Over the glitz of travel hangs the pall of airports, taxis and hotels. When people look at me enviously about my travels to Asia, and Europe and different parts of Canada and the US, I have to bite my tongue about how most of my travel consists of these three demons, and how I would be happy to have a surrogate take these trips on my behalf. When I get there, of course, I enjoy spending time with the people we meet (it is always the people who make a place, which is why you can make a happy and fulfilled life just about anywhere, including the places many of us grimace at, such as Yellowknife, or Sudbury, or Fort McMurray, etc.). However, a trip with many stops in a short time is likely to be about 80% at the mercy of these three blind and capricious fates.
The sugar coating on these bitter pills can be a pleasant taxi driver, a comfortable hotel, and an airport lounge.
So now we are once again in the Barajas Airport in Madrid, awaiting our flight to Istanbul. We flew in yesterday from Casablanca, having taken the 7 a.m. train from Marrakech to Casablanca. A more comfortable train trip than the trip the other way – a newer train, on a cooler day. However, the train was late, and we missed our connection to the airport, requiring us to wait an extra 45 minutes for the next train. No real problem though. Once again, the Iberia Airlines staff (the codeshare airline with Royal Air Maroc) lived down to the reputation they had already established with me on our flight in– sullen, distracted, minimally efficient. Young women all of them, they gave the impression that they had come in to work direct from partying all night, which they intended to repeat tonight, and that work and all these tiresome passengers were a necessary evil before they could sink into a siesta to give them the strength for another foray into whatever indulgences create the decadent lassitude that emanates from these young women. At the gate these women announced the boarding process then stood around chatting while all the passengers lined up, the passengers wondering if perhaps they had misunderstood the announcement. Then once on the plane, the chief steward hectored everyone to please hustle along so we could take off – again as if it were these damned unco-operative passengers who were holding up the flight – and the longed-for bacchanalian rendezvous in which the chief steward, it now seemed, had a part. To be fair, there was a steward on the actual plane that was very helpful with carry on bags and so on.
We arrived at Barajas, and as we did upon departure from Madrid we followed a rather labyrinthine procedure, in a short train, up escalators and down escalators, to wait another 40 minutes for our luggage. I don’t remember waiting longer for luggage in any airport anywhere, including the further recesses of the third world. You will detect amid these subtle comments that I am unimpressed by the mysteries of the Barajas Airport and those who have designed its passenger traffic circulation, its baggage systems, and its spartan provision of food outlets for those passengers who are held captive in this purgatory.
The taxi driver couldn’t find our hotel. The AC Coslada hotel, ranked about 4.8 out of 5 at Expedia as an airport close to the hotel (we were flying out to Istanbul the next day so no point in going into Madrid), where we got a great deal. It wasn’t just that he couldn’t find it; he hadn’t heard of it. (note to Expedia – include address and contact information of the hotel in the confirmation emails you send out). He was also the first European (or person outside Canada, I think) I have encountered who did not have a cell phone. So he couldn’t call the hotel, which I had managed to find, with directions, by googling on my blackberry. This was about the second time on this trip I had turned on my blackberry, the only other time also having been a sort of travel emergency. He proved to be a good-natured fellow, though. Once he realized he was a little lost, he turned off the metre and continued to prowl this particular suburb of Madrid, asking people, till he found the hotel. At the end, he laughed about the experience, and we laughed too. The hotel was really very good, a great bargain, and lived up to its billing at Expedia. I will have to add to its accolades there. We didn’t get a chance to try the fitness facilities, but it was a well-equipped hotel, if off the beaten track. Five minutes from the airport, as we discovered on our return journey this morning (with a taxi driver, like the Iberia staff, who seemed to resent the interruption of an otherwise exciting and draining other life in which taxi passengers were a necessary evil).
The line-up at Turkish Airlines extended just about out the door at the airport, but fortunately our Air Canada Gold Cards let us line up at the Business Class desk, much to the chagrin of the long-suffering passengers in the regular line-up waiting for the (you guessed it) Iberia staff to process them all. One fellow actually told us to go to the back of the line, but when I pointed out that we were in the business class line he turned away with an apologetic wave of the hand. The chagrin of Spaniards is short-lived, and good-natured. I felt for him, I confess, knowing that after his long wait, he still had to encounter the Iberia staff, who must practice hard to maintain such a consistently apathetic face for their public. I will close these remarks by saying, simply, that the lounge at Barajas does manage to beat out, by perhaps a point, the ANA lounge at one of the terminals in Tokyo as the least pleasant lounge we have visited, perhaps a notch ahead of Frankfurt. At least the lounge was empty, and you could make a good cup of coffee.
P.S. – Dear Turkish Airlines
I write this little post script on the plane to Istanbul, on our Turkish Airlines plane. An hour and a half ago, on the tarmac, the pilot apologized with thinly veiled resignation and frustration that because of problems with baggage handling at Madrid Airport we would be delayed about half an hour. The eyes roll.
I don’t think it’s entirely that my expectations are so low now that I feel inspired to write a thank you letter to Turkish Airlines. The flight attendants are pleasant and helpful. They don’t mind speaking Turkish, Spanish and English. They smile. You get free headsets. You get a meal – in fact you get a choice of meals! And free wine or scotch if you want it, although I never drink in the middle of the day because it knocks me out for the rest of the day. My kids don’t think they will ever be that dull, I am sure. There are pillows to make you comfortable. True, the plane is not brand new, but probably many airlines out there could sacrifice just a bit in that race to have all the best spanking new planes and instead treat their passengers to a few of the comforts that take the edge off travel. Thank you, Turkish Airlines. I have my fingers crossed for the rest of Istanbul.
Bob, once while camping in Africa, I slept on the cold, hard ground and had one of the most uncomfortable nights of my life. The next night, I borrowed a dirty, thin, inflatable mattress to sleep on and, despite still being cold and dirty, felt like I was in heaven.
I often wonder if airlines have been put on earth by god (like the cold, hard ground) to put things into perspective. Just as we need sadness to comprehend true happiness, or pain to appreciate ecstasy, perhaps we require the Iberia Airlines of the world to truly appreciate a stewardess who speaks three languages, offers us a free headset and doesn’t treat us like the scourge of humanity.
Aw, who am I kidding? I can’t stand bad airlines (as you know). Perhaps the thing to do is to start a blog on the Worst Airlines in the World, so we can do our part to rid the world of lousy air travel.
Yes, Rodge, after you have a bad experience, it all becomes relative – you realize how bad it can be. Worst Airlines in the world? It probably exists, that blog, or website. I came across a page about the World’s worst cities. Interesting submissions.