for the flight), I called the 1K desk, and got another agent, who said, in her 20 years at United, she had never seen such a reservation. With only seconds to go before departure, she managed to confirm me on the Dulles flight.
With only four passengers, the wonderful and affable flight attendant, Katie, first addressed the four male passengers as “Ladies and Gentlemen,” then – corrected herself, laughing, to just “Gentlemen.” She might be the best flight attendant I have ever had – on the short flight, she passed through the cabin chatting with each passenger individually. Fun stuff.
On the ground at LAX, I called the 1K desk again, and thankfully, reached a simply wonderful Honolulu agent, who, at first, thought she couldn’t make any changes to the reservation, somehow managed to confirm me to my requested set of flights, which, I thought would never, ever work. Surprisingly, she reinstated my LAX – SAN leg, and then confirmed me on the SAN – LAX flight, and the LAX – IAD flights, while removing the LAX – JFK reservation. I could not believe my fortune. I was pleased to be back on my original flights, mostly, because I did not want to sit around LAX for six hours, awaiting the redeye. A similarly wonderful, fun, and amused customer service agent reissued the tickets (in full Y!), and laughed at us mileage runners, saying, “They’re going to get you some day,” and said she couldn’t wait to see Up in the Air. Simply a day of wonderful United employees, that, frankly, made up for all the surly, indifferent, or belligerent crews with whom I had flown in the past.
LAX – SAN, Embraer 120:
Another excellent flight attendant – like a hilarious school teacher – if someone talked during her announcements, she would eye them severely until they stopped – then, would say, “Now, I don’t remember where to begin the announcements,” and wait for a passenger to tell her where she had left off. Cracked me up.
Upon landing at SAN’s commuter terminal, I noticed one could not reenter the gate area without exiting the secure area – and, on the left, stood the group of people waiting to reboard the flight. I noticed another guy talking to a ramp agent that he needed to return on the SAN – LAX flight, and could he be taken inside the boarding area – and that he was returning for the frequent flyer miles. I hastily added that I needed to board the flight as well, for the miles. The confused ramp agent – who said he had never seen anything like this before – took us both around to the secure area, where both our boarding passes were scanned. At one point, the other guy, turned to me, and said, “FlyerTalk?” He was on a mileage run, as well.
SAN – LAX, Embraer 120.
Chatted with my new flying friend about mileage running, and continuing on the redeye to Dulles! I love this aspect of the mileage run – the random encounters of people crazed for miles.
Flight attendant was supremely amused that we both had returned.
LAX – IAD, Boeing 767-300ER
My MR-buddy and I motored to the gate for , where a line had already formed for the one gate agent. Why, on Earth, would United board a widebody airplane with only one gate agent? When I finally reached the podium, the agent, after I asked if she need volunteers, called my immediate bluff – all the while looking at me with a-I-can-tell-you’re-bullshitting-one-eyebrow-cocked expression – she knew exactly what was up. “Well, you’re going to JFK, so I can put you on the nonstop to JFK right now, but it’ll only be a 100 dollar voucher.” I told her I was looking to preserve the integrity of my original itinerary, with collecting the frequent flyer miles, and she smirked, and told me that I would have to wait. Oh, and I was first on the upgrade list with zero first class seats remaining. At the gate, I ran into a fellow FlyerTalker/mileage runner, Ryan, with whom I had done a few mileage runs in the past. As it turns out, he and his girlfriend, with whom he was mileage running (what a girl! seriously – how did he find a girl is willing to mileage run?), the gate agent had given him the same I-see-your-B.S.-tactics – “I can put you on the nonstop to Boston.” It was great to see Ryan, chat, and commiserate about the vagaries of the mileage run world, and simply joke about our collective nerdiness. Soon, sadly, the gate agent made a sarcastic announcement saying, “Thanks for all my volunteers – but, I will not be needing your services this evening.” Hey – props to her – it’s always funny to be put in your place by a UA agent who knows exactly what’s up, and this time, toys with the FlyerTalkers, instead of FlyerTalkers trying to toy with UA employees.
Thus, we boarded, and I took my seat in Economy, exhausted from flying eight segments. At that point, I didn’t really care that I hadn’t been upgraded. I just wanted to head to sleep.
BTW – what is up with United’s conflicting messages? The customer service rep told me the flight was massively oversold – yet, it went out with six empty seats. What happened? Were people moved to alternate flights? Did people miss this flight? Or, was it actually ever oversold? SeatCounter.com had the flight at full zeroes for most of the day.
Simply, I will never understand United’s inventory management.
Not a bad redeye, though. Got solid sleep, and awoke when the captain asked the FAs to prepare for landing.
IAD – LGA, CRJ-200
Ryan was nice enough to guest me into the Red Carpet Club, after getting some guff from the lounge dragon about the mind-boggling discrepancy that he presented his bmi Gold card for lounge access, yet didn’t have his bmi Gold status printed on his boarding pass. A bit petty at 6.30am.
I stood by for the 8.09am departure for LaGuardia, having no desire to fly to JFK, and brave the 12 forms of public transit from the airport, as opposed to one from LGA. I fell asleep for most of the flight, to awake to the famous approach where the airplanes wrap around the new Mets ballpark, CitiField, on final approach. We touched down, on time, in LGA. I quickly headed outside, caught the M60, and headed back to my apartment for a longer nap.
