Tag: Travel

Not Concrete

Drive Time, Travels

When I first visited the U.S. of A. back in 1982 (honeymoon with Wife #1), I decided to do a LONG drive trip around the eastern U.S. — a four-day drive from NYfC to Boston and into New Hampshire and Maine, then back down to Manhattan for a day or two, and then carrying on down to New Orleans, then to Florida (Disney World), and back up the eastern seaboard to NYfC before flying home to the old Racist Republic.  The trip ended up taking us just under a month.

Bear in mind that I’d never driven on the right-hand side of the road, and there was no Wayze or GurgleMaps, just a Rand-McNally atlas.

That wasn’t a problem.  This was.

In South Africa, there are no concrete roads;  all are asphalt, and at least as far as the freeways are concerned, very smooth.  Imagine then my surprise when I got to the Greatest Country On Earth, set out on the interstate highways and had to endure three weeks of “ker-chunk-ker-chunk-ker-chunk” as the highway joints chattered away under the tires of the rented Dodge Aries, driving me to near-insanity.

WTF?  I’ve heard all the arguments in favor of concrete as a road surface, and none of them make up for the most unpleasant driving experience on Earth.  As for the “concrete lasts longer in extreme heat conditions than asphalt” argument, please note that in South Africa (where sweltering heat is not exactly an unknown weather condition) the asphalt roads bear up perfectly well.

Indeed, when I went back to Seffrica back in 2017, I had occasion to drive from Johannesburg to Pretoria and back (about 140-odd miles) on the N3/N1 motorways, which were in perfect condition AND being asphalt, there was no road noise.  (Ditto of course in Britishland, where I’d been likewise driving around Hardy Country in a Ford Focus.)

This was brought home to me quite recently when I discovered that Plano has started covering some of our concrete suburban roads with asphalt.  The change in the driving experience (and therefore my mood) has been dramatic.  My only gripe is that the process isn’t going fast enough, and to my dismay I notice that all the road repairs currently underway [20,000-word rant deleted]  are being made by re-laying concrete slabs, rather than just covering the affected areas with asphalt.

Whichever American first made the decision to go with a concrete road surface over asphalt should have been thrown into a revolving concrete mixer for a week.

No-Fly Policy

Travels, Two-Minute Hate

Why am I not surprised that Oz airline Qantas screwed up yet again?

Fed-up Qantas passengers who were forced to sit on the tarmac for six hours before their flight was eventually cancelled have unleashed on the airline.

Flight QF93 from Melbourne to Los Angeles was cancelled at 3 am on Tuesday after it was decided the plane was too heavy to take off due to strong winds. The doomed flight had already been delayed before customers boarded.

‘We just wanted to get off. We were tired, there was no water, we weren’t even offered any food, we weren’t allowed to get out of our seats.’

‘This isn’t their first rodeo, they didn’t have any contingency plan and they’re never on the front foot. You’ve got to get on the phone to them, you’ve got to chase them up, you’ve got to be the one that tries to get your compensation or get your complaint in.’

And:

A Qantas spokesperson has since apologized for the inconvenience to customers.

Frankly, I’m amazed — at the apology, not at their behavior.

Qantas is one of the several reasons why I’ll never visit Australia.  They have a near-monopoly on flights to that foul country, and their arrogance has become legend among frequent travelers.  After our first flight to Sydney was canceled because of the WuFlu, Qantas refused to give me a refund because they’d put a two-year restriction on refunds — and as the OzGov only opened the gates after three years, Qantas told me, in almost these terms, to go and piss up a rope.

Of course, I’m also still furious at the bastard OzGov for their inefficiency and intransigence when they cocked up my trip to visit my family in Sydney a while ago — a cock-up which cost me nearly $4,000, by the way, and which made me swear never to go Down Under, ever.

(Apologies to Readers Biwoz and Bluey, amongst others — it’s not your fault, of course.)

As for Qantas, my advice is that if you have to fly to Oz for whatever reason, fly any other airline — Qantas’s prices are always high anyway — because you’re less likely to be treated like shit.  It’s worth taking, say, Cathay Pacific or Emirates even if you have to connect (and wait some time) in another airport, because that hassle is likely to be more pleasant than dealing with Qantas.  If Qantas is “the spirit of Australia” as they claim, Oz is pretty much fucked.

Caveat viatorem.

Zone Of Silence

Travels

Back in 1985 when Longtime Buddy Trevor and I were flying from Johannesburg to the U.S. on our first trip together, I recall that as we took our seats (center two seats in the 6-across row), I looked around and saw that we were literally surrounded by families with babies — I mean, two babies in the row in front, three in the row behind, and two on each side.

