Seedy boarding: why priority status means back of the queue.

Short break. South of France. At Nice airport, heading home to Heathrow. It’s hot.

The airport is busy and as we tango past stray travelers with heads tilted towards distant departure boards we see what no traveler wants to see – a mammoth queue at Gate D. Armed with our Priority boarding passes we stride confidently to the front of the queue to exercise our privilege where the grim realisation sets in: this queue IS the priority boarding queue. We cross-check with another traveler already queueing and in a broad Scots accent the worst is confirmed.

So with a comfortable two hours until take-off we resign ourselves and stand in line behind Scotty who is now muttering about disgraceful service and the diminishing minutes he has until his flight is due to leave to anyone who can listen or understand.

We watch as fresh arrivals make our mistake. They slow to scan the queue, raised eyebrows, dropped jaws, head to the front, are appraised of the situation then shuffle despondently to the ever-receding back of the growing snake. Their assumed superiority deflating visibly as they do.

More fresh arrivals gather at the head of our queue and start to form their own queue. Priority-priority status is catching on. The new branch grows and the arguments start. Scotty is having none of it. He strides over to the super-privileged, his Crocs squeaking on the marble floor and his baggy cargo shorts swinging generously around his pale legs and he lets them have it.  He explodes, pointing to the back of the queue, waving his gold card and the new queue mostly dissolves.

But the fight is not over for one Well-Heeled Couple and we watch as they enter negotiations with the front of the queue. This couple are not giving in without a fight and against all odds we see them merge and finally disappear into the top of the line.

Scotty is now on the phone to British Airways, his glasses balanced impossibly on his sweating snout which he wrinkles to keep them there, baring a cargo of yellowing teeth. BA, who are a thousand miles away promise unconvincingly to look into the matter.

So, finally, we are ten check-ins from the front and Scotty is looking happier. But the cruelest cut is yet to come. The desk attendant raises an arm and asks the queue for Gatwick passengers who break out from behind us like lottery winners and charge past to the check-in desk pushing us from 10th to 30th in a flash.

When we get through (an hour later) we see Scotty and well-heeled couple standing eagerly among others at the boarding gate. The flight is announced, their tickets torn and they head towards the bus.  Now, arriving first on a bus puts you at a disadvantage. You get a seat, yes but when it comes to disembarking, it’s first on, last off.

Scotty and Well-Heeled Couple only realise this when the bus is full and lurches towards the plane. After what appears to be an eternity, the closed doors hiss open releasing many passengers who checked in way later than them.  They burst from their seats, necks craning towards the now fully-stacked boarding steps as if unwilling to accept their very public relegation.

On board, we all settle in, bags are loaded and we are embalmed with a cocktail of humid air and perfume.  Karma is served in the form of a 90-minute delay on the scorching tarmac. Some read, some chat, some drink and kids scream.  Scotty, meanwhile, is back on the phone to BA.

But we do leave, albeit late, and the waiting becomes history.  Priority boarding queue issues blur into the pleasure of returning home. Tired but on terra firma, we collect our bags from the carousel.

As I leave the baggage collection area I smile at Scotty and Well-Heeled Couple, who, hot, cross and expectant, are still waiting for their bags.

Bruges in 60 seconds

How come Belgians aren’t fat?

Bruges, Belgium’s medieval jewel, “Venice of the North”, is home to a thousand chocolate shops, too many famous artists to mention and Wally de Backer, better known as the pop star, er, Gotye.  (no, nor have I). Here, when you are tired of chocolate, you eat chips, mayo, waffles, cream, egg nog (Advocaat),  drink copious amounts of Trappist Beer (around 6-14% alcohol) or a bewildering variety of locally made Gins, Vodkas and weirder spirits.

We stayed in The Dukes’ Palace, super-central, flawless 5* Gaff.  Actually, most of the multiple hotels and BnBs are super-central; you can walk from one side of town to the other in about half an hour.

Bruges is small, pretty, ancient, friendly, free of crime, with confusingly planned cobbled streets connecting the many churches and squares all of which are delicately lit at night.

Art: we stood in awe before Hieronymus Bosch’s Last Judgement, a kind of Dali-esque depiction of both Heaven and Hell and we admired one of the finest collections of Bruge’s own welshman Frank Brangwyn. God: We genuflected before the Blood of Christ himself in the Basilica.  Food: we ate at Patrick Devos (fabulous and expensive) and Poules Moules (fun and cheap) and drank Brugse Zot beer (6%) with three brothers from Leeds whilst watching Scotland beat Wales at rugby in Delaney’s Irish Bar.

