London, Notting Hill

Charlie (Chaplin) was just part of the show on Portobello Road yesterday in Notting Hill. © 2013 Ralph Grizzle

This weekend, my head is hitting the pillow at the Hilton London Park Lane. It’s a nice, centrally located hotel where rooms go for more than $400 per night. How do I afford such rates for the nearly two weeks that I am in London? Points.

A few years ago I sold my home in Asheville, North Carolina, banked the proceeds, and began living at the local Hilton Biltmore Park. Typically, I was “home” for only one week a month, and with a negotiated corporate rate, my monthly outlay was less than my mortgage and expenses had been.

The icing on the cake was the rapid accumulation of points. I wasn’t exactly the George Clooney inspired character in “Up In The Air,” pursuing points ruthlessly, but by simply living in a hotel rather than elsewhere, I was earning a currency that I have been using for the past few years to pay for pricey hotels in Europe.

Most people who hear my story want to know if I miss having a home, and they also want to know where I keep my stuff. I do miss having a home, but on the flip side, I enjoy the freedom that comes with no mortgage or upkeep. I keep my “stuff” in a storage unit, and that works just fine for me. One thing I have learned is that I don’t need all that stuff that is in the storage unit.

So that is how your Avid Traveler lives.

Simply, I love travel and to experience new places. My nature seems to demand that I am in motion. True to that, yesterday, I laced up my running shoes and ran through Hyde Park to Notting Hill. It was a run that lifted the soul and vivified the joy of being alive. You can read about it and see photos on the Avid Cruiser blog, Running Through London: A Beautiful Day Through Hyde Park To Notting Hill.

Midway through my run, I stopped at a café for lunch on Portobello Road in Notting Hill. Noting my non-British accent, one of the owners asked me where I was from. He was stunned at my response, because he too had lived for a few years in Asheville. What part of Asheville did I live in? That was a little more difficult to answer. Home is where the heart is, as the saying goes, or in my case, “Home is where the Hilton is.”

 
Sjinternet

Digitally addicted, first-class travelers can rejoice: Swedish rail offers internet onboard, free for first-class passengers and reasonably priced for 2nd-class.

Today, I am traveling by train from the south of Sweden, Helsingborg, to the capital, Stockholm.

The journey, all tallied, takes about 4 hours and 40 minutes, which is comparable in duration to it would take me to get to one of two airports near home — Angelholm, about 40 minutes away, or Copenhagen, about an hour away — undress for security and, of course, dispense of any liquids, collect my bags in Stockholm and transfer to the city center (20 minutes by Arlanda Express and up to 40 minutes by bus or taxi).

Plus, a first-class seat on SJ (the Swedish rail system) set me back only about US$100, about the same price as the flight. Second-class seats were going for US$90. What did I get for US$10 extra? Free internet for starters. I’m using it to post this story. I’m also in a larger seat and in a less-crowded car than those seated in second class. For first-class railroaders, there’s coffee, tea, water, apples, oranges and some other small snacks — free for the taking. And if I had been departing from Stockholm, I could have used the SJ Lounge.

NewImage

The X2000 bulleting through typical Swedish spring weather : )

I’m traveling on the X2000, capable of zipping along at up to 200 kilometers per hour. Check out schedules and prices for Swedish trains at sj.se. There is an English-version of the site, though, disappointingly, I’ve never been able to use my US credit cards to book travel at the site, which seems incapable of processing them.

 

The Situation

At the check-in counter at Copenhagen’s International Airport, an SAS agent informed us that we had missed our flight to Frankfurt and that we would need to rebook. In order to rebook, he added, we would need to go to a counter across the terminal.

 

Our response? No way! We had been standing in line for two hours to get to the counter simply to hand our bags to the agent. They were already tagged. If we left our position without getting our boarding passes, we would miss our river cruise. Here’s how we fought - and won.

What Went Wrong

When we arrived at Copenhagen’s International Airport two hours before our flight to Frankfurt, the terminal was jammed pack. An exceptionally long line of passengers snaked through the terminal.

 

As a frequent flyer to and from Kastrup, I knew something was wrong. Within a few minutes, I learned that the mechanism that moves the luggage from the counters to the airplanes was broken. The situation at Kastrup was chaos.

Even though we had checked in and tagged our luggage, we had to wait until we could hand the bags over to an agent, and with the luggage mechanism broken, handing the bags over took hours, instead of minutes. It took so long, in fact, that we missed our flight.

And so after enduring snowstorms that crippled air traffic in much of Northern Europe in the days prior, holiday travelers would once again miss their flights or be delayed getting to their destinations.

There must have been 1,000 or more people in the terminal all stuck in the same predicament. Making matters worse was that neither the airport authorities nor SAS communicated what was going on and how it would be handled.

How It Should Have Been Handled

Airport authorities should have taken charge to make announcements telling passengers what was going on and updating us frequently. Information not only would have provided some comfort but also would have allowed us to assess our situations and plan accordingly.

 

SAS also should have taken charge, telling passengers how the airline was dealing with the situation.

Maybe it’s because the Scandinavians are characteristically shy that neither the airport authorities nor SAS made any announcements, except for a recording that told passengers that the airport regretted the delay. An explanation would have been much more useful than an apology. We were left in a vacuum of uncertainty.

We also were left on our own to figure out what to do. Because I hold a Eurobonus Silver Card (the middle tier in SAS’s frequent-flyer program), we were allowed to use Business Class check-in. After standing in that line for an hour and not moving an inch, we moved to the Economy Class check-in, which was inching forward.