The flight from JNB – JFK used to take about 17 hours, with a refueling stop in the Canary Islands en route.  I could see that a lengthy period of pain was shortly about to begin, so I called a flight attendant over, and very quietly asked if she could find another family with babies elsewhere on the plane, and see if we could swap seats with them.  She cast a glance around our seats, and a look of total sympathy came over her face.  “Give me a couple of minutes”, she said, and headed off.

She was true to her word.  “I found a couple with a baby who’ll swap — but they’re quite far back.  Would that be okay with you two?”

She hadn’t even finished the sentence when Trevor and I were standing up, bags at ready.  We even helped the couple with their baby stuff to our seats.

Nowadays, of course, airlines have made such an action almost impossible, what with fees and the deliberate splitting up of couples and families so that they can inflict “change fees” on us all, the bastards.

So I see this action as a step in the right direction:

The Turkish-Dutch airline Corendon Airlines is testing an “Only Adult” zone on flights between Amsterdam and Curaçao starting in November, according to a press release.

This area will be located at the front of the Airbus A350-900 aircraft and consists of nine XL seats with additional legroom and 93 standard seats.

I have no problem with people traveling with infants — hell, if they want to inflict that on themselves, then all power to ’em — and indeed, this is especially true when said families are bringing over Beloved Grandchildren to see Nana and Oupa.  Not that I’m biased, or anything.

But let’s be honest:  babies are noisy (not to say noisome) little beasts, and I can certainly sympathize with those who don’t want to endure a long-haul flight with their ears assaulted by wails which can easily drown out the sound of the jet engines.

And if it were that much of a problem for me (it isn’t really), I have no issue with an airline offering me an option to buy a little peace and quiet.

Afterthought:  I was amazed that “Amsterdam – Curaçao” even existed as a fight option, but a cursory glance showed that Curaçao is one of the several connecting points from Europe to the West Indies, most notably to Aruba (still a Dutch colony).

…not that I’m suggesting anything, of course.

Quelle Surprise II

Travels

You know you’ve pissed off the locals when you arrive at your holiday destination to see signs like this scattered all over the place:

And as the signs are printed, not handmade, enough of that sentiment exists that someone’s making money off it.  Whatever could have driven the locals to feel this way?  Well, here’s one possible reason:

A man shared his frustrations after being rejected three-times by restaurants with plenty of free tables in Barcelona. Resident (!) Eudald said: “On the first terrace that I got a table, a waiter quickly arrived and told me that it was reserved. It was not. As soon as I got up, a group of foreigners who were behind me sat down,” he explained.

“In the next one, they warned me that I would only have 20 minutes. I specified that I wanted to have dinner, but they insisted that I should do it within that time frame.”

Giving a Spaniard only 20 minutes to eat his meal… isn’t that against the law, Over There?  And don’t these guys know who keeps their doors open when the touristas  aren’t there?

Then you have this situation:

Ximo Lorenzo, the manager of the Clandesti bar in Valencia, said he’s tried other methods to stop customers from hanging around and not paying for drinks – but they failed. He told Levante-EMV: “This is a cheap place where we had board games for people to play, but I’ve seen people arrive at 6pm, stay until 12pm and only order a coke. That’s not profitable.”

At first, Lorenzo said board game players were required to order a drink every 40 minutes, but customers didn’t listen. He then limited glasses for shared drinks and took away the board games, which he said was a “shame”. He said: “In general, people do have common sense and order several drinks if they are there for a long time. But on the days when we brought live music, some people came in to see the concert and didn’t drink anything, so I had to put up a compulsory consumption sign.”

Nothing worse than a cheapskate tourist, I agree.  Even I, a devoted flaneur, will order either a meal, some pastries and/or several cups of coffee or aperitifs if I stay awhile.  However, ol’ Ximo could have the other kind of problem:

Boozy Brits vomit & brawl on streets of new party capital as
girls flash for free drinks & down 10 shots in 10 seconds

You have to read the whole story to get the full extent of the awfulness, but here are a couple of choice snippets:

British visitors Stacey, from Manchester, and Londoner Katy, had been left feeling a little disgusted after trying out the Anus Burner shot made up of tequila, orange juice and Tabasco.

And:

One person has a plastic phallus strapped to their head and if other punters can land three neon hoops over it, the whole bar gets a shot for free. If they fail, the reveler wearing the penis has to pay for everyone to get a shot.

