I don’t know where I’m going, but I sure know where I’ve been

I don’t know where I’m going, but I sure know where I’ve been

Whee, I’m in an airport lounge necking free booze again. Yay! Been here about half an hour, got, I dunno, 75 minutes left? Though maybe more. Who knows. Right now the only thing I can say with some certainty is that I’m sitting in the Iberia/Melia “Salon VIP”, a landside lounge at Paris Orly terminal ouest, waiting for a flight to London. Though, uh, not just London…

Oh, Iberia. The foolish fools. In November 2013, someone made a mistake. They put a fare up for sale for Paris to Madrid return, around £300. That’s about the right price. It had to be on Iberia flights - not Iberia planes, but you had to book onto an IB number even if the plane was BA’s. And someone forgot to activate the “but nothing fucking stupid” clause present in the rules governing most tickets.

So.

I bought a ticket from Paris to Madrid, return. And my outbound route is: Paris to London to Johannesburg to London to Madrid. Now, what the fare rules do not allow is for a passenger to stop more than 24 hours somewhere, and so consequently I am doing this all in the space of 40 hours or so.

And it’s all in economy.

And that’s why I’m now in Paris. Here’s how I got here.

I flew from London City airport. Despite my office being roughly halfway between my flat and LCY, the journey time is similar, so I opted to work from home this morning, so I didn’t waste time commuting - by wfh I could (and did) start at 8am to get a proper half day in. I have every idea when I became so diligent; I really fucking like my current job.

Come 1145 I was still working, in my pyjamas, and had just had it pointed out to me that I’d misremembered my flight time. It wasn’t 1435, it was 1415. Shit! Lightning shower and got dressed, shoved a few shirts and pants into a bag, got my passport and print out and fucked off out.

I don’t normally like to print much out. I’d prefer to keep everything on my phone, but I’d been unable to check in for my BA/IB flights with a message about the ticket needing reissue or revalidation, though BA customer services had reassured me everything was fine but the code share was confusing things. Just go to the airport, it’ll be fine… easy to say, but “the airport” is in a different country on the end of a single ticket. Still, in for a penny.

Out of the house just after midday, onto the 1208 express to Waterloo, onto the jubilee, some frustration at Canning Town (scene of numerous failsome episodes in my recent life) and finally a DLR to City Airport - I’m through security - after some epic queue jumping, the guy getting really pissed off when told he had to get behind the 3 people he’d stolen in front of - and at the bar by 1pm. That is pretty fucking good going right there.

The bar was not pretty good going. My flight was with CityJet, a low cost spin off from Air France and KLM, on a ticket purchased only in July. Truth is when I booked the main trip I honestly thought Iberia or BA would go, ok, well done, you found a mistake - you can’t fly it, you have to go direct to Madrid. Or they’d just cancel it. But, no, they’ve honoured them all - even the ones where people went to Singapore or Sydney. But by the time I’d twigged that I was definitely going ahead, all the mile-earning BA flights were too expensive and so CityJet it was, hence no lounge but instead the bar, “The City”.

£5.50 for a fucking rotten Guinness. Bollocks to doing that again.

Boarding opened so I walked down to gate 22, the first of the four, ordered 22, 21, 24, 23. What? At the gate the guy in front of me’s boarding pass did the bad beep thing. The lass at the desk spent a couple of minutes searching for a pen and failing to find one, though it wasn’t obvious until she asked “anyone got a pen?” and of course I did for my incessant note taking. So she borrowed it and asked to keep it until everyone was through. Ok. I have a spare anyway. But I thought about reacting like the “my pen! my pen!” guy from Kids In The Hall briefly.

My boarding pass also did the bad beep thing. The few times this has happened before have been because I was either getting an upgrade, or my chosen seat had broken inflight entertainment. But this is a low cost carrier with neither possibility. Furthermore I’d been the very first person to check in for this flight, sequence number 001, and there’s only about 30 people here. What the fuck? Why can’t I sit in 2A?

When my pass had been rejected, the guy behind me did an epic tut and then started mouthing off about me using my phone as a boarding pass, complaining about modern technology being as good as old school paper. Modern technology? Mate, you’re about to GET ON A FUCKING PLANE. A big metal box travelling very bloody fast IN THE AIR in comfort and safety. How’s that for modern technology? How about you just walk and swim to Paris? Ffhs.

