Getting To Melbourne: Discount Airlines Are Funny

Let me start by saying that it’s probably not the best idea to take a mini-break days after getting off of a 24-hour journey from Western Europe (via Dubai) to Australia. That said, it was certainly easy to wake up at 4am to catch our flight since I was still on London time! Because Josh’s Dad is a world renowned Qantas pilot, we were able to park in the “family and friends section” of the airport, saving us time and money while allowing us to ride to the terminal in the adorable Qantas shuttle.

Now, there’s something phenomenally “unsecure” about Domestic air travel in Australia. You don’t have to show any ID at any point anywhere in the process to board your plane. You can also bring endless amounts of liquid on the plane. Apparently this is what air travel used to be like in the 90’s. After nearly ten years of the global “clampdown,” I had forgotten what that was like.

This being said, they still do random bomb testing with that special bit of fabric that is rubbed inside your bag, outside your bag, on your shoes, and so on. They cannot proceed, however, until you have read a printed out form detailing the procedure and asking for your permission. Isn’t this sort-of a redundant question? I don’t know why they even ask you. I mean, I’ve printed the boarding pass, gotten to the airport at some godawful hour and gone through “security.” Clearly I’m committed to traveling and saying “no” to the bomb swab can’t possibly be a real possibility. I can’t really see it going something like this:

Security Officer: “Sir, you have been randomly selected for bomb swab testing. Do you agree to this?”
Me: “No.”
Security Officer: “Alright then, enjoy your flight.”

I imagine it going something like this:

Security Officer: “Sir, you have been randomly selected for bomb swab testing. Do you agree to this?”
Me: “No.”
Security Officer: Squawking into radio, “We’ve got a live one! Send in back-up!”
(Pan to me in an Australian Outback prison for refusing the “optional” bomb swab)

Needless to say, I complied. We moved on to the bustling food court to partake in the ritualistic tradition of eating before departure. Is it just me, or do you have a sense of necessity when it comes to eating at the airport? I could have just eaten or I could be flying on a real airline where they’re just about to feed me and I still feel like I NEED to eat something. Thankfully, the Burger King woman made Josh’s wrap thing wrong so I got to eat the first one for free. The woman behind the counter was not impressed.

Quick bathroom stop and we’re now “boarding the plane.” By boarding, I mean the flight attendant - wearing a bright orange get-up and looking utterly thrilled to be serving us today - came over the squawk box and in a less-than-enthusiastic monotone voice announced, “Yeah, um, hi. It’s time to board. Back of the plane first.” Naturally, everyone ran for the gate at once, desperate to be the first to sit in their phenomenally uncomfortable bucket-like seat, knees smushed against their chest. Since we were in row four, we dove right in as well. All part of the fun.

Oddly, the “gateway” led to the tarmac, where we wandered around some luggage, alongside a gas trunk, UNDER THE WING, and up a flight of stairs to get on our “metal bird.” That’s right, it wasn’t an airplane. It was a giant metal bird. Everyone in their “seats,” the doors were closed and we were backing up. Fortunately, the level of service remained sky high, as our super chipper gate attendant was replaced by the dynamic duo of Becky and Shauna, who would have rather been fed to a shark than served as flight attendants on our plane. “Please pay attention to the safety demonstration. You do the seat belt like this (snaps buckle while rolling eyes). This is the life vest. Pull these or blow these (pulls and blows while rolling eyes).” The whole thing finished with this delightful tidbit of information: “Also, nothing’s free on this flight. And don’t steal anything. We prosecute.”

With that, they pulled their “privacy curtain” over, meaning they were now only visible through the GIANT HOLE in the participation wall. Good one Becky. Good one Shauna. I inflated my neck pillow, “reclined” my seat, and attempted to drift away into dreamland.

Man, JetStar is AWESOME.

--

Kyle Taylor

Detained: You Are Not Forgotten

Zeynep and I set off early and in good spirits for our sojourn to the Southeastern-most point in Europe: Sagres, Portugal. The tube wasn’t crowded, the sun was shining in London and the “soundtrack of our life” would definitely have definitely included sound effects like birds chirping and kids laughing. Airport arrival and check-in goes surprisingly well. Her Luftansa Silver status and my Star Alliance Silver status meant business check-in was all ours (and our luggage even got “priority” tags, so they’d come out first). While the business lounge was a no-go for me (turns out you need Star Alliance Gold status - drat!) that didn’t stop Zeynep from foraging for sandwiches, cheese, crackers and tiny cakes, which she managed to stuff in her new turquoise purse. Our flight was on time (madness!) and the inflight snack for a traditional Portuguese dish that was utterly divine.

