Rob Flemming
The following articles are copyright to Rob Flemming, and may not be reproduced in any form without his consent in writing.
‘Excuse me, could I have a brandy please’. I ignored the slight undertone of criticism in the flight attendant ‘s voice. He, however, could not ignore the clear criticism in mine when I had to repeat the request half an hour later. Flying Pauper Class is bad enough without being forgotten. A further half hour went past before he reappeared carrying a small tray on which stood a cut glass brandy balloon containing an ample measure.
‘I’m so sorry to take so long, Sir, I momentarily forgot. I’ve brought you a glass of Hennessy from first class to make up for the inconvenience.’
Did I complain at the additional delay or rise to the bait of being patronised? I did not. Sitting back. I stretched out my legs under the seat some twenty-nine inches in front of me and relished my taste of first class benefits. Business Class is a world removed from the horrors of economy; First Class travel only for those who don’t need to ask for the cost of the fare.
For the average mortal, long haul flying in particular, means trying to keep the cost of the fare to a minimum and hoping that – the seats won’t be too uncomfortable, the food will be edible, there won’t be a squalling child in the seat next door, there will be a movie that’s at least half way worth watching and so on. But, fearing the worst, also hold on to the faint hope that there might be the chance of an elusive upgrade. Travelling economy means standing in long queues at the check-in counter and being told that your luggage is overweight or you carry-on bag is too large. It means fighting for what little space is left in the overhead locker as other passengers try to muscle past.
Paup mythology holds various thoughts on how to get upgrades. One theory had it that turning up early gave a better chance of grabbing unallocated seats while another mooted that turning up late might lead to an offer of a seat unfilled. In all cases, it was thought that if you were smartly dressed your chances were enhanced. Even if there was any truth in any of them, those days are long since gone and most genuine first/business class travellers dress casually anyway!
As the saying goes – there’s no such thing as a free lunch. (Actually, there’s more truth in that than meets the eye as many short haul carriers and charter flights charge separately for food.) Airlines now actively offer upgrades on a paying basis. As an example, Virgin Holidays publish a price list for upgrades to both their Premium Economy and Upper Classes. An upgrade on a flight to Miami this autumn will get you a welcoming glass of champagne plus 38 inches of legroom for a mere £195. Given the fact that normal legroom is 30 inches, that averages out at £20 per inch plus an expensive glass of champagne. An upgrade to Upper Class would cost an extra £1055 but you do get masses of legroom, wonderfully comfortable seats and champagne all the way. As Virgin call it – the ultimate service.
But what we’re all really looking for is the complimentary upgrade and if you don’t ask you don’t get. The friendly official at the check-in counter is the first person to ask about available upgrades, especially if it looks as though they’re involved in seat planning rather than punching tickets through a machine. If your charm and suave talking doesn’t work there, then you might try the agent at the gate. And if that fails, there are only the cabin crew left in the hunt as you board the plane.
People’s reaction to the announcement of their flight being called is positively Pavlovian. As soon as the call is heard, everyone leaps to join the queue at the gate as though they might otherwise miss the flight. Don’t. Chill out and relax before joining the line at the back if you plan to try for an upgrade. In all cases, you’re better off without a line of people behind. When it comes to complimentary upgrades, a little discretion and tact goes a long way and airline staff are hardly likely to want to broadcast an allocation to the rest of the passengers. Don’t forget when you’re asking so nicely that it’s: your birthday, wedding anniversary, last flight before retirement, better for your ailing back and in recognition of your standing as a Justice of the Peace. And then remember that they’ve heard it all before.
The simplest route to a possible upgrade is to join one or more of the frequent flyer programmes and scrabble your way to the top rung of the ladder. Most airlines have a tier system; the higher you are in the hierarchy, the better your chances of getting an upgrade. Joining these programmes is usually encouraged and free. The further and more frequently you fly, the more ‘points’ you accrue and the higher you climb in the hierarchy. And of course, it is possible to trade in accrued points for an upgrade. On both counts this translates into a form of payment through points that you have earned. Bear in mind that a points system is usually related to the sums paid for flights rather than miles flown.
Then there’s ‘bumping’. In their desire to ensure that a plane is full, the airlines oversell the seats on the assumption that not all the passengers will turn up for the flight. If they then find that the flight is overbooked, an agent will look for volunteers prepared to forgo their seat. As well as being offered a different flight, you’re likely to be offered some financial compensation and possibly an upgrade.
Waiting for an early evening flight to Dallas, I was approached by a young lady who asked me whether I would be prepared to travel on a later flight as mine had been overbooked. The offer of compensation included £250 with £40 pounds worth of food/drinks vouchers plus overnight costs in Chicago. I naturally accepted and was told to check an hour later for confirmation. On the downside, there was no need for me to make a change. On the upside, I was still given the vouchers and upgraded to Business Class. I can’t remember a pleasanter flight and have hoped to be bumped again ever since.