So endeth the Regional Airplane Tour of America. A wildly fun day, with, sadly, a set of calculated moves and tactics that didn’t culminate in my being bumped off the flight, but mileage runs are always wild, unique experiences, nonetheless.
Oh, and all the regional jets didn’t cause me to become permanently disfigured. I hope some FlyerTalkers will become convinced regional airplanes aren’t entirely hazardous to one’s health. Maybe the complaints will even subside a bit, as will the histrionics worthy of a Broadway production. I doubt it – but, I’ll gladly fly another regional airplane again. Especially the 120.
Part 1: New York LaGuardia (LGA) to Washington National on US Airways
Part 2: Washington Dulles (IAD) to Frankfurt (FRA) on United
Part 3: FRA – Vienna (VIE) – Skopje (SKP) on Austrian
Part 4: Arrival in Skopje, and Day 1 in Skopje
Part 7: Daytrip to Pristina, Kosovo
Part 8: SKP – Zagreb (ZAG) – VIE on Croatian Airlines
Part 9: VIE – Erbil, Iraq (EBL) on Austrian
Part 10: Erbil, Iraq
Part 11: EBL – VIE on Austrian
Part 12: Hilton Vienna Stadtpark
Part 13: VIE – Zurich (ZRH) – JFK on Swiss International Air Lines
* * * * * * * * * *
Part 9
I must say, I do like Vienna’s Airport. I find it a just-right mixture of large and small – large enough to feel like a major, bustling airport that sends widebody airplanes into the air to destinations such as Beijing, Dubai, and Tokyo, but set up in such a way to feel cozy and unrushed, as if you’re actually welcome to the airport – and I’m not talking about small and unrushed in the sense of some airports – Pasco, Washington comes to mind, where small means three gates, a regional jet, one security line, and one airport restaurant, with grill manned by a portly cook who’s an ex-con, and waitress in existence since the time humans had gills, clad in a pink frock, folded-over apron, a beehive hairdo, who, just off her cigarette break, saunters to your table, smacks her gum, and in a voice marred by years of Pall Malls, asks if she can “Top you off, sugar?” followed by a few horrendous sounding hacks, as she brandishes one of those universal diner carafes filled with bilge-water coffee.
Seriously, though, it’s a happening joint – but small enough feeling to have distinct personality. I think the airport teems with character, and even a bit of flippance – a kind of nonchalant shoulder-shrug to the other major European airports, that VIE doesn’t care if it’s lesser-known option when compared to larger, more major transit hubs such as Heathrow, Frankfurt, or Amsterdam, they’re going to keep on going, and keep on living their idiocyncracies. The airport is filled with amenities and advantages, notably, the free wi-fi – something every airport should possess, so I don’t have to pay ten dollars for some goddamn Boingo daypass. Its terminals, too, are laid out wonderfully well for strolling to your gate, and an excellent, but expensive, city connector train stops just under the main terminal, a mere three minute walk to the main departures hall (more on the train in a future section of this report). I really do like their system of security checks at each individual gate – even if it does sequester passengers a bit while they wait for boarding, but it allows maximum time walking the halls and hanging out in a less-sterile secluded environment. I’ve only ever seen individual security checks at each gate at Berlin Tegel. I have, however, seen one larger security check into the airside area, and another security check at the gate, at places such as Amsterdam Schiphol and London Heathrow, which adds a total of about six hours of security checks in what I consider one of the most irritating travel ailments. But – I really do like VIE. I’m only taking the time to comment on it because it felt as if I transited the airport about seven thousand times during my trip (actually, it was only three times). I even find the Austrian souvenir shops placed every 1.5 feet, or so, around the terminal, just to-die-for kitschy fun.
Not surprisingly, its small/large large/small character seems to reflect the personalities of my favorite cities, such as that have that wonderful blend of major-city street cred, with that intimacy and community – San Francisco, Boston and Washington, DC. I love little-big cities. Not surprisingly, airports that seem cavernous, cold, and unforgiving – such as JFK, seem to reflect cities I dislike immensely, as well – such as New York City, which, barely qualifies as a squalid hellhole – just like JFK!
After stepping off the bus from the remote stand of my flight from Zagreb, I made a few turns, headed up the stairs, and in under two minutes, found myself in the stretch of terminal near my departure gate, Vienna’s ease-of-transit at work, once again. With a bit of time to spare, and a bit of hunger rumbling, I headed to a nearby Senator lounge, to try to rustle up some grub, and check my e-mail before departure. I extolled the virtures and posted a number of pictures in a previous section of the this trip report. I sat for a bit, and enjoyed a quick breakfast of scrambled eggs, tomatoes (full English-breakfast style), and a cinnamon roll. I couldn’t believe the quality of the scrambled eggs, which, granted, were probabaly made from some egg-mix, but still had been cooked delightfully runny, as opposed to dry, spongy mass of eggs that most airlines serve, that are really best used for drywall insulation or mopping up chemical spills. I ate, checked my e-mail, and then headed to the gate, where boarding for Erbil, Iraq was underway.
Breakfast in the Senator Lounge. Yes, I know the knife and fork are on the wrong side of the plate, but who cares? What the hell is this? Finishing school?
Attempted artsy breakfast shot. The Senator lounges simply engender creativity. Uh huh.
