To refer to one of the mightiest, most significant architectural masterpieces in Great Britain as a “building,” does NOT do it justice, nor does it fully convey the reason why you need to visit St Pauls Cathedral in London – but here’s the thing – can you get the last 36 or more words into a headline? Although I was born, and grew up in this historic metropolis called London, like many city dwellers I never took the time to visit some of my hometown’s most spectacular attractions.

Several years ago, and on a visit that had me headed towards Scotland, I decided to make time to see one of London’s most iconic buildings, St Pauls Cathedral. I was transfixed by the stunning Main Hall of this majestic edifice, and all its incredible architecture, and I wondered how come I’d waited this long to see it. I was touched by the fact that there’s a unique bond between St Paul’s and America. In WW2 28,000 Americans – who were part of the hundreds of thousands of the US military stationed in the UK – lost their lives fighting for freedom and democracy in that war. In 1948 a special American Memorial Chapel of Remembrance – unconditionally built with funds donated by Brits – was constructed to pay tribute to, and recognize, that sacrifice.

Even as a naturalized American citizen I found this chapel to be a moving and thought provoking experience, enriched by yet another US connection. This one came about due to the events of 9/11. Three days later, on September 14^th, 2001, over 2,400 people – lead by Queen Elizabeth – held a special service at St. Paul’s that commemorated the lives lost in that terrible terrorist attack of a few days earlier.

Although there have been numerous reconstructions of St Pauls, the architect most often associated with this masterpiece is Sir Christopher Wren, the fact is that not too long ago a huge project was begun in his honor, and it’s now finished.  Today’s St Pauls looks absolutely magnificent, as do all its carvings, paintings, sculptures and mosaics, indeed some have never seen before. Check out www.StPauls.co.uk and you’ll get a feel for what I mean. When you next visit London I hope you’ll find time to include this superb building on YOUR Must See list.

British history buffs know that one of the all-time classic photo images of London in WW2 is of St Pauls. It became a famous photographic icon of British courage in fighting the scourge of Nazism. The photo, for those of you who don’t know it, showed the Cathedral surrounded by fire and smoke, yet still standing strong in the face of adversity. We show it again for you, as it has come over the many Decades since WW2 ended to symbolize London standing up to the might of the nightly bombing raids of the German Luftwaffe.

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Are several lumps of sugar worth putting in an historic museum? That may sound like a funny question, but the fact is that yes they are – especially if they’re part of the Churchill Museum and Cabinet War Rooms (CWR) in London.

Located a short walk from Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament, the CWR opened in 1984 and is, at least in my view, one of the most intriguing museums in London. Although the city is full of captivating museums to suit almost every taste in things to see and do, the CWR should be a “must see” for everyone visiting London. Seeing it up close and personal makes you feel as if you’re actually there in those dark days of 1940 when Hitler’s troops were expected to invade Great Britain tomorrow. Every room in this magnificent museum has been restored to the way it was when World War Two ended in May, 1945.

One of the most important areas of the Cabinet War Rooms is the Map Room and, when you first see it you’re struck, as I was, by the profusion of white, red and green telephones – they’re every where. The desk of the most important man in the room – the Chief Map Room Officer – is strategically located in the center of the display, and it turns out he had a very sweet tooth. Maybe it was because sugar was in such short supply back then, but for some unknown reason he saved all his sugar lumps in an envelope – which he placed in his top desk drawer. During the restoration in 1980, when it was decided to make everything look the way it was during World War Two, one of the restorers opened all the drawers of this desk and, lo and behold, found these still perfect lumps of sugar! Wow!!! And yes, they too have been saved in this intriguing museum, at least they were when I visited a few years ago.

Because the CWR was the nerve center of Churchill’s strategy in the planning of Britain’s wartime efforts in those days, the museum’s location is also “somewhat secret.” Their exact address is Clive Steps, King Charles Street, London, SW1A, but it’s very easy to miss because it’s almost hidden from view off the Horse Guards Road. Unless you knew it was there, you could easily miss it altogether. It’s online at the Imperial War Museum site and then scroll down the page and click on “Cabinet War Rooms & Churchill Museum Home.” For more information on Great Britain in general, let me suggest you go to the Visit Britain site – If London is in your travel plans, I hope you’ll find time to visit this unique, one-of-a-kind museum. I know you’ll find it fascinating.

A final question. When they found those lumps of sugar in the restoration process, and as they wanted EVERYTHING to be “as it was in WW2” do you think they left those EXACT lumps, or did they insert new ones – and possibly change them periodically due to dust and such?

The post 2 Lumps of Sugar Make This Churchill Museum Totally Unique appeared first on Traveling Archive.

My wife Anne and I had been in Barcelona many years ago and knew even then that we had only scratched the surface of the available cultural richness offered in the Catalan capital. We had leisurely strolled the famous Ramblas, a pedestrian area that links the waterfront with the city center where itinerant Tango dancers twirl, tarot readers ply their craft and innumerable vendors offer traditional merchandise.