To be bumped you do need to be flexible and not be committed to arriving at your final destination at a specific time or even day. When you’re booking your flight, make it clear that you are able to be flexible in the event of overbooking and do the same at the check-in counter. Watch out for airline agents who look as though they’re scanning the passengers for possible ‘bumps’ and volunteer. If you’re flying on a charter flight to Alicante, don’t bother as the plane probably won’t have a business class let alone a first and ‘bumping’ only really occurs on scheduled flights.
So you’ve given up and accepted the grim fact that you’re a paup who’s paid for a cheap ticket and you’re stuck with economy. At least get one of the decent seats. The ones near the exits invariably have more legroom as long as you accept the fact that in the event of the plane taking a nosedive it will be your responsibility to yank off the door. Otherwise opt for an aisle seat, which at least means that you can stretch out your legs when all is quiet. Plus you don’t have to crawl over recumbent bodies when you want to go the loo in the middle of the night,
For the truly adventurous among you, whose chief objective is to get the cheapest flight available, try going as an air courier. Flying as an air courier, you’re limited to hand luggage and the paperwork that goes with the ‘baggage’ checked in under your name as representative of the despatching company. Flights can’t be planned ahead and you have to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. All you have to do is pick up the paperwork at one end and pass it on to an agent at the other; the rest of the time is your own. In some instances, you may be lucky enough to find a free flight but more often you will have to pay a percentage of the ticket. But this will be far less than the cost of a regular flight even if it’s obtained through a consolidator. Most air courier companies operate close to the major airports such as Heathrow and can be approached direct for immediate information and requirements.
But one word of caution. If you find that there is no check-in counter, that you climb up a ladder to enter through the rear end of a plane with an outside loo and your fellow passengers include chickens and a Russian carrying warm beer, forget upgrades. Keep smiling … and pray.
Henry propped his self-inflicted hangover up against one of the four white columns outside the front door. Champagne had been on tap all evening the night before but Henry just had to sample the whiskey afterwards. Multiple nightcaps one might say. And the early morning Buck’s Fizz hadn’t worked its magic. The delightful but pungent smell of kedgeree wafted through the door as breakfast was called. As I watched, Henry’s colour changed from a rather pallid white to a distinct shade of green. With a little sigh, he slowly slid down to the ground displaying the most palpable and worst hangover that I have ever been privileged to see.
Just one cheerful little anecdote in honour of the festive season. A time for good food and fine wine, witty conversation and merry laughter. And often really manages to bring out the worst in us. So here are a few of my ‘worsts’ from around the world.
Dusk was falling as we drove into the small village on the coast of Kerry. All we wanted was a room for the night but we managed to find Mrs Corrigan’s house instead. A smoky pink-washed guesthouse, it had a vaguely seedy feel with walls weren’t quite straight and at least two of the large plastic letters from the sign had left for a better home.
‘Sure I have a room but it’s a twin. I’ll have none of them doubles in my house. If it’s a twin you’re after then that’s foine.’
Mrs Corrigan had to be one of the most unappealing landladies of all time. Slippers, a dirty apron, and a formless pullover that might once have been light blue were the most notable pieces of garb. Greasy graying hair topped a face dotted with lumps and bumps several of which sprouted long black hairs.
She led us up dark stairs lit only by a candle under the Sacred Heart, to an equally dark and sparsely furnished room.
‘That’ll be thirty pounds. In advance. The bathroom’s down the corridor. The outside door will be locked at 10. Breakfast is at eight. You’ll be wanting a full Irish breakfast I suppose?’
I put the money onto the outstretched hand, which closed as fast as a bear trap and departed with the rest of her.
Shaking our heads in amused horror, we flopped down onto granite hard beds. Which squelched noisily. I stood up, slowly sat down and squelched again. Bemused, I peeled back the bedclothes to reveal heavy plastic sheeting. A damp proof course was in each bed in case the guests wet themselves! The bathroom was tastefully decorated with black mould and the taps both boasted cold water. We slept fitfully, squelching through the dark hours.
We arrived for breakfast on the dot. Dressed as she been the night before, Mrs Corrigan plonked bowls of cornflakes and a jug of milk on the grubby blue plastic tablecloth.
‘I hope you slept well. Enjoy your meal now.’
Mm, thank you,’ we chorused and I poured a white sludge over my cornflakes.
‘Mrs Corrigan, do you have any milk, please?’
‘Blessed Virgin, it’s off’ she said, peered at the mess. ‘Do you have a couple of pounds? I’ll be going to get some then.’ And taking the money she left.
Twenty minutes later she returned with a small carton of milk. Our Irish breakfast comprised underdone fried eggs, overdone bacon and sausages and caramelised tomatoes. And all of it cold.
For hotel accommodation an accolade must got to St Peter’s in New Orleans. Picking a hotel arbitrarily from a board at an airport is not to be recommended. The cab ejected us outside a crumbling colonial hotel with cast rust balcony in the worst part of the French Quarter. A decrepit, chain smoking attendant handed us the key to our room, explained the mechanics of the air con/heating unit and directed us outside to a dark doorway at the end of the building.