Austrian Airlines 829
September 6, 2009
VIE – EBL
Departure: 10.20am
Arrival: 3.00pm
Equipment: Airbus A320
Seat: 4A
Class: Business
I arrived to a busy boarding gate, where, while waiting at the end of a long line to have my passport and boarding pass inspected, and head through security, I actually began to realize that I was actualyl heading to Iraq. Until that point, I had kind of considered the Iraq portion of the trip a kind of cool ending to a larger trip, but really, only at that point, did I began to realize I was heading to a nation at war, whose events and politics had been a major part of my life and the news since my senior year of high school, in 2003. I remember when the Iraq war began – the constant streams of news, the pictures on the front of the San Francisco Chronicle, discussing it in my history classes, and a few weeks later, in our San Francisco-liberal-hippy-second-semester-senior ways, joined a war protest walkout and leaving school to head downtown to protest en masse, where we marched in the streets, faced walls of riot police, tried to start our own splinter groups, and walked around cars and trucks on Van Ness, waving peace signs (well, the media called it a walkout – I think our teeny high school actually approved of our walking out, and just made sure that we signed a sheet so the administration knew where we were in case of emergency. Very much less illicit. I also remember I had to return to school following the protest for a rehearsal of the spring play – making my social unrest attempt logarithmically less cool). I also wondered for a brief moment about safety, despite only reading about just how safe the particular region to which I was traveling had been since, oh, the second week of the war (I had received a number of Facebook wall posts that included such heartwarmers as “Don’t get decapitated!”), and that, like Skopje, I had no hotel booked. Ah, well. Despite the hordes of passengers headed to Erbil, boarding proceeded like any other flight, without fanfare, a quick security check a wait in the glass-walled holding area after security, prior to boarding. The boarding process was almost worriedly quotdien – a flight to New York was even boarding at the gate to the left. Even the sign at the gate displaying the destination lookedlike any other – what had I expected? Perhaps a Las Vegas-style lighting configuration that announced to the world that this was a flight to Iraq. Nothing special or extraordinary occured, though, no additional security checks, no armed guards, no humiliating interrogations that involved dumping the contents of my suitcase on the floor. Perhaps I had inflated the gravity of the experience just a bit.
Boarding for Erbil!
I headed down the jetway to board, and once on the airplane, noticed that it had been decked out in Austrian’s festive color scheme with purple-blue business class seats, with lime green pillows, and the Robin Hood-green economy class seats with multicolored antimacassars. Austrian really knows how to decorate an airplane – and immediately highen the sensory experience, as opposed to the soulless, monochromatic interiors of most Ameerican legacy carriers, that reflect the rigid and excessively corporate, and, well, soulless attitudes of their management teams. I was very excited to try Austrian on a more longhaul segment, after enjoying my two previous shorthaul flights. In a gastronomic and hedonistic sense, I was also excited for a fuller, more extensive meal service, again, catered by the culinary gods at Do&Co. Moreover, Austrian had configured this Airbus in its “Premium” configuration, a special layout for airplanes used on Europe-Middle East routes. Sigh – the first knock on Austrian – I thought they were so much better than using that horrendous-MBA-flashcard buzzword “Premium” – which, in typical rote corporate thinking, is applied to anything that is supposedly better than something else, or any airline cabin better than economy. I despise that word – so vague, undescriptive, and sterile – seemingly reflective of a mind that has to rely on buzzwords and can’t be bothered with a more descriptive set of phrases. Why do we have to say “Premium Cabin?” Can’t we simply say “first” or “business” class? It’s quite evident that the former is an attempted at some gilded description to deliver connotations of grandor – while the latter descriptions are much more specific. It’s a basic rule of writing. Yes, I understand it’s a standard word in the airline industry – but, still – I bristle when I hear it – but, I digress. The “Premium” configuration features the plusher and roomier Recaro biz-class seats, which, I believe, are the same as Singapore Airlines’ seats on their regional aircraft configurations. Essentially, it makes for a more tricked-out A320.
I originally had seat 6D, in the last row of business, but switched to 4A so my seatmate’s daughter could sit next to him. Business class was packed – mostly with important-looking military contractor and security company types. As more of a casual traveler, I felt a bit out of place.
Flight attendants distributed amenity kits, blankets, pillows, and menus. I’ll say – a pretty grand affair for a just about a three-hour flight. I forgot to take a picture of the amenity kit, I must confess. But, here are the typical, excessively detailed cabin/seat shots:
Poor shot of the Recaro biz class seat.
Seat in fully reclined position, with awesome lime green pillow.
Seat controls.
Lumbar support controls.
120V outlets! Yes, I realize I am going into too much detail, here, taking pictures of the electrcial outlets.
Slick menu! Printed on nice paper, in an obscenely large sleeve.
The menu, as follows:
Selection of Meze:
Tabouleh/humous/oriental tomato chutney/yogurt cucumber salad with fresh mint/feta cheese/bresaola/smoked char
Main Courses: (* = my choice)
Please choose from our selection:
Fillet of beef, “Cafe de Paris”
Eggplant with red pepper salsa/gratinated potatoes
-or-
Prawns Biryani*
-or-
Truffled tortellini
Sauteed asparagus/cherry tomatoes
-Rigo Jansci (after a bit of researching, I discovered this item was a traditional Austrian-Hungarian spongecake).
-Selection of cheese
-Fresh fruit
-Ovenfresh bread selection
-Freshly brewed coffee or tea
While still parked, flight attendants took meal orders begining at the first row of the aiarplane. When they took orders, I had been seated in row six, and when finally arriving at row six, one FA informed me that all beef had been ordered. Not a problem at all, I thought – I had been eyeing the prawns. I try to stay away from beef on airplanes, anyway. I’ve actually never had a steak or fillet of beef in the air, on any airline. After taking orders, the hilarious safety video played, and with a quick taxi to the runway, the Airbus leapt into the Austrian morning.