It’s hard to find fault with this lovely little town only 3 hours away by Eurostar (via Brussels).  But like the taxi driver said, watch out for cyclists and above all the horse-drawn carriages who could all use an visit to driving school.

See also Rome in 60 seconds, Barcelona in 60 seconds, Cyprus in 60 seconds and Mallorca in 60 seconds

More comebacks than Simply Red?

Last week I visited La Colombe D’or, a beautiful little Hotel in the hilltop fortress town of St Paul de Vence, half an hour north of Nice on the Cote D’Azur.  Lucky old me.

It’s a unique place; quaint, gorgeous and special with history in every nook and cranny. Outside, fat-boughed fig-trees shade the worn stone floors and tall, clipped Cyprus stand guard by the pool.  Inside hang paintings by an army of famous French artists and sculptors: Picasso (he paid for his stay with two pictures) Leger, Chagall, Matisse and many others.  It’s artisan chic.

It’s also a paradox; poor furniture, small, basic rooms (although comfortable) and a menu that has remained unchanged since the year dot would send most Hotels to the bottom of the league.  But Colombe D’or (that’s Golden Dove not Golden Column, stupid) is a haunt for celebs (Kate Moss and Roger Moor are regulars) and the adman community who have built its reputation over many, many decades and probably will for many decades to come.

Service is brusque and waiters perform impossible pirouettes through narrow corridors and between tables.  The food is good without being amazing (go to Les Terraillers in nearby Biot for that) but still the people return. I spoke to one guest who was on his 45^th visit.  Cannes Festival-goers flock there for respite and multiple bottles of the Provençale rose wine Minuty.

As we kick back by the jade-green pool after a long, lazy lunch in the shaded dining yard, all at once it’s 1931 and I glimpse the ghost of founder Paul Roux and his wife Baptistine negotiating a bar bill with Pablo Picasso…

Rome in sixty seconds (or ruined in Rome)

I can’t believe it’s taken me 58 years to discover Rome.  Bursting with history, fashion and restaurants, it’s a magnet for geeks, trend-setters and foodies alike.  Most towns can offer history but nowhere is it so evident as in Rome.  It’s all around you.  I saw chunks of Roman masonry stacked away in an old stone arch (itself probably as old) counting the centuries while patiently awaiting a place in the catalogs of the next generation of tired archaeologists.

The town is big enough to offer huge variety (the backstreets of Trastevere vs. opulence of The Vatican) yet small enough to be largely navigable by foot.  We walked from The Bee Fountain in Piazza Barberini (1625) to the Colosseum (AD 72) via the relatively modern (1925) but no less impressive Altare Della Patria – two millennia in less than an hour.  Warpspeed.

A holy seagull at The Vatican

The top-line attractions however are victims of their own popularity and can be mobbed by selfie-stick wielding turisti and a swarm of multi-lingual, self-appointed VIP guides whose ecclesiastical knowledge could be written on a bible marker.  Premium “skip the line” tickets are available which are a good idea, but like Easyjet early-boarding they attract the wrong type of tourists and earn scorn from the 3-hour queue-ers.  No doubt soon there will be skip the skip-the-line tickets and skiptheskiptheskiptheskiptheline tickets too – I could go on.

Italy’s economic position is shaky and it’s future is uncertain but Rome seems healthy enough with plenty of premium retail going on.  We sampled a little of it with a cocktail on the roof terrace of The Sofitel Hotel whose sunset views over The Spanish Steps and Villa Borghese are pretty much unsurpassed.  Then we ate Truffles and lobster at Ad Hoc in Via di Ripetti. I can only hope that the exorbitant cost of these luxuries staves off the Italians’ fiscal collapse for a little longer.

See also Cyprus in sixty seconds and Barcelona in sixty seconds

The Down Under tour

It’s been so long since my last blog I’ve almost forgotten how. Almost. But I’ve been busy; travelling in fact, and now that I’m back I’m happy to share a few observations on what was a delightful family holiday in Singapore, Australia and the Indonesian island of Bintan.  I made a video too …

Singapore is a great place.  Can’t say enough nice things about it.  My old mum was there in 1945 and she said I should have a Gin Sling in Raffles so, we did.  Although the city has developed at a pace, not much has changed about Raffles (it’s been lovingly restored) except a beer and a cocktail cost $52 which would’ve been a month’s salary for a Red Cross nurse in those days.  Mum loved the place too but she said “There were a lot of Americans there after the war.  They were nice, but they were very noisy…”.  No change there, then.