Adjacent to the Ramblas is La Boqueria, the public market that is a riot of colors, smells and energy. Yes, it can be crowded and a challenge for someone in a wheelchair at times, but to tour a site that has been in operation since 1217 and offers such an extraordinary range of goods it is well worth the effort.

During our previous time here we had explored what we could of Antonio Gaudi’s crowning achievement, the Sagrada Familia. As impressive as it was then, we were astonished to see that so much progress has since been made and though wheelchairs still face some obstacles we were able to enter the sacred confines and appreciate the noble space. Note: It is advisable to visit closer to sunset to fully appreciate the sun’s rays through the magnificent windows.

Our exhibition was held at the Museu Maritim, a marvelous museum on Barcelona’s vibrant waterfront that details the rich maritime history that signaled Spain’s early contributions to navigation, exploration and shipbuilding. Also along the waterfront is a vast promenade that people using wheelchairs can easily maneuver to soak up the Mediterranean atmosphere and marvel at the private yachts in the harbor.

Our hosts offered excursions and we gladly boarded sightseeing buses to explore the ancient areas of the city. It was wise to start our wheeling tour at the top of the pedestrian areas and save us the trouble of struggling uphill. A very exciting outing was to the Penedes wine region and we were delighted to take in the countryside and tour an historic winery and savor the fruits of their efforts.

Enormous paper mache puppets of historic Spanish figures and families of acrobats who constructed human towers six people high also royally entertained us.

Public transportation appeared to be readily available and had we extra time we would most assuredly have visited the Picasso Museum and the Miro Foundation as well as the esteemed cathedral among other sites.

Alas, we did not have that luxury but were excited to take the early train to Paris the following day. As train stations go Barcelona’s can be as confusing and stressful as any and we were relieved to attract the attention of a station assistant who ushered us to the proper queue and made sure we got on board. Some minor confusion required me to temporarily occupy a space between cars until a following stop where I could be resituated into a proper space. We had purchased our train tickets well in advance for a reasonable sum but required a last minute ticket for our companion and were fairly aghast at the price hike for late tickets. The 5-hour trip traversed scenic fields and factory installations, small, rural towns and distant horizons. By the time we arrived at the Paris station we were rested and eager to begin the next phase of our journey.

We would only have a few days to take in what we could and thankfully we had been here many years before and had already ascended the Eiffel Tower and strolled the Champs Elysees. Anne would make sure her niece experienced those landmarks and I made sure that I would see every treasure within the Louvre and nearby Musee D’Orsay. And here I am very pleased to report that consideration to those in wheelchairs has been maintained at a high level. There is no waiting in line, admission is complimentary and even the Mona Lisa has a rope line that wheelchairs have special privilege of accessing. Other portions of the Louvre are difficult to access on account of retrofitting lifts but the staff is available and the map of the galleries is probably necessary to avoid getting lost among the treasures.

A very wise piece of advice that we had learned earlier was again in effect. Knowing that wheelchairs are first allowed into the Musee d’Orsay, we arrived before opening and were inside before anyone else. We immediately ascended to the top floor where we enjoyed breathtaking work by the Impressionists, Symbolists and Post Impressionists before the crowds of the day appeared. The museum café offered delicious meals and a welcome break from studying the masterpieces and we were fortified to see the remaining works before exiting to a drizzly and traffic congested city. Being April, we had expected as much and exercised patience as we maneuvered curb cuts and waited patiently at crosswalks.

We happened to be in Paris for Easter Sunday and took the opportunity to be in attendance at a service at Notre Dame Cathedral. We were ushered in privately and allowed to come forward to take part in the sacrament. The very moving ritual was heightened by the magnificent interior and the notes of the choir seemed to echo the angels. Afterward, I had enough time to roll to the newly refurbished Picasso Museum and was very pleased to see that extra care has been taken to assure access and again received complimentary admission.

Our apartment was only a few blocks from the Louvre but not nearly as accessible as advertised. We managed to traverse a steep threshold and narrow doorway but I was still obligated to sleep on the fold out couch since I couldn’t wedge through the bedroom door. We will take extra care in the future to measure my chair’s dimensions and recommend a portable ramp be on site.

My first time on the Chunnel to London went smoothly enough and we were glad to have purchased these tickets well in advance also as the sticker-shock for our companion was even more severe than the ride up from Barcelona. I was surprised to be served lunch with beverages and offered amenities usually reserved for first class and we arrived in London in good cheer indeed. The London cabs are some of the most accessible in the world with a short ramp that makes loading a snap and so abundant that we never failed to acquire one when needed.

Since our niece only had one precious day before her return to work, I laid back at our hotel, the Doubletree in Chelsea while they got tickets for the hop-on hop-off sightseeing bus and saw as much of the city as possible. The ticket also included a cruise on the Thames that Anne took the following day while I was immersed in the study of artworks at the National Gallery. The overground station was barely a half block from our hotel and was easy enough to access. We purchased Oyster Cards to facilitate entry and made good time getting to the sites we had planned. After visits to both the Tate Britain and Tate Modern and the wonderful artworks at the Courtauld Institute we were about as saturated with culture as we could be.