After takeoff, flight attendants passed out the hand-held media players, which are similar to the United Premium Service media players, but have a distinctly clunky-late 90s feel about them. The players sit into a severe and extremely dangerous looking metal holder that unfolds, somehow, from the seat (I think you have to be an engineer to figure out how to extend that metal arm from within the armrest – it took me about 20 minutes to figure it out. I was about ready to remove some screws). The players loaded with eight movies, or so, music, and television episodes. I’m not really much of a movie fan, and not really a guy who needs electronic in-flight entertainment to survive a flight, but this morning, after awakening at 4.15am, or so, I simply wanted to zone out, slack jawed, to a mindless film, and try to control my passive drooling. With none of the movie options really appealing, I decided to watch the most slack jawed film of them all, the movie of Dan Brown’s latest mass-market crap (now occupying Border’s sale tables with a 30% off sticker adorning the front), Angles and Demons. I reclined the seat, which, though comfy, was a bit firm, and felt most of my neurotransmitters shut down as I settled in to watch the movie, and let my mind slip into a haze as a response to the sensationalistic, contrived, low-octane plot.
Dangerous looking media player holder.
Media player.
Lunch began with a specialty beverage, served from a tray, a choice of gin with raspberry juice, or mint-limeade. I went with the mint limeade, which, was garnished with a fresh mint leaf – simply delicious and refreshing, and had I not felt myself going into diabetic shock with the first sip, would’ve happily had 10 or 11 more glasses. Flight attendants served warm cashews and almonds, as well, which, sadly, I found pretty disappointing. The cashews were lukewarm, mushy, and stuck together in their little dish – as if they weren’t very fresh, or as if they had been microwaved instead of heated in an oven. Overall, quite a letdown. The bowl in which they were served, I should note, was quite beautiful.
Mint limeade.
Gluey cashews and almonds. Very disappointing.
Next came the meze, served with a bountiful basket of bread. Magnificent, as usual, and beautifully presented, except for one minor gripe. The plastic container of olive oil looks a bit out of place, like something included in a bag from a deli, when you order your item to go.
Beautiful meze plate, with pita bread.
Another artsy closeup.
At this point, I must wax for a bit about the benefits of Do&Co as the catering company for Austrian and Turkish airlines. Simply – you don’t mess with Do&Co. Without a doubt, and I will fight anyone wishing to contend this point, they produce the finest food in the air. Austrian Airlines, and Turkish Airlines, serve the best food, in the air, of any carrier on Earth. Do&Co has the ability to make food fresh, flavorful, and not excessively sauced, creamed, or fat-filled. I think their success stems from creating a menu that works in the air – classy, but not too fancy, and that still retains flavor in the thinned-oxygen environment. Other airlines, in their first and business class cabins, offer menus that, while dishes sound as they’re part of one of those Michelin-three-stars-French Laundry type places, with 97-course tasting menus, each course the size of a subatomic-particle, but, of course, served on an excessively large plate, and waiters wearing impressive scowls, these types of menus simply fail in the air. Lufthansa, for instance, tries to serve a first class menu of froufrou dishes that simply fail to be compelling. And sure, it’s fun to dine in first class on, say, Singapore Airlines, but only because of the anthropological thrill that you’re eating a lobster tail on an airplane – the taste isn’t remarkable, by any means. Truthfully, the only airline meals I actually remember, and would love to eat again, are meals from Austrian and Turkish airlines. Keep the excessively fancy type of airlines food on the ground to be served by scowling waiters. Hell, keep the type of food served on Austrian and Turkish airlines 0n the ground, as well. Every meal I’ve eaten on an Austrian or Turkish airplane has been actual restaurant quality, and I make that judgment with my irritating, pretentious, San Francisco food-snob upbringing (and, yes, I am aware of the snipes New York chefs have been taking at the San Francisco food scene, recently. My response to New York chefs: go kill yourselves).
I decided to indulge in a glass of champagne with the meal. Delicious – and, fun having actual French champagne on a flight (as opposed to United’s sparkling wine/Champale swill). For you wine buffs out there, that Champagne that day was Duval-Leroy. Austrian also serves prosecco, which, for some reason, I think is super fun and classy, but I abstained. For you wine lovers out there, the Prosecco that day was Le Borgate. And, I mention all of these names as if they actually mean something to me – but, I confess – I am truly ignorant of any sort of grape-based fermented product – except for a few names. I couldn’t put together a 97 course tasting menu.
Champagne. Why not?
Next came the biryani, whose prawns were tender, and the rice nicely spiced and resplendent with that characteristic wonderful stickiness of biryani. I was a bit frightened by the onions, at first, though, mistaking them for squid tentacles. I’m not sure I would’ve included them myself, if only to reduce shock value.
Biryani. Those are onions - not squid tentacles.
Finally, came dessert of baklava (not on the menu!) and fruit. While I usually love baklava, my particular piece was a bit hard and stale tasting.
Fruit and baklava.
Overall, though, a wonderful meal.