Naturally, when things are going well it usually means something is bound to go wrong. Scan forward to our arrival. We deplaned into PERFECT weather (it’s just like southern California climate-wise), boarded our bus across the tarmac and lined up for customs. I zoomed through without a passing glance and stopped just behind the “border” to wait for Zeynep. And wait. And wait. And wait. No Zeynep. A good five minutes pass before I see her jumping up and down behind the glass on the “other” side, directing me back to the immigration control. “There is a problem with my passport,” she tells me. Oh no! After a little finagling, we manage to convince the border agent to allow me to rejoin Zeynep on the “other side” while things get resolved. She has been detained, and I have voluntarily detained myself with her.

Meanwhile, our “priority” bags are now who knows where, waiting patiently for their owners. The woman walks us over to a cordoned off area consisting of twenty or so seats and a fire extinguisher. It’s 9pm. At 9:30pm officer power trip strolls over to give us a stern talking to. “You can’t enter Portugal with this type of Turkish passport,” she tells Zeynep. Ok, backstory time: Zeynep’s passport is a “special passport.” I mean that literally. It says “special passport” right on the front. Her Dad worked for the Turkish central bank so while she doesn’t have full diplomatic status, she is also not a wayward civilian (as if!). This “special passport” has a Shengen VISA built in. What does that mean? Well, it’s supposed to mean she can move freely throughout the European Union without a VISA. According to who, you ask? Her government’s website as well as wikipedia (which means it has to be true). Apparently not, as our short, high-waisted, chest-droopy, mullet-induced new friend was now explaining.


Certain of our facts, Zeynep asked if they were in the back doing research. “What means research,” she asks, hand on hips. WE. ARE. DOOMED. “I don’t know what you are saying, but nothing can happen until 11pm when the new chief comes on. “What is the current chief doing,” we ask. “He is very very busy. This is a busy job,” she tells us. Cut to the immigration area, which is COMPLETELY VOID OF ALL HUMAN LIFE, save for us. Yes, very very busy. Already we’re having a negative reaction toward Portugal. Madame Miserable tromps away and we begin the inevitable puns that go with our new refugee status. “I bet they’re in the back sending out homing pigeons to collect information,” Zeynep quips. “Kiss kiss, fly away bird, fly away!” Nervous laughter ensues, as we’re not 100% sure this isn’t the case. Time treks on. We read, we play cards, we sit, we talk. Minutes feel like years.


Now hunger sets in. We decide to ration all the food we have - my two granola bars. Agreeing to save one for later, we split the other in half, nagging at one another over whose half is bigger. Detainment is NOT fun. I wander aimlessly across the detainment area to the vending machine, insert my 3 euros and push for a bottle of water. The screen reads “vend” and a bottle of Coke pops out. Super. Upon relaying this information to Zeynep she informs me that her life goals have now changed. “I am going to dedicate myself to improving conditions for detainees. This is just terrible.”

11pm rolls around. No sign of the new chief. To make matters worse, there is no sign of our husky lady-friend or her calling pigeons either. Zeynep wanders to the “border” and the man tells her not to worry. “You are not forgotten,” he says. Feeling otherwise, she decides it’s time to call her Embassy. Three rings and an actual human being answers! She begins explaining the whole situation in Turkish, though I can tell exactly what she is saying based on her inflection, occasional English words and mini “jumps” in her seat at particularly poignant moments. “Let me ask some friends and I’ll call you back.” Ten minutes later he’s ringing her. “Yeah, sorry ma’am, it’s a Saturday night and I’m the only one here and I’m new, so, um, there really isn’t anything I can do compared to if it was the middle of the day on a Tuesday.” Great. From now on, no flying on weekends or after 5pm. Since this all began, however, border officers have sauntered past us at least fifteen times, never once even acknowledging our presence.


Midnight rolls around and we’re into hour three. What began as a nervous situation and then evolved into a humorous situation has now become a slightly frightening situation. “What if I get deported,” Zeynep ponders out loud. “I mean, how do you get deported FROM Europe TO Europe?” It really doesn’t make any sense. Thirty more minutes and it’s all becoming too much for her. She gets up and marches over to the new man sitting at the “border.” From afar I can only see arms flapping and hear the occasional “I’m sorry.” She returns with him in tow and for whatever reason, HE is apologizing! “Do you want some water? I am so sorry!” He returns with two cups of water then whisks my water bottle away, returning it completely full. “Are you hungry, he asks?” Considering we had a small domestic dispute twenty minutes earlier over dividing up the other granola bar, we concede that yes, we are indeed hungry (assuming he is going to produce a snack from the staff break room or something). Not so. This man returns to his booth where we watch him rifling through his own meal, returning moments later with a ham and cheese croissant and box of apple juice. Is this country for real? What began with a stout, mulleted Pat-like character now involves a kind older gentleman who is sharing his wife’s home cooking and a box of juice he may have stolen from his toddler.


