Skies not so friendly
Airplanes once had propellers, airports had skycaps and it was: “Fly the friendly skies of United.” Now it’s supersonic jets, roll-on wheelies and cranky Unitees.
A friend, favoring a broken wrist, reported her flight attendant wouldn’t help hoist her carry-on to the overhead bin. He said: “I have a bad back.”
This week I made two United flights. To San Jose, Costa Rica, and back. Despite my difficulty, male cabin attendants ignored my hand-luggage problem. Each issued the precise phraseology: “I have a bad back.” Neither expanded that terse statement. Gentlemen passengers came to my rescue.
Three crewmen on different flights suffering identically? Explaining the ailment identically? Either geriatric stewards need be retired or they’ve agreed: “Screw this. We’re not luggage schleppers.”
Some people collect stamps, fly kites, play lousy golf. Me, I’m a traveler — Borneo, Bhutan, Siberia, the Congo, the Outback, the Sahara. It’s my outlet. I know from airplanes.
Flying a thing to Kathmandu once, snoozing in what served as some form of seat, I saw the Nepal Air pilot pass by. Barefoot. Trust me, you lose a little feeling of security when your pilot wanders around barefoot.
Egypt Air’s domestic branch was hauling me into Cairo. But for local VIPs, authorities had cancelled all flights. A lone plane, heavily booked, was headed in the opposite direction. No problem. The government off-loaded the entire manifest, turned the aircraft around, put me aboard and redirected it to Cairo.
Vientiane. My husband’s troupe of entertainers was performing that night for Their Majesties King Bhumibol and Queen Sirikit at their Thailand palace. Tubas, drums, tap shoes, costumes, people, props, equipment, music stands, trunks were stowed onto Laotian aircraft. I was loaded onto another plane. One small prob. The only difficulty — nobody knew why — but Laos personnel had off-loaded the gear, every piece, 60,000 pounds of equipment — and shipped it elsewhere . . .
So I’m in Beijing. Ulaan Batuur Air or whateverthehell the thing’s called checked me through security. Takeoff’s delayed. My Chinese is not really fluent, so no explanation. Hours later we learn Mongolia’s temperature has plummeted, the arrival runway’s frozen so we can’t land. Communicated to us was: “Sleep in airport 8 to 10 more hours. Maybe sometime we’ll take off, maybe not.”
I screamed, created a ruckus, demanded to see authority, shouted, “I am an American citizen,” flashed my press card and eventually police escorted me to the belly of the plane, watched while, alone, I climbed into cargo and extricated my luggage.
For the Galápagos Islands, I limo’d to JFK, jetted to Quito, seaplaned to Guayaquil, Ecuador, got on a bus, transferred to some cart and two full days later landed on a boat. My husband lost his footing and sunk deep into the water. Crabs who live there investigated him as we fished him out. Crashing into jagged rocks, he’d cut his leg — some jungle doctor bound him up and secured the bandage with Scotch tape.
Auckland. Arrived Day 1 of a hotel strike. With cradle-to- the-grave socialism, every New Zealander has his own little weekend country house, own little boat, own medical benefits and little pulsation to rise higher. No staffer would do anything. Had to drag my own suitcase then back down to drag the other one, find my own room, disappear alone into InterContinental’s cavernous basement to make coffee. There five days, I also had to clean two bathrooms and make the beds.
Someplace around Pago Pago, way out in the South Pacific, they assigned me a fale — their name for a grass hut. I preferred the main building itself but was billeted in a fale (pronounced “folly”). It rained. Bigtime rain. Like with Sadie Thompson in that famous south-sea drama “Rain.” The hut leaked. Getting wet, I moved the bed. Next night another hole developed. I moved the bed again. Third night. Again. Fourth night it collapsed while I was in it.
Communist Poland. Joey Adams, head of American Guild of Variety Artists, had the private number of Ronald Reagan, head at the same time of co-theatrical union Screen Actors Guild. Joey wants to phone him. Can’t. “The telephone operator is at lunch.” Joey: “He’s president of the United States of America. Make an exception.” No. Can’t. We had to wait until the operator finished lunch.
Also, we’d arrived 9:30 p.m. the night before. Restaurants were closed. Room service closed. We offered American dollars for food. No. Not allowed. OK, zlotys, the local currency. No. Cash not permitted. OK, we’ll sign to the room. No, a chit from the desk downstairs is required. We had to lumber down five flights to get this chit for two crappy cold sandwiches of one slice of ham, no lettuce, tomato, mustard, nothing on white bread.
Oy. Have I had experiences. Bangkok. Every night for two weeks the chambermaid opened the living room’s extra cot. With a bed and a bedroom, I didn’t need any cot opened in any living room. I finally told her, the chief housekeeper and the hotel’s GM. Fine. Done. Understood. That night 2 a.m. the living-room phone rang. Dashing in to answer it, I cut my leg. I’d fallen over the damn cot opened in the living room.
Djakarta. The restaurant always delivered dinner Indonesian temperature. Never off a piping hot griddle. I explained food must be served hot. Steak must come to the table hot. Potatoes, vegetables need always be hot. The server grinned. Nodded. That night he brought me only one potato on one huge plate. “Hot,” he smiled. Twenty minutes later came the chicken. “Now hot,” he said.