Anne had heard that a rooftop garden in one of the newer skyscrapers offered free admittance and spectacular views from the observation deck. Well, not exactly. 20 Fenchurch Street is referred to as the Walkie Talkie on account of its curious shape and does indeed have a marvelous view from a large 2-story lounge with abundant plantings and a fine dining area. Admission is free but advance tickets are required and only available online. We were able to charm the attendant to allow us admittance and would’ve been sorely disappointed had they a strict policy since Anne had pushed my chair a few miles along the Strand by then.

It was a fitting conclusion to a remarkable journey. Feeling on top of the world and relishing the combined memories of magnificent artwork and architecture, engaging with colorful and helpful people, sampling regional cuisine and being entertained by traditional performers. I am deeply grateful to my wife Anne, whose unending patience and good humor made the journey a delight and we were pleased to offer one another a special toast in celebration of our very good fortune.

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The T-Boy Society of Film & Music’s latest poll is devoted to something that we all have experienced: Travel Nightmares. Our first entry by the most esteemed Richard Carroll puts the theme in the proper context. It’s really all about ourselves and should serve as Travel Lessons Learned.

Richard Carroll — T-Boy writer:

Follow the Rules, Particularly When It’s In Your Own Book

I wrote a book “Traveling Mexico by RV” for Chronicle Books, San Francisco, and on a driving trip to Central America, seemly I cast aside everything I had written and simply ignored many of the rules and tips in the book creating a travel nightmare to remember.

With two surfboards on the luggage rack of a Volkswagen Camper, called the African Queen, we were on our way back to Southern California from Panama when arriving at a huge flow of water blocking the roadway near the Guatemala/Mexico border. I thought that I could easily drive through the water though my wife and son Carson urged me to pull over. We quickly found the Queen floating down a fast moving river sideways water rushing through the floorboards. Carson shouted, “Dad, should I pull down a surfboard?” I said, “That’s not funny Carson!”  We finally became lodged on a sandbar, and all the while the chuckling Mexicans thought it was the most humorous sight ever. I could hear them, “Look what the crazy gringos are doing!”

They did help with much effort on a hot humid day to push the Queen off the sandbar, all the while staring at me with great glee, while pushing the Queen a short distance to their small village along a dirt road stopping squarely in front of a house of prostitution. The ladies came out and offered us a mattress in one of the rooms with a fan. We declined. Each morning the smiling senoritas would sit on a wall snacking and offering us hot tortillas, Carson, 17, said, “Those ladies are really pretty and so nice.” I said, “Never mind Carson

For three days we sat in front of the house along with the senoritas who were busy half the night, the Queen refusing to start. Each morning the villagers on their way to the fields would stop by and work on the Volkswagen pushing it up and down the dirt road to no avail. One morning, an older man with a large mustache who we called the Maestro, very elegantly punched a large hole in the muffler with a screwdriver thinking if the water drained out the Volkswagen might start. He stood up, bowed, and sauntered away. Throughout those three days we were invited to funerals and weddings, received baskets of fresh fruit, were friends of the senoritas, and finally on the third morning with four hefty Mexicans pushing the Volkswagen it kicked over. The wounded Queen putted out of the village on three cylinders, the villagers cheering, Carson waving goodbye to the smiling senoritas.

About a half-hour later on a lonely stretch of road we ran out of gas. For some two hours cars zoomed past us in bunches looking the other way. It was dead quiet and under a blazing hot sun and low-flying large-winged birds, suddenly a huge tanker truck pulled up behind us. The driver minus a shirt, wearing a headband, cigarette dangling, and looking like Zorba the Greek understood even before I explained that our gas tank was empty. With a dented coffee can in one hand that he was using for an ash tray he climbed to the top of the tanker and scooped out some petrol created a funnel from a piece of paper and we had gas. He never spoke, refused money, and drove away. It was like a strange vision, a happening from the heavens.

We made it home though quickly got lost in the maze of Mexico City traffic until two motorcycle cops led us to the correct highway. Then driving hundreds of miles without rear view mirrors that were stolen in Guatemala via the quickest hands in the country was a dangerous challenge. Later Carson whispered to me, “Are you going to tell anyone about the six Honduran guerrillas we picked up carrying machine guns and pistols who kept asking you in strange Spanish, ‘Do you like your president?’ I remember we dropped them off just before Tegucigalpa and they faded into the bush with six bottles of our cold water.”

It was for sure a travel nightmare but only one of numerous others driving the Queen south of the border.

Fyllis Hockman — T-Boy writer:

The Most Difficult Trek We Had Ever Experienced.

The eight of us huddled together, warned repeatedly to stay close and keep quiet. A soft cough escaped from one of our party and the guide looked immediately askance. Coughing and sneezing were very much frowned upon. If you’re scraped by a stinging nettle, don’t even think about screaming — a usually fitting response. Sharing 98.4 percent of our DNA, the elusive mountain gorillas — whom we were seeking at the time — are very susceptible to human-borne illnesses and more gorillas die from such infectious diseases than from any other cause. We were carriers and they had to be protected from us. And this was before the pandemic!