The entire tone changes at this point, and everyone couldn’t be nicer. Another man appears and begins to apologize to us yet again. Is this for real? “It won’t be much longer, I promise.” Ok? It’s only been four hours at this point (during which several other people had come and gone into our detainment center), so what’s another two or three? By 1:30am we were taking photos with the guards, on our merry way for the total price of ten euros and sixty cents - the cost of a six-day on-site VISA. our bags were in the “lost luggage” section, the taxi ride to town took all of five minutes and the woman at the guesthouse resembled my Nana is both warmth and spirit.

So what began as a “what is this country?” became “this place is perfect.” And just for future reference, “Special” Turkish passports do in fact require a VISA to enter Portugal. As for us Americans, continue to be grateful that - despite our gaffes around the World - we can still travel VISA-free to about 160 countries. Fortunately, Portugal is on that list.

--

Kyle Taylor

The Travel Gods Still Hate Me…

These past few weeks have put me back on the road again, only this time I haven’t needed my passport. Sadly though, it seems that my luck has remained the same – NOT GOOD. I’m in New Hampshire now at the Democratic College Congress, and heading to Connecticut from here for Youth Venture’s annual global team meeting (do you like how I talk about entire states as if they were cities? When they’re that tiny it feels like they’re cities, because you can zip through one in a car with great ease). It was the getting to New Hampshire that was a real pain in the rear.


I was supposed to take the bus from New York City (that’s big enough to get the city subtitle) to Boston then catch a short 1-hour car ride to New Hampshire. My shoulder surgery, however, was given the green light (I’m needing to get it done before the New Year so as to avoid having my insurance deductible reset) which meant I had to get back to DC for a Monday morning intake then board a plane to Boston Monday evening (I decided to fly over taking the train or bus to save time. Hahaha).

I did all the bookings, so forth and so on and put it in the hands of the travel gods, who are apparently irritated with me. My bus back to DC from NYC took a whopping SEVEN HOURS, which is three hours more than usual. Why, might you ask? Lets ask the State of New Jersey, who thought it would be a marvelous idea to split their “expressway” into two sections, one inevitably traffic-laden and the other open as the South Africa sky.


Fast-forward 16 hours later, post-intake (everything went well and I’m going to be on lots of drugs that are going to make me really loopy and very “huh? Whuh?”). I began my trek to Boston at 2:30pm by boarding the subway at Tenleytown station. I took the subway to the Marc commuter rail to the airport shuttle to Terminal 4, checked my bag, did the security dance, and plopped down in a chair at 5:10pm, perfect timing for my 5:30pm flight. DELAYED. We were now supposed to depart at 6:51pm. At 6:56pm they announced this flight was cancelled and we were all put on other flights leaving throughout the evening. My new departure time was 7:20pm. At 7:23pm I was still sitting in the terminal, fairly certain something was wrong. Indeed, something was wrong. At 7:40pm they CANCELLED that flight too – complete hydraulics failure which controls, you know, the entire plane.

At this point people were getting very agitated and crowding the gate area, ready to claim justice. I listened as people told loved ones their plight via cell phone. “I mean (sobbing), this is just like, the worst day of my life Mom,” and “Its just always something and this is just…just (gets choked up) why me?” and “The world hates me.” Dramatic? I think yes. For whatever reason – maybe the traveling all over and then living through the Dengue – I remained largely unaffected and found the whole ordeal rather humorous. I just bought a salad, read a book, and chilled out.

We eventually left from another gate on the other side of the airport, having to go through security all over again. Our 9:30pm departure put us in Boston at 11pm, which had me at my aunt Nancy’s place by 11:45pm, a full 7 hours and 15 minutes after leaving for the airport…Now, how long does the bus take again?

“Sir, Is This Your Bag?” – Almost Causing An International Incident

As you can imagine my departure from Washington, DC was a touch overwhelming. After spending six weeks constantly surrounded by friends and family I am moving back into an extended period of independent “rugged” travel where every day will bring new faces and new places. While I love the adventure, that initial “break” from comfort and consistency can be a tad “BLAM,” if that makes any sense. I go from talking to fifteen different people, all of whom I’ve known for years, to talking to myself – and the crazy lady sitting next to me on the plane. Which brings me to my perfect opening sequence for this World Tour.

