Everyone’s been telling me since my airborne commuting ramped up that I’ll soon get tired of the flying. Well, as I’m getting very close to being a platinum frequent flyer, I think I’m at the point where I should be tired of it by now; but I’m still as happy to board an aeroplane as I ever was (the occasional struggle with sciatica aside). What I am well and truly sick of is the other rubbish associated with travelling, namely: airports, taxis and hotels.
Take my current trip for example. Frankfurt Airport (or “Fraport” as they brand it in a way that strikes me as exceedingly lame) is the worst airport in the entire world, with the possible exception of a booby-trapped shed on a dirt strip in Sierra Leone. The whole place is a construction site with exposed wiring, temporary walls and signposts that point to nowhere (my particular favourite was one that pointed at a drywalled dead-end and read “other directions”). Far from being the rigidly organised epitome of German efficiency you would expect, it is largely devoid of staff, entirely devoid of any staff with the ability or desire to help and organised on one enormous straight line so that in order to get from your arrival gate at one end to your departure gate at, naturally, the other end, close to a two-mile walk is required. They have also never heard of travelators for long, straight stretches of hallway and there is a smoking stand every thirty meters (essentially a big metal box with a vacuum cleaner inside it) which almost but not entirely completely fail to ingest any of the smoke coming from the dozens of nicotine-crazed travel zombies that hunch over them, making the whole airport smell rancid.
So here was my arrival in Fraport: Got off the plane expecting “uniformed staff who will assist with your connection”. Assumed that the Turkish fellow with lime-green overalls and a mop was not in a position to help with connection, so followed other similarly bewildered passengers through maze of un-signposted corridors. Arrived in passport control zone where first clear signpost was sighted: “baggage collection this way”. As was not holding arrival card for Germany nor was planning to collect bags, wandered around until I found an out-of-the-way stairwell with a tiny sign stating “transfers”. Climbed stairwell to emerge in earlier described gigantic straight terminal. Given choice of left (not signposted) and right (not, unsurprisingly, signposted) I took off towards the only people I could see, about 500 meters away, hoping against hope to discover a flight board. Upon arrival at aforementioned congregation, discovered flight board that had a sum total of one hour’s worth of flights; not including, unsurprisingly, mine. Continued walking, hoping to find a sign pointing to Qantas, BA or Aer Lingus lounge.
Following 2-mile walk to other end of terminal, involving hastily re-evaluated detour to the inter-terminal shuttle train platform, several unmarked stairwells and a security checkpoint, discovered BA desk. Asked uniformed staff for a) gate for flight and b) location of BA/Qantas lounge. Answers: a) “I don’t know, that’s Aer Lingus, I’m BA (showing BA logo on badge as if I were painfully shortsighted)“ and b) “back the way you came, half a mile and right at the entirely unmarked gate D8”. Sigh. Eventually found BA lounge down a stairwell and then down an industrial lift. Receptionist unimpressed that I was a Sapphire OneWorld flier, had just spent 22 hours and 6 grand on business class flights with their OneWorld partner Qantas and that I was in dire need of a shower. “You’re connecting to Aer Lingus, and they’re not OneWorld. Try the Cathay lounge.” Sigh. “Where is that?” “Not sure, maybe down near the entirely un-signposted gate E8”. “You mean back where I originally entered, right down the other end of the hellish hallway (or ‘hellway’ as I’ve contracted it in the Fraport spirit)?”. “I don’t know, you could try there, excuse me I have to file my nails now”.
Back to the Cathay lounge. At the other end of the hellway. “You could try the BA lounge sir.” “I just came from there, they sent me here.” “Well, I could let you in, but you’re not connecting to a OneWorld flight, so, actually, I can’t. Try the Aer Lingus lounge.” “Where’s that?”. “Not sure, sir, check down the hall at the Emirates lounge.” Sigh. Imagine my surprise when, on my way to the Emirates lounge, I passed the Aer Lingus lounge. Which was closed. It all, however, ended reasonably well when, after a not insignificant wait for the lounge to open and a similarly circuitous discourse with the sleepy-eyed Aer Lingus receptionist, I blagged my way into the Aer Lingus lounge. Whereupon I found that the lounge consisted of half a dozen armchairs, a coffee machine and a total of zero showers. And, when I shook myself out of a doze at 0950 realising with a start that my flight was due to board in ten minutes, I also found that the boarding gate was at the extreme other end of the hellway. Naturally.
So I think that covers airports. Taxis are next, and I’ve found drivers fall into three camps: those that have been driving for their entire lives because they like driving cabs, those that have been driving cabs for their entire lives and hate every minute of it, and those that have been driving cabs for ten minutes and have only the vaguest idea of what a cab is or what it is for. Take for example my cabbie in Adelaide: “Hi, I’d like to go to the Saville Hotel on Hindley St.” “OK, is that in Adelaide?” “Oh for fuc… yes. Head towards the city.” “OK, city is right turn yes?” “Yes.” [dramatic pause]. “How you spell Hindley St?” “H… I… N… OH JESUS! WATCH OUT! Look would you mind looking at the road instead of the satnav? I’ll direct you there.” [dramatic pause whereupon I realise I don’t actually know how to get there] “Give me the damn satnav.”
Hotels are on my list for much less dramatic reasons; they are simply lonely and anonymous. I miss my family, my “space”, my familiar things and my toys.
So the flying is really the easiest bit. The only time I really dislike the actual flying part is when every seat is full and they’ve seen fit to jam three broad-shouldered gents side-by-side. And they read my laptop screen out of the corner of their eye. Yes Gigantor, I’m talking to you.