My new pass had a revised boarding time of 1351 (from 1345) on it. It was already 1358. Some of us notice these things.

Anyway. Boarding started, and we were invited to walk down the stairwell labelled “pedestrians use the handrail”, as if anyone other than pedestrians use the stairs here. A short walk across the Tarmac to the 6-high steps onto a tiny prop Fokker 50 and I see “CityJet premium” adornments on the first row, in which some heavily pinstriped men are getting comfortable. I guess that’s what counts as business class.

Meanwhile in row 3a I am very pleased indeed. I have a great view of the left propeller, no one sitting next to me, and more legroom than BA’s European business class - possibly even more than that Singapore airlines flight from Colombo last month. It’s fantastic.

The woman from the gate comes onboard, and hands me my pen back. Behind her a man with a clipboard shouts “Mr FOREMAN!” at me, and I say “yes?”. He responds “OK” and fucks off. People stare. I am bemused.

Doors lock and a propeller fires up. On the right. Not on the left. Aren’t they both meant to be going? A couple of minutes later and they are, as are we all. It’s a lovely day with great views of London and the Thames estuary, then Kent and the very very tip of Southeast England. At cruising altitude I am surprised that free snacks are given out, though hardly anything - I opt for an out of character cup of tea, and a frankly delicious Belgian chocolate.

The stewardess places my stuff on the table in front of the empty seat next to me, but I transfer it to my own table which I place in the slightly higher position than that one. A few seconds later my folly is revealed as disaster strikes: my table jolts down to the one and only true, lower position, and the tea goes all over the show, with a huge patch on my right leg looking just like I’ve pissed myself.

I laugh out loud. What a dick. Wonderfully, I realise I forgot to pack a pair of shorts - my only changes are shirts and underwear, with my jeans meant to last me 48 hours (not my design, but by idiocy). And now I’m sat with a big wet stain on me. The tea, mercifully, was piss weak and I hadn’t added milk, nor was it remotely hot. But, for fucks sake Darren.

The rest of the flight is unassuming. There are no more liquids for me to have mishaps with, and the views of coastal and inland France are great. I have a fantastic sight of the Eiffel Tower as we approach Orly and think back to how right I am about Gatwick being a shit airport for London, because passengers don’t get the “wow, look at London!” thing as they fly over Sussex. We land at 1640 local time, on time.

I’ve never been to Paris Orly before. I know two things: that I have to check in at a desk, and that the Iberia lounge is landside. As I am 3hrs before my flight and it’s a busy place, my flight isn’t on the monitors yet. I can’t see any Iberia or BA desks, but there are earlier Iberia flights where check in is in Hall 1. I am in Hall 3.

Hall 1 is a bit of a trek, not least due to unfamiliar surroundings. But I find it, and the Iberia desks have no queues. I stroll up and he asks if I’m going to Madrid. Well, yes, sort of… but no, London. London? We don’t fly to London. You need BA. They are in Hall 3. Grargh!

Back to hall 3 and a bit deeper in, I find the BA desks. Again, no queue. I hand him my passport. “Sir, you are flying from Paris to London, London to Johannesburg, Johannesburg to London, London to Madrid?” I asked, each clause said slower than the last and with a corresponding raise of the eyebrows. I thought he was going to strain them. “Uh, yes, that’s right” I say. He looks astonished. And then he checks me in and gives me two boarding passes, one to London and one to Johannesburg.

He also says my BA number isn’t in my booking, and should it be? Well fuck yes it should be, one of the main points of doing this is that it’s a comparatively cheap way to earn almost 30,000 avios which I can spend on a less punishing…ok, who am I kidding, an equally punishing but more comfortable trip in the future. So he fixes it up, and then confirms I can use my other shiny card to get into the lounge. Which is, of course, back in hall fucking 1. 3, 1, 3, 1, 3, and the flight goes from gate 31. Enough already!

Aaaand that’s where we came in. I’m waiting to start this preposterous ticket, looking forward to a trip in economy at the back of a dilapidated 747 to a country where people shoot people. But am I actually going? Officially, I have 1h20m between flights at Heathrow this evening, and I think the minimum legal connection time is 50 minutes. Last I heard, my flight from here is 16 minutes late…

Don’t hemisphere the reaper

Admit it, that’s a cracking title.