The clocked ticked. Would we make it? There was no way to know. Our 9:05 a.m. flight to Frankfurt was not even listed on the board, and it was only 8:30 a.m. Was our flight delayed? Cancelled? After muscling my way to a counter, I learned that the flight was delayed. Why didn’t SAS use its text messaging system to inform us and others of the delays that morning?

People clearly were frustrated by the lack of information. If I had possessed a megaphone, I would have stood on the counter and shouted: “Because neither SAS nor the airport authorities will take charge and tell you what’s going on, I will tell you what I know.” I would have explained the situation to the best of my knowledge and added: “Say goodbye to your luggage once you do get to check it in. Your bags will never make it to your destination with you, so plan accordingly.”

What You Can Do In Similar Situations

  • Take Charge. Because the authorities won’t take charge, it’s up to you to do so. Be pushy and demanding. I know it’s not ideal to be a nuisance, but, as the saying goes, the squeaky wheel gets the grease. Don’t be afraid to break line and go to the counter to ask about your flight, what’s going on and how it’s being handled. Of course, this would not be necessary if the airport authorities and airlines took it upon themselves to keep us informed using the various forms of technology available to them: public address systems, flight boards, text messages, emails, etc.
  • Be Persistent. As previously noted, when we finally got to the counter to check our bags, the agent told us we had missed our flight and would need to rebook. That presented a problem: If we left the line, we would surely miss our river cruise. We had stood in line two hours to get to this point. Rebooking and rechecking our luggage could mean an additional two or more hours. Before giving up, I went to another agent, who, remarkably, got us on a flight departing in 15 minutes. Don’t take no for an answer.
  • Pack An Overnight Bag. Don’t assume that your luggage won’t make it to your destination with you. Know that it won’t. With that knowledge, open your suitcase right there in the airport and shift over what you’ll need for the next couple of days. Arriving in Frankfurt to no bags, we were glad we packed clothes for a couple of days in our makeshift carry-on bags.

Shining Stars

Two of the SAS agents I spoke with during the ordeal said they were embarrassed by the situation at Kastrup. They certainly seemed sincere.

 

One of the agents, however, proceeded to shift blame and point fingers. In contrast, the other tried to help. In business, as in life, it’s often the response to a problem that ultimately defines the person or brand.

After being refused a new boarding pass from one agent, I went to another. He got us on the flight to make it in time for the river cruise departure. “Extra service,” he said, handing over the boarding tickets, indicating that he had gone above and beyond the call of duty.

As we ran to the gate for our flight for Frankfurt, I noticed a billboard, “Problems can be complicated,” it read. “Solutions shouldn’t be.” That’s a message that Kastrup and SAS, and in fact, all who serve travelers, should take to heart.

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I inhaled

Unlike our dear former president, I inhaled. And while I did so intentionally and without apology, I also did so, as I do many things in life, with some degree of discomfort. Please, stay with me a moment. I promise I am not stoned as I write these words.

Obliged by journalistic duty to explore one of the reasons that some travelers visit Amsterdam, I set out one afternoon in search of a coffee house. Not the type of establishment where you buy coffee (wink, wink), but the type where you can “Bogart” a joint. Chalk it up to curiosity.

My quest, however, was not without a couple of false starts. The barista at the first coffee shop I walked into gave me a puzzled look, when I cowered up to the counter and asked for marijuana.

I half expected a SWAT team to descend on me after I had intoned the words. “I’m sorry,” she replied. “This is not the kind of coffee shop you’re looking for.” I gathered my composure and said brightly, “Then, I’ll just have a cappuccino.” I was somewhat relieved of the worry of guns pointed on me while I was handcuffed and hauled away.

Caffeinated, not stoned, I continued my quest, and I was soon to be rewarded. Not far from Amsterdam’s red light district was my Shangri-La. I knew well that the leaf emblazoned on the window was not basil or cilantro or parsley. That leaf, I recognized, was the holy grail of my quest.

Crossing the threshold of the establishment sheepishly, I walked up to the counter and eyed the clerk behind the counter with a conspiratorial look. “Marijuana,” I asked. “Yes,” he replied. “What type of seed would you like?” Eureka! “Whatever you recommend,” I said, with a bring-it-on look. He reached under the counter and returned with, well, seeds.

“How do you smoke it,” I asked, dazed and confused. “Well, you have to grow it first,” he replied, explaining that I had stumbled into a seed shop. He had no license for consumption on premises.

Happily, he informed me that I could go to the Bulldog Cafe for what I was seeking. And boy was he right. The moment I opened the door to the Bulldog, I knew I had hit the jackpot. The air was thick with smoke, and everyone appeared carefree and happy. For a moment, I thought I saw Jimmy Hendrix through the purple haze.

At the counter, I was presented a menu. There were two columns of weed, categorized, as the clerk explained, from mild to heavy. Seeing all this intimidated me a bit, and then something happened. I am not sure if it was the vision of the SWAT team, my Southern Baptist upbringing, or Jimmy Hendrix in the corner, but I lost my courage. “Thank you,” I replied. “Just looking.” And I turned on my heel to leave.

It took an eternity to reach the front door. The smoke was so thick that I could have cut it with a knife. The aroma was pleasant, and I began to enjoy it as I continued the long, long walk to the front door.

People were smiling at me. I smiled back. I thought I heard Hendrix ask if he might be excused to kiss the sky.

I finally reached the front door, but before exiting, I turned to take in the happy scene of people legally toking. And then I did something that I had wanted to do from the beginning. I took a long and deep breath. I inhaled.