A friend was nice enough to rent a Zipcar and drive me all the way out to Dulles, blasting another friend’s “Dance Mix #2” the whole ride (she’s insanely proud of these mixes. She takes them everywhere, constantly asking wait staff, club owners and Target store employees to pump them through the building). After fighting curb traffic, he helped launch my backpack up over my shoulders, I flashed him the “Peace” sign (why, I’m not sure. It just felt appropriate) and I was off. I followed the signs to the cattle call line, more commonly known as “Economy Class.” There are 17 people ready and waiting for the first class, premiere class, business first class, business plus class, ‘I bought this ticket with laundered money class’ folks and about 9 people for the rest of us. I then de-backpacked and began pushing the monstrosity down the never-ending cue. A female attendant was walking up and down yapping about knowing your confirmation number and having it ready because “the people at the desk don’t have time to look it up.” I’m sorry, please don’t let any of us – who paid for these tickets – take up anyone’s time (this came after a brief lecture on how we all should have checked in online and printed our own boarding passes). It’s strange, I feel like consumers continue to pay more and more for everything these days and yet we’re doing more and more of the actual work ourselves, from printing our own boarding passes to scanning and bagging our own groceries!

Anyway, so I’m kicking this bag and searching through my itinerary to find this all-important confirmation number that just isn’t anywhere to be found. Not wanting to inconvenience the actual workers as the desk, I decide to ask the “friendly” line monitor where I might find the info. She sighs, rolls her eyes and tells me to “come over here,” grabbing my wrist. I follow her off to the side of the line. She then snatches the itinerary from my hands and says “let me do it.” Ok, cranky nine-year-old! She’s perusing and sighing and rolling her eyes and shaking her head and tapping her foot for a good two minutes until she finally looks at me and says “well this is the wrong form so I guess you’ll just have to talk to someone at the desk.” Heaven forbid the people at the desk be required to speak to a lowly Economy Class passenger!

Little did I know that while I was busy getting a talking to, an international crisis was emerging behind me. The woman had pulled me so abruptly from the line I had forgotten to grab my backpack, which was now leaning up against one of the line poles. There were two other attendants “surrounding” the bag while other passengers were backing away from the area. I dashed back over and grabbed my bag. One attendant said to me “is that your bag?” I replied coolly, “yes.” This is when things got interesting. He looked and me angrily, pointed his finger right at my face and let loose. “You can’t leave bags unattended. You’re going to be arrested. You just committed a federal offense. You scared a lot of people. The bomb squad is on the way. You’re in big trouble. You could have killed a whole lot of people.”

I was completely flabbergasted. First of all, how could I have killed a whole lot of people? I DIDN’T have a bomb in my bag. Second of all, is being absentminded and forgetting a bag somewhere for literally two minutes honestly a federal offense? Third of all, you called the bomb squad after two minutes? I mean, really? Not only did this man ream me out, his coworker – the woman who blamed me for not having my confirmation number in an email HER COMPANY sent to me – joined in. She was the one who said “come with me” and dragged me away! At this point other passengers started chiming in: “you could have killed us. What if a terrorist left the bag there? What if we all died?”

At this point I honestly thought I was on a hidden camera show or something. What rational human beings turn into absolute crazies in under two minutes? Knowing that my only witness was also against me (that rude ticket lady who was clearly a hall monitor in elementary school and picked on by the cool, pretty girls) I decided to just pick up my bag and walk to the check-in counter, uttering just a few short comments: “Oh, is this really a federal offense? Huh.” That was it. What else could I say? This whole “scared of everything” mentality is not rational, so you can’t really talk to someone about it in a reasonable manner. Do we check every car left in every parking lot to see if someone left a bag in it? Do we search through every bush in every public space to see if someone hid a bag there? Do we check every train car for unattended bags? When did it shift from the possibility that someone forgot something to “someone is a terrorist?” I forget things all the time! Bags, watches, sunglasses, my vitamins…if this is our “New World” then I’m in big trouble as an absentminded American.

Of course, the ridiculousness didn’t stop there. While checking my bags the male attendant from earlier came over to let me know he had called off the bomb squad and that I should consider myself “lucky.” People, I left a bag sitting on a pole TEN FEET from me for TWO MINUTES! Lucky? I’m human!


I was then asked if I wanted to pay $15 extra for 5 more inches of legroom. Pay for legroom? Honestly? What’s next, paying to use the bathroom? Then it was off to security, where there are now two lines – “Security Checkpoint” and “Premium Passengers.” I can’t even begin to tell you how many problems I have with this. It’s fine if airlines – private companies – want to give special treatment to people who pay more money, but not the federal government. Airport security – TSA – is a federal government agency, part of the Department of Homeland Security. It is a public entity and there is no reason why people who can afford more expensive plane tickets deserve special treatment or to be “more safe” while flying. This is what all those people should be outraged by! If you want evidence of how the rich and the poor are not treated equal just go to the airport! Listen America – my two-minutes-forgotten bag is far less of a threat to you than an American government that says certain wealthy citizens are “Premium.” Aren’t they really saying the rest of us AREN’T “premium?” I mean, I think I’m a pretty premium American…