So I was in Orly ouest and actually kinda sorta hoping my flights were going to get messed up, as it seemed they might. And what happens? Suddenly, it’s on time again. The 9-going-on-16 minute delay has evaporated and it’s now almost 7pm, I’m just starting a new (admittedly 250ml, fun size) beer and in a lounge in the wrong hall. Necked it, abruptly ended my conversation with Ian and fucked off to hall 3.

Hall 3 seems to actually only have a departures area leading to one gate number, my 31. But, of course, split A-D. Pretty much the second I am through security, priority boarding is announced and roughly half a plane full of people queue up. It’s not hard for that to be legit. I join in, it moves verrrry slowly and after a while they decide to split it between business class, and priority due to shiny card but seated in economy. I shift to the latter and it moves even slower than before, so I just give up and go to the loo.

By the time I return, the four or five people directly in front of me when I bailed still hadn’t reached the front, but the business class queue was empty and general boarding was announced. I strolled up to business and said “I can get on here with my sapphire card right?” and was indeed right. Queue successfully jumped.

The plane is absolutely heaving full. Despite being on time we leave late after some boarding hassles, and the taxi is short but slow. I dick around with hyperlapse before we are airborne and a sub-CityJet service commences. Maybe that’s unfair: I did get beer. But the food was a single shortbread that paled against the chocolate.

We make good time but there are evil chemtrails everywhere, plus we’re rewarded by having to circle over Biggin Hill for a bit. We eventually touch down at about 2000. My next flight supposedly closes its doors at 2100 and this is perilously close to being an inadvisably - maybe even impossibly - short connection.

It was a long walk to flight connections. I made good time and was waved straight through. Up the escalators and I’m in a very short security queue, which goes static for 5 minutes because apparently Metal Mickey is ahead of us and anyway one of the scanner scanners wants to go on a break. Through, I consult the board and see I’m departing from a B gate, in the satellite. I’m not sure I can get worthwhile lounge time in T5 main so head to the transit monorail thing, surrounded by about 4 other passengers and 80-odd flight and cabin crew.

I reach the B satellite and find gate 35 to be immediately next door to the lounge. It’s about 2035. Fuck it, I’m starving and want to change my shirt - so in I go, with a nod and a wink from the lass on the desk as I waved my Cathay card at her. Collecting miles on one card while using another for privileges like lounge access and boarding always takes a bit of “I know I’m allowed this, y’know…” sweet talking.

In, changed, found a space to sit, got a beer and a bowl full of quiche and chilli and beans and just loads of stuff at once. It was lovely and sorely needed, as was the water, but before I’d finished any of them boarding was open. Lounge time: 8 minutes? Long enough for a trip to the Vatican I reckon.

I could see my bird from my seat, a once glorious queen of the skies now showing its age inside and out. Not that I was inside yet. The exact same scenario as at Orly played out - joined fast track, it was slow, went to the loo, came back and waltzed on. This time, general boarding was announced for the rearmost rows in economy the second I walked through, which gave me a useful head start. I properly bombed it down the back toward the carefully chosen seat for maximum goodness on this flight, 51B.

51B is one of the window seats without a seat A next to it, as the fuselage narrows at the very back. Instead there is extra storage and sideways legroom. Expert Flyer had told me the flight was busy but no one had picked the seat next to me, so I strode triumphantly down the aisle and found…someone in 51C. A very old woman who had been escorted on first and couldn’t really even get up to let me in. I nipped round via row 52.

So now I’m thinking, I hope I don’t need the loo at all. I ask the nearby cabin attendant if we are busy tonight and he says we are full. So it proves - we depart late after another load of boarding issues, and lukewarm arguments about hand baggage placement. I bask in my space and then get angry when I discover I’ve lost a bud off my headphones.

BA’s old economy cabins really are pretty dire compared to a lot of places, let alone a lot of what I’ve experienced this year, but hey, as I always tell those who ask me: one of the best ways to earn a lot of miles redeemable for fancy business and first class is to actually fly. This here Iberian mistake is a prime way to earn a raft of miles down the back, aka a “mileage run” which we Englanders are short of compared to them across the pond.