Still, eight humans a day are allowed to visit these gentle giants, as they are known, for no longer than an hour, as we did during a recent visit to Uganda as part of an ElderTreks tour.

This is not exactly a drive-by photo op. With a vigorous (to say the least) trek of 1-7 hours, depending upon where the gorillas are that day, you have to REALLY want to see them. But even with visitation restricted to an hour, it is usually well worth the effort. But more on that later.

There are about 880 mountain gorillas in the world with almost half  located in Bwindi Impenetrable Forest, a World Heritage Site clearly worthy of its name, in southwestern Uganda, an 18% increase over the last census due to increased conservation efforts, education and veterinary care. This is very good news.

The prelude to the hike is itself intimidating. Treks range from 1-7 hours according to the promotional material, with a maximum increase in elevation of 500 meters. Wear good hiking boots, don gloves for the nettles, a walking stick is mandatory, bring lots of water, don’t get closer than 25 feet — and remember these are wild animals.

Anticipation mixed closely with apprehension as every person on our tour, whether expressed aloud or not, felt “I hope I can make.” The tale I’m about to tell about my travel-writing husband Vic and myself is not the norm. The tale for the other eight members of our ElderTreks tour, from whom we were separated because of the limit of eight people to a gorilla trekking group, is the opposite extreme — also not the norm.

Boy, were we ever wrong. The trek was somewhat strenuous from the beginning, with steep climbs and slippery descents, traversing narrow ravines, but we were holding our own, feeling pretty good about ourselves. Until we entered the forest. And there was no semblance of a trail at all. The guides were trail-blazing with the help of machetes deep into the clearly “impenetrable” woods, the rocks, roots and brambles beneath our feet not even visible because of the thick underbrush. With walking stick in one hand and the porter’s in the other, I tried valiantly to move forward though at times the porter was literally dragging me up the precipitous slopes or keeping me from sliding down sheer declines, twigs and vines attacking from both sides of the non-trail, entangling my feet and arms to further impede progress in either direction. At times, I thought either my arm would be pulled off by the porter or my legs by the vines.

All the while, I couldn’t help but feel guilty for thinking to myself how little at that point I cared about the gorillas and how much I was worried about surviving the grueling trip back. I was seriously considering becoming a modern day Dian Fossey and staying with the gorillas, assuming we ever reached them, just to avoid the return trip.

I wish we could say the trip was worth it but by the time we finally dragged ourselves — or more appropriately — were dragged by the porters to the designated area where the gorillas had been, they had left. This is just not what you want to hear after what most of us on the trek agreed was the most difficult thing we had ever experienced.

Ed Boitano — T-Boy editor:

Investigate Tour Operator Before Booking

Our little ferry graced the salt marshes of Hilton Head Island. Surrounded by a world of sea grass in South Carolina’s Low Country, we were on our way to the island of Daufuskie in search of Gullah history and culture.   The ferry ride served as our introduction to our tour vendor — which I’ll refer to as XYZ.  Little did I know that this very ferry ride would be the highpoint of our tour.

First, a little about the Gullah

Research told me that slave traders brought Africans from Sierra Leone to the chain of Sea Islands for their expertise in planting, harvesting and processing rice. During the 1700s, American colonists in the Southeastern U.S. realized that rice would grow well in the moist, semitropical country bordering their coastline. But the American white plantation slave owners had no experience in the cultivation of rice, so they purchased slaves with a preference for Africans from the “Rice Coast” or “Windward Coast” — the traditional rice-growing region of West Africa. The enslaved people became known as the Gullah (Gul-luh), perhaps derived from Gola, a tribe found near the border of Liberia and Sierra Leone. Daufuskie itself: translated to “pointed feather,” a name attributed to island’s earliest inhabitants, the tribes of Muskogean stock.

I read that when the U.S. Civil War commenced, white owners hurriedly abandoned their plantations and fled to the mainland, while some Gullah were actually unaware of the war and their eventual freedom from slavery. Due to this isolation, the Gullah were able to preserve more of their African cultural heritage than any other group of Black Americans. They spoke a unique Creole language and maintained a life similar to that of Sierra Leone. I was anxious to meet a Gullah person and hear their unique language in conversation, and, who knows, maybe even a bit of folklore.

As we exited the ferry we were met at the dock with a hostile sign: “No food Allowed,” and then were escorted by a XYZ employee to a row of golf carts by a general store. His scripted remarks included ‘”If you want any food you better get it here, this store is the only place on the island you can get it” (later we found an independent grocery in the island’s center) and “this is our BEST golf cart on the island… I know ‘cause I just rode it!”

We were happy to leave the man; and with map in-hand of historic Gullah sites, we excitedly navigated our golf cart down the dusty dirt road in search of these remarkable people. Sort of, that is, due to our cart running at half speed compared to the other golf carts. We returned it to the less-than-embarrassed man, who offered no explanation, and were given another, which broke down in ten minutes. This time, a more qualified man said we should have never have been assigned the first two carts and gave us another that actually worked.