I finished watching Angels and Demons, and decided to tuck in for a quick nap. Soon, we began descent, and I eagerly flipped up the windowshade, ready to stare down at Iraqi soil, and was greeted with a vast desert, and ground that looked like baked pottery. Cliche, I know, but I was incredulous that I was actually looking at Iraq. Goodness gracious. It’s a rather mystifying experience being able to actually gaze upon such a seemingly forbidden land. I had a similar feeling when I landed in Sydney, Australia for the first time, stultified at touching the earth at a place I had only ever seen on maps, so far away and isolated it couldn’t have possibly existed in reality- but, yet, I was somehow there. The approach to Iraq felt similar – again, the forbiddiness of the country, yet a place somentioned, studied, and endlessly discussed for years, a place so controversial, and unimagineably complex and influential on poitical decisions – yet, I was about to actually arrive, with little flair and nonchalance. Hell, I had just finished eating baklava and watching a crappy movie, and yet was about to land in Iraq. A fun little existential travel moment, when one makes the connection between actually realizing they are about so stand in a place they had only ever imagined.
Initial view of the earth.
Closer to Erbil.
From researching Erbil, I had heard about the “Spin,” the looping descent airplanes make into the airport. Though Erbil hasn’t been involved in the war since its second week, airlines still use the Spin as a precaution, presumabley because a circling target that comes in quickly, and spends less time closer to the ground, is more difficult to hit with a missle. A kind of chilling thought, but after the cabin was prepped for landing, all seats up, and all seatbelts clicked into place, that airplane began its famous circles. The circles feel different from the standard procedure turns for approaches – the airplane truly, obviously, stays in circles for about ten minutes, and only circles.
Circling for Erbil.
Getting ever closer, I spied the field out the window, passing on the arc of one of our circles. No way we’ll ever make the runway at this angle, I thought. When I saw the runway pass out the left window, I figured we’d circle again, despite being quite low to the ground. No way you can flip an airplane of this size to line up for a visual approach that quickly, I thought. But – the guys up front were not basing their experiences on Microsoft Flight Simulator, as I was, and made a ballsy turn for the left, just when it seemed to late to line up with the runway, and snapped the airplane into position. One of the coolest approaches I have ever experienced.
About to cross the field.
Runway, to the left, for which I thought we'd have to circle again to catch. No problem for the pilots, though. I have to remember that flyer-enthusiast passengers have absolutely no idea of what's going on, despite thinking they know approaches and flightpaths. Experience flying a route as a passenger does not give one license to judge an approach. Ha. I'm guilty of it myself 
.
The Airbus plunked down, turned off the runway, and parked on the apron after a short taxi. I readied to deplane, finally in Iraq.
Writing the Vienna – Iraq segment, right now! Took a break to call my pops and wish him a happy birthday, but now, back at it.
Hang with us for just a bit longer.
Part 1: New York LaGuardia (LGA) to Washington National on US Airways
Part 2: Washington Dulles (IAD) to Frankfurt (FRA) on United
Part 3: FRA – Vienna (VIE) – Skopje (SKP) on Austrian
Part 4: Arrival in Skopje, and Day 1 in Skopje
Part 7: Daytrip to Pristina, Kosovo
Part 8: SKP – Zagreb (ZAG) – VIE on Croatian Airlines
Part 9: VIE – Erbil, Iraq (EBL) on Austrian
Part 10: Erbil, Iraq
Part 11: EBL – VIE on Austrian
Part 12: Hilton Vienna Stadtpark
Part 13: VIE – Zurich (ZRH) – JFK on Swiss International Air Lines
* * * * * * * * * *
Part 8:
Back at the hotel, the guy at the front desk/bar rather glumly informed me that there were no available rooms for that particular evening, but they had rooms available at the Hotel Vila Ani, a few minutes away by car. He appeared sincerely apologetic, and as if he had let me down, though, it really wasn’t that big of a deal. It was my own stupidity and lack of foresight and planning that had caused me to fail to make a reservation in advance. He called the other hotel to let them know that I would be arriving, and after hanging up, said that they would be happy to pay for my cab. Unnecessary, again, because I was mostly responsible for the mixup, but nonetheless very kind. Simply, a very nice and authentically kind gesture from the hotel staff. On that regard, excuse my editorial meandering away from the main topic, but I must say that these types of experiences are why I often prefer smaller, independently-run hotels. Yeah, tiny hotels may not have points, an executive lounge, highest tier check in lines for your personal ego boost, and there may only be planks for a stairs (as there was in my “apartment”) but, by golly, do they provide authenticity, sincerity, and real care for the customers. The tireless work of the staff at the Hotel Ani to try to find me a room for the night, and then even paying for my cab to the other hotel shows a true care for their guests – even, yes, when it was my fault I didn’t book in advance. I wasn’t a high-status member in the elite program or paying three grand a night – I was a scrub visitor with a lack of foresight.