That said, I’m pleasantly surprised by the legroom - better than I remember from the unblogged Dallas to Heathrow trip last May - and the entertainment system seems to be gate-to-gate so before we take off, I start watching the movie Frank.

After we take off, I start Frank again, because I am forced to. For whatever reason, the creepily voiced safety video (I swear they’ve had it redone with someone more disconcerting than the last lass) causes everything to start again. I try and find my spot about 20 minutes in, and after another 90 seconds the whole system goes away again. It says I’m allowed to listen to broadcast stuff, but that also seems to be a lie.

Drinks! Beer, please. Food! Chicken or veg? I take the chicken, a bland thing in a plastic dish topped by scalding hot tin foil. There’s also a bread roll and some kind of dessert mousse. Aware of my probable inability to visit the loo for the next 10 hours I don’t overdo liquids.

Frank is pretty good. Not remotely what I expected. The size of the TV was very very small, and what’s more my viewing angle was slightly skewiff because my companion needed the whole armrest. I hum a reworded version of Wonk Unit’s “Elbows” to myself.

I’m not being mean about her. Fair play to her for travelling. She didn’t have the strength to open her plastic quarter bottle of wine and so asked me to do it, and couldn’t lift her aisle armrest without help. Very old, very frail, yet still gallivanting and on the sauce. Briefly I think a “you slily bastard” thought in my dad’s direction as I wish he’d done the fucking same.

As far as I could tell from a brief visual survey, the first person to recline their seat was the person in 50B, directly in front of me. All flight the row kept reclining, straightening, reclining, straightening. The old girl next to me several times had the tray table dug shoved unceremoniously into her midriff as she leant forward to try and eat with some elegance. They were the height of inconsideration IMO. The window guy opened his shade and brought dazzling sunshine onto about 9 people 2 hours before the whole cabin was awake too. Sigh.

I thought, fuck it, let’s see how sleep works here. And y’know what? It works pretty well. I was using my own headphones, which cancel noise much better than the flimsy leaky crap supplied by BA. I put on a playlist of “all the instrumental ‘well being’ stuff” and had around 4 hours of honestly not terrible quality sleep. There were a lot of interruptions, and a flat bed it most assuredly was not, but it was fine. I often get by with just 4 hours at home too.

Watched a couple of Familiar Guy episodes, slept a bit more, then caught 3 episodes of a Rhys Darby vehicle called Short Poppies. Curbed my enthusiasm, and ate breakfast - an omelette and, bravely, a cup of tea. No disaster this time. Started on Happy Valley which I liked a lot.

And then, we were at Johannesburg. Landed at 0901 and 51C said she was hanging around but would try and let me out - I assured her I was in no hurry.

Thing is, I was in a bit of a hurry. Dear lord was I ever busting. After walking through a 747 that now resembled a war zone I stumbled through the unfamiliar surroundings of JNB, failing to spot a loo until right at Immigration. Upon my emergence, the queue for non-locals was massive; I got on wifi, as there’s no data roaming or even outbound SMS support in siffrica, and found Chris online on Facebook messenger. I got him to tell me the exchange rate and otherwise gave him a load of spoilers for this before my half hour allowance ran out just as I reached the front of the queue.

They ask you to take your glasses off even before you approach the desk. Huh. And I was asked what the purpose of my visit was. Um, purpose…? “In transit until tonight” was a satisfactory answer and, hello, country 49!

There were a lot of bureaux de change by baggage reclaim, and no ATMs. I had hoped I could get away without withdrawing any cash but I was very desperate for diet caffeine so really wanted some. I didn’t see any landside in the terminal either, anywhere between where I came out and the Gautrain station. By now I was understandably a bit worried, in case of Hong Kong style machines which don’t accept cards. As it happens, there are 6 card accepting machines at the station and only one person using any, but a queue about 8 strong at the counter. I figure it can’t be so hard to use the machine that all these people had to queue up and… I’m right. The machine is easy. I am cashless but in possession of a shiny new gold card, and only 28 minutes until my train into Central Johannesburg. It’s 1001, so 9 hours until my flight. What to do?