So, we were now officially off on our expedition in search of the Gullah. The map turned out be fairly accurate leading us to the First Union African Baptist Church, listed as a historical landmark; followed by Maryfield School (circa 1930), the primary school for the Gullah children.  This is the school where author Pat Conroy taught in the late 1960s, later documenting his experience in the novel, The Water is Wide. Transportation only began in 1950, so the children must have had a long walk in the woods. The small Billie Burn Historical Museum was next on our agenda; with Ms. Burn considered the first true Daufuskie historian, having documented life on the island’s past in her book, An Island Named Daufuskie. The early afternoon closed after quick looks at the Mary Field Cemetery, the largest Gullah cemetery on the island, and empty ageing homes. All very interesting, but, no Gullah. Later, at the other independent store, I asked the manager, is there any place where can I actually meet one of these fascinating people. His thoughtful reply was true and educational; in fact, we learned more from him than we did with any XYZ employee. It went something like this: The Gullah have long been gone. You missed them by a couple generations. Occasionally an older person will return to the island to see their ancestral home. But… wait a sec… someone told me that right now there’s one Gullah descendent doing just that right now.

But where, I asked?

I was given complicated directions, before realizing that racing over to the woman’s private home would clearly be an invasion of her privacy. Our quest clearly needed to be tempered.

As we returned to the petite ferry it was obvious that we had been misled and even lied to by XYZ. Nevertheless, we were happy to see and learn all we did. But, were still annoyed that we had been taken advantage of, and wondered why such a company could even exist. It suddenly occurred to me that South Carolina is one of the least regulated states in the U.S., a state where the establishment of forming workers’ unions was once illegal. Curiously, the Sea Islands were the first place in the South where slaves were freed. It made no sense to my Yankee mindset.

Though it might feel otherwise, this short piece was not written as a slight or act of vengeance against any XYZ owner or employee — if fact, I never mentioned a single name — but the experience did serve as a life lesson; never book a tour with a vendor until you’ve thoroughly, independently, researched them and the specific tour. If not, there is a chance you might be disappointed. I noticed online that a tourist had commented that the island was one big tourist trap. Well, I thought, it depends on a person’s interests and perspective, but found most tourists were there for rest, relaxation and a lot of drinking. In conversation with others on the ferry ride back, it became clear not one of them had even a hint about the existence, let alone the culture, of these historic people, the people simply known as the Gullah.

Susan Breslow — T-Boy writer:

Africa: Don’t Tip the Canoe

It frightened me to go to Africa; so faraway, so different, so wild. Yet I was even more curious than I was anxious — to a point.

Tony, my outdoors-loving companion, and I were brought by motorboat to Water Wilderness, a flotilla of ramshackle houseboats on Lake Kariba in Zimbabwe. We were deposited at the main lodge, which was basically a large raft with a roof. There a guide met us. He was a tall man wearing khaki shorts that showed off bronzed legs covered with blonde hairs. A leather bandolier filled with large bullets crisscrossed his torso. He told us about the area’s wildlife and talked about the conundrum he would face if an endangered rhino charged and he had to decide in a split second whether to shoot him to save himself.

Tony, tired of only seeing animals from the vantage of a Land Rover, expressed a desire to hike. The guide motioned to the canoes tethered to the raft. “Take one, and pick a houseboat,” he said. “Try not to tip over,” he added. “There are hippos in the water and crocodiles by the shore. In the morning I’ll take you on a hike.”

I hardly slept, my dreams full of toothy crocodiles straddling hippos to slither onto our houseboat. The next morning the guide called for us in a rowboat, and this time he had a long gun slung over his shoulder in addition to the bandoliers. Terror consumed me. What if the boat tipped over and we were breakfast for hippos? What if I was breakfast for a tse-tse fly? What if after we docked on the far shore an animal charged? What if I couldn’t keep up with the hikers? What if there were deadly snakes in the tall grass? I made it into the rowboat — and burst into tears.

“Do you want to go back to the houseboat?” the guide asked kindly. I nodded. He docked the boat on the far shore, and Tony jumped out. He handled him the rifle, then turned the boat back toward my haven. Tears drying, I was embarrassed. “Don’t be,” said my bronzed hero. “If they put me in the middle of Grand Central Station, I’d have the same reaction.”

A potential nightmare averted, I spent the rest of the day on the deck of my houseboat, watching Cape buffalo meandering on the hills beyond. Even they knew not to go in the water.

Stephen Brewer — T-Boy editor:

All’s Well That Ends Well

A flame shot across my hotel room when I switched on the air conditioner. Then the draperies caught on fire. I smothered the blaze and called the front desk. I’m not sure what the man who answered the phone thought I was telling him, but he arrived with an ice bucket. He sniffed the acrid smoke, pointed to the blackened remains of the air conditioner, and declared the room a catástrofe. That much I understood.

The trip was sure getting off to a rocky start. The plan was to pick up a car in Barcelona and drive across the Pyrenees to a rental house in Languedoc, in southwestern France. Looking back after all these years I remember snowcapped mountains, sun-drenched vineyards, villages of golden stone, and cassoulet… but I jump ahead of myself.