I must say, I roll my eyes a bit whenever someone recounts an apparent extra bit of customer service at a large, sterile chain hotel, erroneously interpreting that extra service as an apparently authentic experience. No, that’s patently false. That’s someone behaving nicely towards you because your high-status in the guest rewards program dictates that they act kindly towards you, which, in my opinion, equates to a delusionally false authentic experience, couched in the name of customer service, and simply being a sycophant towards your top tier elite members in the program. It exists only to buoy and inflate the egos of people who have finagled top-tier hotel status and are mesmerized by a scripted set of platitudes, obsequiousness, and find their egos similarly inflated by a sort of master-servant relationship of the hotel employees – which attitude, I must say, was what made my time at the Lufthansa First Class Terminal rather uncomfortable, the employees acting as if they were trammeled in some sort of indentured servitude in the 12th century. Take a chance – go out to experience real kindness, authenticity, and altruism towards guests, of people who demonstrate excellent customer service towards any sort of customer, and don’t partition and parcel their service levels based on some status embossed on a card. Break out of your square-inch sized comfort zone. Take a chance, sack up, man up, and enjoy some real human interaction – not one inscribed in a manual written by corporate headquarters. Those who believe that kind of sterility and sniveling obsequiousness is authentic, are, frankly, ignorant of reality, and, sadly, missing out on real human interaction in the name of false experience. Your stay is about as authentic as a cake made from a box – sure, it’s still a cake, but it sucks, is of poor quality, and beneath the artificial flavors, thickeners, and moisteners, though it tastes real, and looks good, it’s still a shitty cake, made with imposter ingredients. I call utter bullshit. Think outside the rote cliches of travel, for once.
Of course, if you like staying at chain hotels because of consistently cushy beds, a shower with water pressure, and having stairs that aren’t just plywood planks with exposed corners, that’s a-okay. Hey, I stayed in the Hilton in Vienna (read about it in an upcoming section), because I decided I wanted a fucking shower with fucking water pressure, and didn’t want to have to flip a separate switch to heat water for the bathroom (yes, one of the faults of the Hotel Ani). Stay at a chain if you need consistent amenities. It’s when people start treating the canned, trite lines fed to you by the concierge as a real travel experience that worries me.
But, I digress.
Anyway, I jumped in a cab, who sped through the streets of Skopje, still wet with that morning’s rain. He turned of a main road, and charged up a steep hill, that seemed more in a residential neighborhood. They weren’t kidding that the hotel was a bit farther from downtown. We wound our way up the streets, passing houses and small stores. At one point, the driver, who didn’t say much to me during our trip, seemed to be completely lost. After pulling into a random driveway, and asking for directions, he turned the car around, drove back down the hill, and turned into the hotel. Yeah, it was way far away from the main streets.
I rang the bell, passed through the gate, and was greeted by a balding man wearing jeans and a FedEx t-shirt (?). He greeted me very warmly, but then soon snapped into a kind of passive paranoia, where he wanted me to make sure I surrendered my passport until I paid. Fine, but, sadly, they didn’t take cards. We then launched a, literally, fifteen minute conversation where we planned out the details of payment, when I would first see the room, when I would head back down the hill to obtain money from an ATM, and how we would work on the current exchange rate between Euros and Macedonian Denar, complete with him producing a comically-sized calculator and punching in a few figures. I’m not joking – it was planned with the precision of a military invasion. At the end, he determined that I should view the room, with my luggage. After viewing said room, I should jettison luggage, at which time, I should proceed down the stairs, taking the stairs no more than one at a time, and inform him if said room was acceptable for my accommodation standards. Then, in due time, I would proceed out of said hotel, down said road, towards the city center, where I would then access an automatic teller machine, that would permit me to remove funds from my previously-wired bank account. Then, I would trudge up said hill, return to the premises, at which time I would pay the rate, in accordance to the previously decided exchange rate, as determined by FedEx man’s comically large calculator. At that time, I would exchange the currency, a receipt would potentially be issued, depending on my preference at that time, and I could then return to my room for the agreed-upon duration of time. I signed the contract, he signed, we had it witnessed by an international body of magistrates, notarized, sealed, and buried in the ground. (See, I can write like a lawyer – I don’t need a fancy Stanford Law education like my brother, Sam ).
I headed up to the room, which, I must say was a bit nicer than the room at the Hotel Ani – the fixtures seemed a bit newer, but, I was a bit peeved by the more uptight staff, I must say. I dropped off my bag, and headed downstairs, figuring I should just finish payment. I also asked him if he could telephone a taxi company for me, from a business card I had in my pocket. The friends I had met the night before, who were dumfounded and quite pissed at my 25-Euro taxi debacle, had asked a taxi driver on the way to the discotheque for his card, and informed me that the rate to the airport should be about 800 Denar, or 13 bucks.
I headed down the hill, not looking forward to the long walk into the city center. Truthfully, I just wanted to curl up for a bit, see if I could find some English-speaking TV, and head to bed early before my 6am flight. Luckily, I found an ATM just about half a mile down the hill, and pulled some money. I am meticulous, at the end of trips, about pulling the correct amount of money, not wanting to have too much before departing. Normally, I would just exchange any leftover currency at the airport, but, lately, I seem to be visiting countries that would rather have American currency in, and not have it leave the country. They’re all to happy to have their currency leave with the passenger, and always pretend that their currency exchange stand is closed when I try to change money back into American dollars – which, explains why I have a stack of leftover Uzbek currency the thickness of War and Peace. I only pulled enough money for the hotel and the cab to the airport, which, left me with only enough coins, scraped together from my pockets to buy a bag of pretzels for dinner. Screw it, I thought. I’ll eat the pretzels and a leftover energy bar. No sense in pulling too much currency just to grab a more substantial dinner, and risk not being able to exchange it back to USD. I walked back up the hill, paid for my room (mentally grumbling at the fact that they guy was charging me a higher exchange rate for Denar to Euros). He commented on my bag of pretzels, as well. I also asked if he knew how to turn on the air conditioner, because it was a bit stuffy and hot in the room, and I couldn’t find the remote control. The man was apologetic, and said he didn’t make the rules – that it was the wife of the owner that made the rules at this hotel – and that he would have to charge me five Euros for the privilege of using the air conditioner. Uh, wow – five euros? For some air? I declined, with a look of horror on my face. I would just open the window. At the other hotel, I was allowed to use the air conditioner to my content. I wonder if their differing views on ancillary revenue and extra fees for the air conditioning caused marital problems for Ani and his wife. FedEx man then called for a taxi, told me to be in front of the gate at 4.15am, and bid me farewell, and that he would see me next year (?). I headed upstairs, watched a bit of TV (including a show on airline crashes that featured reenactments with macabre, chilling screams from the passengers), and went to sleep.