Nothing says “class” like walking into a pub to find someone wearing a penis on their head — although I suspect the term “dickhead” slips easily off the tongue.

Oh well… scratch Split from the “Travel Bucket List” — or maybe I’d just go during late fall or winter, to avoid the wild animals (see above).

Why Indeed?

Celebrities, Travels

The question is asked:

Why DO US megastars Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise and George Clooney prefer the UK to California?

The answer is actually quite simple, and it’s one of the reasons why I love going there too.

The pat answers, of course, are manifold — especially in the case of the above reptiles — and the first, obviously, is that anywhere in Yurp (including Britishland) is preferable to the shithole that California has become, especially when the said reptiles are also filthy rich and can buy things like “cottages” on the Thames River or castles in Devon;  and being all part of the same mutual admiration society, they can also count on their buddies to put them up for a day or week.

Then they can play the part of the “locals”, and go to quaint little pubs and tearooms and drink “pints” and drink PG Tips tea, go to Wimbledon and thus hobnob with all their precious little Hollywood buddies also visiting “for the occasion”.

And if the weather turns shitty (as it sometimes does in Britishland), they can simply jump into a first-class seat on an airliner and head off to, oh, Cannes, Como or Malibu.

The thing is, it’s very easy to fall in love with the U.K. under those circumstances.  All that British stuff and the matchless beauty of the countryside is like one big theme park, and it is just how it’s described:  charming, quaint and pretty.

And I haven’t even touched on the history, the kind one experiences when finding out that people have been worshipping in a little stone church since the 12th century, or stumbling across some broken clay pots from the Bronze Age in a field somewhere, or seeing the outline of a Roman road winding across an impossibly-green meadow where now a flock of snow-white sheep are grazing contentedly, safe from predators like lions, bears or even wolves.

It’s a gentle country, so unlike the harshness of the U.S. — and especially so when one is living in a wealthy cocoon like Clooney or Depp.  And it’s really easy to love a place when you’re not forced to live there as a native:  by family tradition, work or heritage.

If I sound familiar with the topic, it’s because I feel exactly the same way, having spent weeks and months living in Britishland, whether in Wiltshire at Mr. Free Market’s country house or The Englishman’s farm or in the latter’s cottage in an impossibly-beautiful Cornish seaside village.  After the first couple of weeks I was last there, I found myself browsing the real estate listings, wondering just how I could perhaps buy a little cottage in Devizes or Burton-on-Trent or Norton St. Philip or… or… or…

And if I had the wealth of the Cooneys, Depps, Cruises or their ilk, I would have done exactly what they have done.

Here’s the problem, though.  As I discovered, at some point you get sick of living in a foreign country, even one as pleasant as Britishland.  At some point, you get sick of the high prices (Brits are ripped off more than tourists in Manhattan, and it happens all the time);  sick of the tiny little roads that are so picturesque, and such a huge pain in the ass to use when you need to get somewhere in a hurry;  sick of the class- and wealth envy that you see every day on TV and hear in conversations in those quaint little pubs that serve delicious bitter ale, at £6 ($7.70) a pint.

You get sick of the stupid TV — oh, don’t get fooled by Downton Abbey or Midsomer Murders:  those are the very few jewels scattered around in the dreck and swill of Strictly Come Dancing, Love Island, TOWIE, the empty-headed morning TV hosts, and Piers Morgan.

And you get sick of how primitive the place is — a place which has simultaneously the best newspapers in the world and the worst Internet service (unless you live in London).   A place where you can wait a week for an electrician to come and fix your plug outlets, or where train service can be interrupted for days on end by chilly weather (!), not to mention the frequent strikes of the pampered working class.  Where a lowly bureaucrat can stop you putting up a privacy fence on your property, or after you’ve put it up, tell you to take it down because it’s six inches too high.

You’ll get sick of the petty crime that abounds everywhere — even in those postcard-pretty villages — and the indifference of the police to the problem.

And yes, you get sick of the weather, eventually.  Even those who prefer cooler temperatures and overcast skies will get sick of the ceaseless drizzle, the chill that seeps into your bones, and the inability of your clothes to ever dry out properly.  Like Seattle, only twenty degrees colder.  Why else would Britain boast the largest per-capita percentage of expats who move to Spain, Portugal, France and gawd help us Australia, in ever-increasing numbers?

None of this matters to our celebrity part-time Brits, because their careers take them off to film sets in California or Colorado where they can become, once again, Americans.

I still miss the place, terribly. I just don’t want to live there.