The next morning, in the windowless garret that the clerk said was his very last room, I was awakened by a disturbing revelation. I had left the prepaid voucher for my rental car in the bedside table of the other room. The same fellow was on duty behind the desk, and he let out a dramatic sigh of distress upon seeing me. I asked him to let me into my old room. “Ocupada,” he grumbled. Occupied? How had he explained the charred walls to the new guests? As it turned out, they probably hadn’t noticed. In answer to my knock a naked man flung open the door. He had a wine bottle in one hand and said “cheers, mate” in an Australian accent. A woman, barely covered by a sheet, gave me a friendly wave from the bed. I explained my mission and grabbed the precious voucher. I thanked them and the man asked me the time. “Just after nine,” I said, and he asked if I meant evening or morning.

With a spring in my step I walked down the Ramblas toward the car agency. Even this early in the day the cafes were full of chattering patrons. Parakeets chirped away from cages that hung from tree branches. I turned into the small street where the agency was located. The windows were dark, and the place was locked up tight. It would remain so for the next three days, according to a sign in the window, for the feast of some saint with whom I was unfamiliar, though he certainly seemed to have the miraculous power to ruin my vacation. In those pre-computer days, you couldn’t just cancel a reservation and make another one online. I was stranded until I could retrieve the car. On the bright side, nothing was stopping me from moving to the nicer-looking hotel across the street. I didn’t realize the two establishments were under the same management until I came back from dinner that evening. The same clerk was behind the desk. He glared at me. I gave him my steeliest stare. “Try not to burn this place down, too” he growled in broken English, then added under his breath “tonto Americano” (American fool).

I got out of Barcelona without further incident, but I wish I could report that the rest of the trip was smooth sailing. I had just climbed out of the car to stretch my legs at the top of the Col du Portalet, one of the highest and most spectacular of the passes across the Pyrenees, when I heard the low rumbling for the first time. Thunder, I thought, but the sky was cloudless and a startling blue. Ah, farm machinery, no doubt, but nothing grew up here above the tree line. Or wait, maybe it was one of those quaint horns I’d read about, that shepherds use to communicate with one another across the heights? Or perhaps the grunts of a chamois? Then I realized that the noise was coming from my car.

The garagiste in Pau buried his head under the hood, exclaimed several “Mon Dieus,” and emerged to inform me the car was a catastrophe (that word again). The solution was simple: replace the engine. I declined.

By the time I had settled into my village the car would start only intermittently. My very nice neighbor Dieter, a summertime resident from Heidelberg, showed me how to pop start the car. I soon became quite adept at the technique, shifting in and out of second gear as I glided down an incline through the vineyards until the engine turned over. In the coming weeks I also learned the term for flat tire, pneu coupe, and I had two occasions to use the phrase. Then there was the water that kept pooling on the kitchen floor. I could not locate a leak, nor could I find Jean-Claude, the gardien who was supposed to look after the property. He was in Lyons on business, or so the snippy woman who answered his phone told me. Then he was in Nimes, visiting a sick aunt, then in Toulouse, at a fair. The peripatetic Jean-Claude never did make an appearance in my kitchen. I purchased a mop with a fancy wring mechanism. Mopping and pop-starting became parts of my daily routine. I mapped out excursions with consideration for how much mopping I would have to do when I returned. I parked only on downgrades.

On my way back to Barcelona I stopped for a few nights in Cadaques, a stunningly white seaside village at the top of the Costa Brava. My terrace overlooked a blue swath of the Mediterranean, framed by heavenly scented pines. The Languedoc reds I’d brought with me were delicious. My mopping days were behind me. Soon I could turn the problematic car over to the agency. According to my calculations, I could get all the way back to Barcelona on just one pop start. As Shakespeare said “all’s well that ends well,” and the more wine I drank, the more reassuring I found it to think that in travel as in life, the good things are what remain with us.

Ringo Boitano — T-Boy writer:

A Nightmare Train Experience With A Happy Ending

My photographer and I had just finished a stunning seven-day tour of Switzerland’s Lucerne and the Lake Geneva region.

Our final night was at a Zürich hotel, walking distance to the train station, which would depart to the Zürich airport, only one stop away. My photographer was booked on an early before dawn flight, leaving me with an extra hour of sleep and two over-packed suitcases and a backpack. No problem for me, I smirked. But the next early morning after she had departed, I found it still too early in the morning and my baggage heavy and awkward to carry. Nevertheless, it was the cross I had to carry, and slowly and methodically made it to the trainstation, drenched in sweat and gasping for breath. Fortunately, on my turtle-like walk there was not a soul in sight, sparing me the embarrassment of the macho Yank, barely able to stand up.