The next morning, I awoke, quickly packed, and headed outside a bit early, pleased to find the taxi waiting. To demonstrate my worldliness, I used my best Macedonian to confirm that it was indeed a taxi for the airport (as in – I simply inquired “Aerodrome?” [pronounced ayroh-drome]), to which the driver uttered a simple “Da.” We sped towards the airport in the blackness, the driver only asking at one point if he could play music from his cellphone. Fine with me. The freeways were mostly empty, our taxi only occasionally passing a truck. I was intrigued by the frequent signs for Athens, and in the haze of the early morning, let my travel-romantic mind wander, wondering what it would be like simply to head to Athens that early morning.
We pulled up to the terminal building, back where I had begun, just three days ago. I paid the 800 Denar fair, and left the taxi, and Skopje, feeling triumphant, and managing to escape a taxi ride back to the airport, without being screwed. Not a bad way to finish – escaping with a cheaper taxi ride, a bag of pretzels, and not having to pay five fucking Euros for an air conditioner.
I entered the terminal, and headed to the check in counter. The small terminal was bustling at 5.00am, and the line for Croatian Airlines check-in to Zagreb was long, and moved sluggishly. When I finally arrived at the front, I snapped down my passport, proclaimed I had no bags to check, and was checked in in 30 seconds. I proudly left the line with world record for check in, that morning. The agent, too, had managed to check me in all the way to Erbil, Iraq.
Entrance to the departures hall.
BUstling airport in the early morning.
Zagreb check-in, with line that stretched all the way to Zagreb.
Croatia Airlines 367
September 9, 2009
SKP – ZAG
Departure: 6.10am
Arrival: 7.25
Equipment: Airbus A320
Seat: 22A
Class: Economy
Okay, first, let’s not panic people. Breathe with me – in and out, in and out, in and out. Yes, this flight was in Economy. Oh no! When I had booked this trip, I had purposefully selected the routing to Vienna via Zagreb instead of the Skopje – Vienna nonstop because, A, I had wanted to transit Zagreb to say I had been to Croatia (I don’t want to get into a big debate here, but, yes, being physically in a country, even in an airport, means you have been there), and B, wanted to fly Croatia Airlines. I didn’t foresee a time when I would fly Croatia Airlines again, mostly, because when I book my Star Alliance trips, I don’t usually rabidly ask the agent, “Oh, is Croatia Airlines available on that route?” At the time of booking, SKP – ZAG was only available in Economy, and frankly, I forgot to change it call and ask if any biz class availability has opened. Many FlyerTalkers can’t bear to undergo a one-hour-fifteen minute flight in Economy, and would dismiss such draconian treatment as insult and a blow their psyches, so, folks, as painful as it may be, I’m taking one for the team. Don’t worry. Though one hour and fifteen minutes is reallllly long flight, somehow, I will get through it. Don’t panic.
Boarding pass, printed on the cool Alexander the Great stock.
I headed through security, mostly notable because behind me in line was a family with a baby, who had not only a mullet, but a rat tail, and stripes shaved into the side of the mullet. I’m no expert on Freudian psychology, but, wow – that kid is going to have some serious issues to uncover with his psychoanalyst in his formative years. I have literally never seen a worse haircut – on anyone. I’m so sorry that poor, young kid was robbed of his dignity at such an early age, and couldn’t do a thing about it. They need to beef up social services in Macedonia and remove children from homes of parents who force that type of haircut on their progeny.
Heading through security.
After security, all passengers kind of herd together in one waiting area. The airport, I realized, is teeeeeny. There are only two gates, two shops in the waiting area, and the waiting area itself is just a bit too small to accommodate waiting passengers. The congestion worsens when passengers try to line up by the gate doors for their flights, causing security and seated, waiting passengers to contend with a veritable conga line of passengers snaking through the waiting area. I milled about the gate, waiting for boarding to begin, as the scheduled boarding time passed. I saw we had an airplane, waiting on the tarmac, a good sign, and saw employees walking back and forth between our gate and the airplane, which signaled that, at least, something was happening in the preparations for our flight. Though it would be my fault for taking the more convoluted routing, I certainly didn’t want to jeopardize missing my Austrian Airlines connection in Vienna for Erbil, Iraq, knowing the next flight wouldn’t depart until the next day.
Crowded waiting area.
The other gate - for the departure to Belgrade.
Our ship, awaiting boarding.
At about 15 minutes following scheduling boarding time, an employee made a quick announcement, and the usual European boarding scrum commenced, with that slow, mass action, push of people towards the boarding door, like water emptying from a hole in a bucket. I walked across the still-dark apron, climbed that back airstairs, and plunked myself in my seat. Though I don’t remember much from this flight, almost immediately putting my headphones around my ears and trying to go to sleep, the flight attendants seemed unfriendly and militant, and a pre-recorded set of announcements about where to place our baggage and where to find our seat numbers blared from the speakers, adding the impersonal air. Hmmm, I thought, perhaps a bit prematurely – militant, cold flight attendants? Excessive numbers of announcements that bordered on condescension? Gee, Croatia Airlines really seems like the United Airlines of Europe! Boarding proceeded very quickly, and soon we were rotating off Macedonian soil.