I’ve paid my dues when it comes to travel.
Cindy Adams
A friend, favoring a broken wrist, reported her flight attendant wouldn’t help hoist her carry-on to the overhead bin. He said: “I have a bad back.”
This week I made two United flights. To San Jose, Costa Rica, and back. Despite my difficulty, male cabin attendants ignored my hand-luggage problem. Each issued the precise phraseology: “I have a bad back.” Neither expanded that terse statement. Gentlemen passengers came to my rescue.
Three crewmen on different flights suffering identically? Explaining the ailment identically? Either geriatric stewards need be retired or they’ve agreed: “Screw this. We’re not luggage schleppers.”
Some people collect stamps, fly kites, play lousy golf. Me, I’m a traveler — Borneo, Bhutan, Siberia, the Congo, the Outback, the Sahara. It’s my outlet. I know from airplanes.
Flying a thing to Kathmandu once, snoozing in what served as some form of seat, I saw the Nepal Air pilot pass by. Barefoot. Trust me, you lose a little feeling of security when your pilot wanders around barefoot.
Egypt Air’s domestic branch was hauling me into Cairo. But for local VIPs, authorities had cancelled all flights. A lone plane, heavily booked, was headed in the opposite direction. No problem. The government off-loaded the entire manifest, turned the aircraft around, put me aboard and redirected it to Cairo.
Vientiane. My husband’s troupe of entertainers was performing that night for Their Majesties King Bhumibol and Queen Sirikit at their Thailand palace. Tubas, drums, tap shoes, costumes, people, props, equipment, music stands, trunks were stowed onto Laotian aircraft. I was loaded onto another plane. One small prob. The only difficulty — nobody knew why — but Laos personnel had off-loaded the gear, every piece, 60,000 pounds of equipment — and shipped it elsewhere . . .
So I’m in Beijing. Ulaan Batuur Air or whateverthehell the thing’s called checked me through security. Takeoff’s delayed. My Chinese is not really fluent, so no explanation. Hours later we learn Mongolia’s temperature has plummeted, the arrival runway’s frozen so we can’t land. Communicated to us was: “Sleep in airport 8 to 10 more hours. Maybe sometime we’ll take off, maybe not.”
I screamed, created a ruckus, demanded to see authority, shouted, “I am an American citizen,” flashed my press card and eventually police escorted me to the belly of the plane, watched while, alone, I climbed into cargo and extricated my luggage.
For the Galápagos Islands, I limo’d to JFK, jetted to Quito, seaplaned to Guayaquil, Ecuador, got on a bus, transferred to some cart and two full days later landed on a boat. My husband lost his footing and sunk deep into the water. Crabs who live there investigated him as we fished him out. Crashing into jagged rocks, he’d cut his leg — some jungle doctor bound him up and secured the bandage with Scotch tape.
Auckland. Arrived Day 1 of a hotel strike. With cradle-to- the-grave socialism, every New Zealander has his own little weekend country house, own little boat, own medical benefits and little pulsation to rise higher. No staffer would do anything. Had to drag my own suitcase then back down to drag the other one, find my own room, disappear alone into InterContinental’s cavernous basement to make coffee. There five days, I also had to clean two bathrooms and make the beds.
Someplace around Pago Pago, way out in the South Pacific, they assigned me a fale — their name for a grass hut. I preferred the main building itself but was billeted in a fale (pronounced “folly”). It rained. Bigtime rain. Like with Sadie Thompson in that famous south-sea drama “Rain.” The hut leaked. Getting wet, I moved the bed. Next night another hole developed. I moved the bed again. Third night. Again. Fourth night it collapsed while I was in it.
Communist Poland. Joey Adams, head of American Guild of Variety Artists, had the private number of Ronald Reagan, head at the same time of co-theatrical union Screen Actors Guild. Joey wants to phone him. Can’t. “The telephone operator is at lunch.” Joey: “He’s president of the United States of America. Make an exception.” No. Can’t. We had to wait until the operator finished lunch.
Also, we’d arrived 9:30 p.m. the night before. Restaurants were closed. Room service closed. We offered American dollars for food. No. Not allowed. OK, zlotys, the local currency. No. Cash not permitted. OK, we’ll sign to the room. No, a chit from the desk downstairs is required. We had to lumber down five flights to get this chit for two crappy cold sandwiches of one slice of ham, no lettuce, tomato, mustard, nothing on white bread.
Oy. Have I had experiences. Bangkok. Every night for two weeks the chambermaid opened the living room’s extra cot. With a bed and a bedroom, I didn’t need any cot opened in any living room. I finally told her, the chief housekeeper and the hotel’s GM. Fine. Done. Understood. That night 2 a.m. the living-room phone rang. Dashing in to answer it, I cut my leg. I’d fallen over the damn cot opened in the living room.
Djakarta. The restaurant always delivered dinner Indonesian temperature. Never off a piping hot griddle. I explained food must be served hot. Steak must come to the table hot. Potatoes, vegetables need always be hot. The server grinned. Nodded. That night he brought me only one potato on one huge plate. “Hot,” he smiled. Twenty minutes later came the chicken. “Now hot,” he said.
I’ve paid my dues when it comes to travel.
Cindy Adams
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