At the train station there were many Swiss kids and a few older, still partying from the night before. In front of me were a line of railroad trains. Of course, the world knows that Switzerland has a dense network of railways with more than 2600 stations and stops, which are as efficient as an Olympic game clock

As I surveyed the trains, I was unable to find one with the magical words, Zürich Airport. The railway representatives were a little too far away for me to bother to ask, so I stupidly thought, well, Zürich Airport is one stop away and any train going in that direction will make a stop. I climbed aboard the nearest train and took a comfortable seat. As the train ride commenced, I noticed we were covering a lot of kilometers, more than I had thought for a quick ride to the airport. A railway ticket collector appeared and carefully punched everyone’s ticket. When it came to mine, he took pause. In perfect English he asked, “Where do you think you are going?” “Zürich Airport,” I replied. The gentleman shook his head, “There is no stop at the airport. This is a direct ride to Lugano.”  Before I could reply, he took my ticket and left me with the words, wait here.  My five-minute wait felt like I was trapped in a Hitchcock film before the man returned  and informed me that the train will make an emergency stop at a platform where another train will be waiting to transport me to the airport. What! How can this be on the world’s most efficient railway system, a railway system that was so efficient as an Olympic game clock. Wouldn’t this interfere with their carefully orchestrate time table? But it was true. The train actually stopped, and I struggled over to the desolate, opposite platform with my load, where the train to Zürich Airport and its conductor was actually waiting for me. The conductor words were polite, but commanding. “Wait here! Do Not Go Anywhere! We will tell you when to get off to the airport.” And that’s what exactly happened; 15 minutes later I was standing in the check-in line at the Zürich Airport. Is there a morale or even travel tip from this? No, not really; just don’t be a clueless American and always take the time to ask questions. You’ll find many people are happy to help, particularly in Switzerland.

Richard Carroll — T-Boy writer:

Press Trip Travel Nightmares

On a media trip to Indonesia there was writer with a drinking problem who by evening time was slurring his words and unable to communicate. It was a Travel Nightmare when sitting at the dining table and it was his turn to speak to the hosts. A media cruise to South America a writer hit on a gorgeous lady sitting at a bar. He didn’t realize that she was on her honeymoon and quickly her husband appeared and there were blows. At the next port of call he was kicked off the cruise and left on the dock with his luggage. Later he sent the public relations lady roses and she returned them. Both of these were extremely embarrassing and awkward. I could write a long short story about Travel Nightmares, as could most active travel writers.

A press trip to Switzerland an editor from Sunset Magazine was always late. The Swiss PR leader instructed us that we would meet at a certain place in the heart of the village at 4 p.m. and please don’t be late. The van can only be in this area for a few minutes and it’s a huge ticket if we overstay. We were all back on the van minutes before 4 p.m. except for the Sunset Magazine editor. We looked down the sidewalk and there he was sauntering along looking in windows, as a policeman appeared at the window of the van. The PR guy lost his temper and shouted, “I’m not a damn baby sitter for travel writers and I’m tired waiting for an airhead!” He slammed the door of the van and we left him in the village. Our next stop was miles further in another Swiss mountain village where we would spend the night. Hours later about halfway through a marvelous dinner here comes Sunset Magazine straggling in through the door. The PR leader stood up and said, “Here’s the key to your room,” then sat down at the festive table. It was another awkward Travel Nightmare. He did go straight to his room and was never late again. Throughout the remainder of the trip the PR leader ignored him.

There was a media trip when two Los Angeles women were invited and the New York PR lady didn’t realize they despised each other, it was a week-long Travel Nightmare. In Puerto Vallarta on a press trip a female was sent home because she was complaining morning, noon and night. The PR lady said to her in front of the group, “We spent a great deal of money on this trip and you’re ruining it. We have booked a flight for you at 6 p.m. and possibly we can work together in the future?”

On a press trip to New York City with some excellent writers, one writer was allowed to bring along his new girlfriend. The second day he arrived at breakfast with a black eye, his glasses shattered and a huge bump on his forehead. It looked as if she had whacked him with both hands. She arrived at breakfast without a mark sitting at the table far from him. They sent her back to Los Angeles that afternoon and helped the writer to find a new set of glasses.

A trip to Asia a writer disappeared on the first night and didn’t reappear till it was time to depart. The PR firm banned him forever and spread the word to other PR firms. This writer has faded from the world of travel.

On a cruise to Hong Kong a writer from NYC attempted to commit suicide. Somehow, he stowed away on the ship and we spent the entire cruise searching for him. Finally, the staff entered his cabin for the 10th time. He was on his bed staring at the ceiling and not speaking. He told us that he was depressed and only kidding about suicide. That seemed to be the end of this writing career, and the last time I checked he’s still alive and healthy living in Chicago.

A cycling trip to Austria the PR firm was adamant that we need to be in good shape, not top physical shape but able to cycle a six mile segment to a waiting bus. It was a hot day and after 20 minutes or so a lady from Philadelphia was lagging far behind. I stopped and talked to her. She was not in good shape, sweating profusely, and refusing to go any further. The PR cycle leader walked her back to the starting village and then had to find transportation at great expense for a one hour trip over a mountain to connect with the media group. Everyone was worried about her and it sent the focused travel edge flying. She said, “I didn’t think it would be this hard.” She remained on the bus for the remainder of the cycling sessions. The European PR firm was not happy, and one of the leaders said to me privately, “Do you Americans know how to read?”

Hemingway wrote, “If you want to stay married to your wife or sweetheart never travel with her.” We have witnessed a number of couples who have had travel stress breakdowns with shouting matches, leaving overloaded luggage in hotels and parking lots and wishing they had never left home.