Economy class section. I always like crossed-seatbelts - it's my prissy little enjoyment of flying. Even United crosses seatbelts sometimes!
I quickly passed out, and awoke to a long, long, long announcement – we’re talking about 15 to 20 minutes, from the cockpit, in Croatian. Now, because I had heard nothing from the flight deck prior to takeoff, I only used it as evidence to add to the “United Airlines of Europe” pronouncement, but as soon as the Croatian ceased, the captain launched into another 15 minute speech, in English, about the details of the day’s flight, the aircraft, the weather, and the routing. It was a sensational announcement – one of the best I have ever heard – hearkening back to the days of yore when pilots pointed out geographical features and fun facts. Our captain even made sure to mention we were using a different runway, that morning, in our approach to Zagreb, because winds switched the normal south-directed arrivals to the north. What a guy. I take back some of the things I said about you, Croatia Airlines.
We soon began our descent, followed by a beautiful, picturesque approach into Zagreb in the strong morning light. Zagreb look beautiful from the air – plenty of green plains and red-roofed houses. I made a mental note to make sure to return for a more extended visit. We landed, made a quick taxi, and parked at a remote stand – sort of a misnomer for an airport this small, and bussed to the terminal to make the transfer for my flight to Vienna.
Nice approach into Zagreb in the morning sun. (Should I insert the requisite stilted and over-dramatic FlyerTalker lamentation, here, about "how sitting in Economy class, I saw a view of the wing I hadn't seen in a long time - the back of it!" Sheeeeesh).
Touccccchddddown!
Our air flying machine, as viewed from the back, when boarding the bus to the terminal. Zagreb's airport is so small, I don't see why we couldn't have just walked to the terminal - it was, literally, a 20 second busride to the terminal building from the airplane.
At the terminal, I joined the long line of people making a transfer, and proceeded through, oh, why the hell not, another security check! I need to total the number of security checks I underwent on this trip, but this particular check, was resplendently pleasant – no belt removal, no shoe removal, and no laptop removal! It was, I am pleased to say, downright civilized. After security, I joined the group awaiting the flight to Vienna, as we walked back and forth between two gates, based on conflicting information from the monitors, announcements, and the signs at the gates as to from which gate our flight would depart. Eventually, of course, a gate agent appeared, and began boarding the flight from the alternate gate, and the entire queue had to shuffle over to the new gate, and join the boarding fray.
Our flight may, or may not, depart from this gate.
Waiting area, full of confused souls.
Gates.
Boarding began, and all passengers climbed aboard a bus for the, this time, 30 second drive to the airplane.
Croatia Airlines 440
September 9, 2009
ZAG – VIE
Departure: 8.10am
Arrival: 9.05am
Equipment: Bombardier Q-400 (Dash Eight)
Seat: 1A
Class: Euro Biznass
I was very excited to fly on a Dash-8. Yes, while they are the lament of most frequent flyers whose histrionic bones can’t support their frame on anything less than a 747, I think the Dash is simply a super fun airplane. I love the huge, growling props on each wing, and the almost Gothic-type landing gear that folds into the wings with huge flourish and accompanying noise. I really enjoy flying a diversity of aircraft, and really don’t mind, or care, that the seats are smaller on this type of airplane, or legroom is somewhat constricted. Travel for travel’s sake – enjoy the act of being transported somewhere, regardless of the type of airplane, car, motorcycle, or elephant for your journey. When people mope about the size of their airplane, it really makes me wonder if they actually enjoy the idea of travel, and their destination, or their intended destination is just an unfortunate side effect of their trip, and truthfully, it’s all about simply experiencing a luxurious seat purchased with frequent flyer miles for bragging rights, and the actual destination simply becomes something to check off from a list. Since when did the destination become secondary ? Why not enjoy the mode of transport as much as the destination? That, folks, is real travel.
But, I digress . . .
Boarding the Dash for Vienna.
Horrible picture of my seat.
As boarding completed, I turned around, and found I was the only passenger in business class – all of the others were uniformed Croatia airlines employees, or “nonrevs.” Filling the front cabin with employees? Wow, Croatia Airlines really is the United Airlines of Europe!
With a few announcements and a safety demonstration, the two huge props on either wing grumbled to life, and after a quick taxi, spun to full force, and lifted us off the ground for the short flight to Vienna.
The cabin crew served a quick meal following takeoff of honey turkey, ricotta, bread, and fruit. Healthful (except for the nitrates in the turkey, I’m guessing), and light. From only eating pretzels and an energy bar the night before, and nothing that morning, I was quite hungry, and ate it all. None too shabby on such a short flight. In the United States, we would’ve heard a smug announcement from the flight attendants filled with fortressesed, stodgy language saying, “Due to the short duration of this flight, there will be no beverage service,” as they hung out in the galley, gossiping, working a crossword puzzle, or reading US Weekly as the passengers sat wondering just what they had paid for.
Quick meal.
The fight passed quickly, over the morninglit countryside, and soon began its descent into Vienna. We touched down, on time, and rolled to a remote stand, where passengers disembarked, funneled into buses, and rode to the terminal.
I readied to make my transfer. Iraq was only one flight away.