Along a balcony threatening to collapse we found the vast room with loft ceilings. The furniture consisted of two beds, one chair and a wash basin with cold water. The aircon/heater rusted in one window, refusing to work and the shutters that were still attached to others refused to close. New Orleans was suffering the most extreme winter in centuries and the blistering winds took the temperature way below zero. Returning to the cupboard sized reception office, I asked for a fire.
‘Have you tried banging it? Sometimes that works,’ he said rubbing his hands in front of a gas fire on full bore.
‘We need a fire! Like this one. It’s fucking freezing!’
‘W’all need this one. Ya’all try this.’
For fifteen minutes Anne and I sat over a one bar electric fire which glowed orange as we turned blue. Eating gumbo in a frozen, empty diner on Bourbon Street didn’t help. At St Peter’s the borrowed heater struggled futilely against the bitter cold. Making a pile of our clothes, the sheets, pillows and blankets, we tunnelled underneath fully dressed and played at being Eskimos. Having survived the night we checked out.
Taking the slow boat from Hong Kong to Shanghai was worse in a different way. Throngs of Chinese protectively clutched their ubiquitous striped bags as seven naive westerners checked in their bags. A large Chinaman with a round face and skullcap proclaimed at length to the assembled crowd. Turning to us he said simply, ‘That mean boat delayed’. Jin Jiang Joe was to become the Master of Ceremonies.
Finally boarded, the tiny cabins without portholes were reminiscent of a submarine. The bunks, showers, walls, floors and ceilings were grey painted steel. Three hundred and forty Chinese seated on their bags, chattered through open doors at volumes far in excess of tolerance levels. Only now did we realise the error of our ways – retrieving a bag from the hold at $50HK made toothpaste expensive. A tour round the boat would be a relief from the irritation and noisome claustrophobia below decks.
The Jin Jiang did have a swimming pool but no water and a small tennis court but no balls. The limited library was locked and the lounge was filled with excited Mah Jong players rattling tiles onto wooden tables. Out of three possible restaurants only one was open. At 6 pm it was full of ravenous diners and by 6.30 it was empty with little food remaining. A sandwich had to suffice. But when we found the bar shut, we rebelled!
For three days we drifted through a flat pewter South China Sea, battling for bowls of viscous congee and scraps of meat. Our solace came in the evenings as we occupied the bar only to be ‘entertained’ by Jin Jiang Joe. His magic show was bad but his singing worse. As the shadowy shapes of the Bund appeared through the morning mists, we breathed a sigh of relief.
Travel is an unavoidable and often pleasurable part of the expat way of life. But just sometimes the pleasure can turn to pain. I firmly believe that there are drivers around the world who want to kill me. And the worst combination found me in North Vietnam on the road from Lao Cai to Sa Pa.
‘The only things smooth about this jeep is the tyres!’ exclaimed Kevin as we bone-crunched into yet another pothole.
Sitting in the back of an ancient Russian jeep with no suspension is bad enough at any time. When exhaust fumes are fed directly in to the interior as well, it’s suicidal. Hanging over the back of the jeep and holding on to the roof was one option. However, this provided frightening views of the valley far below as the driver swerved towards unguarded precipices. Avoiding oncoming vehicles by day was hair-raising but at night smugglers en route to the Chinese border didn’t use lights. I felt the tyres skid on the gravel at the edge of the road as a dark shape hurtled past and prayed.
As it started to rain, I slipped back inside and peered past the driver through the streaked windscreen. ‘Wipers!’ I shouted over the noise of the engine. The driver nodded as Tang translated. Holding the wheel with one hand, he rocked a small knurled nut at the top of the glass with the other. The wiper was manual! The jeep barely missed the drunk Black Hmong swaying in the road on the outskirts of Sa Pa. I think we all lost a life that night.
Flying is some people’s worst fear but not mine. [I even like airports; apart from Kuala Lumpur where they discriminate against smokers by sending you three miles to a tiny room far away from normal human beings. The smoke in this room is thick enough to slice. There ought to be a sign saying ‘Lung cancer available here’ but what the hell, I’m giving up anyway.] The flight from Khujand to Dushanbe on Tajik Airways, however, was an experience. Standing on a baking runway with two bags and no water, I stared at another Russian relic but this one had with propellers. Sergei handed me a bottle of warm beer which he swore would help. It’s the only flight I’ve taken where boarding from the rear, you dump your bags at the back of the plane and fight for a seat. Standing is allowed. It’s also the only one that allows livestock in the cabin and one of a few with an outside loo. Gazing down through the little round windows at the mountains knifing up to the sky, I did consider things like weight factors and parachutes!
But back to food, drink and entertaining. For a truly disgusting meal, try the slime and bones of sea snake on Lantau or the shredded wood of bamboo soup on Bali. Need something more intriguing? How about a delicious bowl of Texas fries – otherwise know as bull’s testicles. I have no lower recommendation for liquid refreshment than the dark brown liquid with no name that I came across in Hue. Served in small glasses, it also contains small dead animals, drowned insects, much of the local vegetation and is lethal. But for the worst service, I had to come back to the UK. Happy holidays.