Gardens By The Bay

Today Singapore is urban, busy, modern, clean, efficient, humid.  And very friendly too.  One of our team bought three bricks of cigarettes on the plane and took them through the Red customs channel at Changi Airport only to be asked how many he had and casually ushered back through the green channel by the smiling customs man. “Not enough” he said.  Choice.

Highlights other than seeing Raffles for the first time included a sunset dinner at KuDeTa in the SkyBar and Lau Pa Sat (Food Courts) or Satay City as I called it. Oh, and cold Tiger Beers and Fu Nan: Digital Life shopping mall; hundreds of electrical gadget shops on six floors.

On to Brisbane, staying with rellies. We had a topsy-turvey Christmas in 35 degree heat; with crackers, 20-plus people on the deck, prawns like flamingo heads, Bundy and Coke, kids in the pool followed by an epic game of yard cricket.  We spent a few days in Mooloolaba and Noosa (an hour’s drive north) where we rented a “unit”.   We played in the surf, had dinner at Fish on Parkyn, lunch at Hot Pipi’s, visited the seafood market and took a jog along the seafront (soon to appear on http://www.joggingroutes.org/).

I love Australia. I loved the steaks at The Breakfast Creak Hotel. And I love The Aussies too, for their humour, their directness and their fortitude. Such a young country still presents boundless opportunity as exemplified by lovely Emi Kamada’s new and incredibly popular Bird’s Nest Yakitori bar where we spent a very enjoyable evening eating every part of a chicken, cooked over white hot Vietnamese charcoal. Culturally, Australia may be behind the curve but the Aussies enjoy life probably more than we ever will.

Finally back to Singapore and on to Bintan Island – an hour’s boat ride from the harbour. Stayed in The Banyan Tree where we had intimate contact with giant centipedes and saw baby Green Turtles.  It was a nice chill out phase but it’s an expensive way to see the Monsoons and it did rain a lot. They’re building an airport on the south side of Bintan and they’re already developing massive swathes of land, murdering ancient trees to make way for golf courses and holiday homes.  Although I sponsored it by going there I can’t help feeling sad to see such a paradise of an island slowly asphyxiating in a slurry of concrete and international cash. We may be the last generation to see it as it was and for that at least I’m grateful.

Never mind the rowlocks

This year is quite obviously a year of big events and celebrations.  The first British Olympics since 1948, a Diamond Jubilee for her Majesty, but more importantly for my other half, it’s the tenth birthday of her business.

So move aside Mo Farah, excuse us please Ma’am, we’re off to celebrate so we headed for Amsterdam on the Eurostar for a social. Choosing the train not only saves a few pounds in these austere times but is a very sociable way to travel allowing not a few drinks, nibbles and a lengthy Yahtzee championship to take place over the four hours it takes to get there.

Despite being a tad chilly, the weather was dry and the team were welcomed with open arms by the town’s shops, bars and restaurants.  In fact we had trouble leaving some of them.  Our Hotel, The Rembrandt would not win a top award in a poll for food or comfort but it would have fared well in one for warmth and convenience.

One of the team, who had contacts there, kindly fixed up a canal boat ride with his chum “Captain Dan”.  Our imaginations quickly ran to powerful engines, sleek lines, sundecks and a well-stocked bar.  So it was something of a surprise to be ushered onto what could have past for a 9-yard skip with a motor attached.

“Can you swim?” asked Cap’n Dan hopefully as we gripped our packed lunches and slid aboard down the greasy ladder.  Originally a rowing boat, now diesel-powered, we were asked to sit two heavyweights at the back so the prop could actually reach the water.   But what our boat lacked in glamour and safety standards it made up for in heritage being a former world war two lifeboat with many a story to tell.  But past bravery counted for little as a large seagull with poor toilet habits chose to relieve itself from a bridge onto Billy’s shoulder to the sound of “Roxanne” as we cruised through the red-light area (watch the video at the end of the slideshow above – you can just see the bird flying off as we go under the bridge!).

Nicky tried the Vermeer Dutch Maid pose with a shopping bag

Our gastronomic highlight was dinner for eight at achingly trendy BO Cinq.  Cuisine is French/Arabic fusion, lighting is low and prices high.  Drop this baby into Knightsbridge or Dubai and there would be a stampede for bookings.   Four hours flew by and the bar (and many others nearby) carried (most of) us through to morning.  Service was impeccable and as if to prove the point our waitress even (foolishly some might say!) joined our party for after-meal drinks.

And so we headed for home, sleepless but satisfied.  We left Amsterdam much as we found it but with fond memories and safe in the knowledge that nothing was left in the Hotel…or was there?….