Weave Cleveland — Travel Guys cinematographer

Circumstances Beyond Your Control

The Greek mob, set up by the Russians, roofied, robbed, a smashed sliding glass door at a Best Western gashing my leg right open, a maid in terror watching me bleed sitting at the edge of a bathtub with the water running as I do my own surgery, me tearing my own clothes into strips to use as tourniquet’s, a restaurant owner punching me because I didn’t choose his restaurant, British Airways leaving my luggage in the rain leaving me without anything for two and four days respectively, more than one piece of luggage, think colours running into other clothes, blues into whites, etc. … and explaining why your suitcase now weighs 80 lbs. instead of 40, Heathrow Board of Health refusing me first aid and telling me to go to a hospital in London when all I wanted was to please get back home — and that’s just Europe.

Tom Weber — T-Boy writer:

Behind Enemy Lines

In a previous life, the one that provided me with a bi-monthly paycheck, I traveled a lot. The job afforded me countless suitcases full of opportunities while in the service of my government. That’s how I managed to get the lion’s share of entry-exit stamps and visas in my well-worn passports.

Colleagues were envious, but not jealous, that I was able to “change the air” and leave the office environment on a pretty regular basis for long stretches of time.

Whenever I’d pack up and head for foreign shores, I’d always tell my officemates, tongue-in-cheek, that I was going “behind enemy lines.” Truth be told, my pronouncement really wasn’t that far off.

The different languages, cultures, customs, traditions, politics, cuisine, scenery, just everyday life in general, in most of the places that I’ve visited, were odd and foreign to me at first, but after numerous return visits to some, I became more relaxed, more comfortable, and more at ease with my temporary abodes abroad.

As the old saying goes, “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.”

I learned early on that whenever I traveled outside my comfort zone, the best way to approach it was by doing my utmost to adapt to the new culture for as long as I was in “their” fair city, village or hamlet. Sample and soak in as much of your hosts’ way of life as you can. And whatever you do, do not go around comparing your way of life back home with theirs. Just leave your personal baggage behind. Don’t let it clutter or fog up the new-found moment or experience. In other words, don’t rain on your own parade.

Being “behind enemy lines” can be, and should be, a lot of fun. Don’t blame misplaced luggage, flight delays, bad weather, etc. on the place you’re visiting. These are simply the bumps and bruises of the foreign travel experience.

In the end, it all works out and makes for interesting stories to share with your office mates when you return home. Remember, they’re envious that you got to go. So, embellish a bit.

I’m probably preaching to the choir with most of you fellow, well-seasoned “road warriors,” but it’s always good to remind ourselves that when we step off the plane, train or boat, that “we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

From the Panama Canal to the Great Wall of China, from the bush of South Africa to a mud hut in the Haute Guinea, I’ve done my fair share of being placed, and placing myself, “behind enemy lines” and always made it back safe and sound. And, most importantly, I returned home more enlightened and fulfilled than I was before I left.

James Boitano — T-Boy writer

A Travel Nightmare All In Your Head

When it involves your family, a Travel Nightmare can be all in your head.

Some years ago, my parents and siblings and I all took a Carnival Cruise to the Western Caribbean out of Tampa. It was a lovely week-long visit of the Cayman Islands, the Yucatan and Belize.

The cruise ended Sunday morning with a flight home at noon and the eventual return to work on Monday. Typically, Sunday morning was sad to see the trip over, but then it turned stressful. Very stressful. Due to unexpected fog, the ship couldn’t dock for hours until after its scheduled arrival. Our noon flight was now much too early. We spent so many anxious hours, first stressing about when we could get off the ship and how we’d catch our flight, and then rushing to the airport. When they finally let us off the ship, we had only about an hour till our flight. We scrambled for all our might to make it to the airport, only to arrive 15 minutes too late to catch our flight home to Seattle. I can still remember how stressed out we were over this ‘nightmare’. My mother even abandoned a suitcase when we couldn’t find it at the base of the ship when we disembarked.

But why in the world did we work ourselves up into such a frenzy? For in the end, we got a flight home the next morning and had a lovely last day together as a family around the pool of a cheap motel somewhere in town. It turned out to be a blessing to have an extra day together as a family to extend our vacation. The nightmare was all in our heads.

Brom Wikstrom — T-Boy writer and mouth painter:

Impossible to Anticipate Conditions 

Any travel nightmare I’ve had revolves around the impossible to anticipate conditions that also make for some of the most satisfying aspects of travel. In Lugano, Switzerland, we spent an afternoon, seated in a bike repair shop, while ingenious workers improvised a fix to my wheelchair, shortening spokes they had to accommodate my broken wheels. Their pride at correcting my dilemma was a joy to behold and we were sent on our way with smiles.

On another occasion, in Arches National Park, we had been struggling up a steep trail that had been declared wheelchair accessible but wasn’t very. Just at the point where we had to decide whether to just stop and enjoy what we’d done or return to a simpler trail below, a burly guy named Bruce came along to offer an assist. In no time, we had not only ascended to the top of the trail, but he stuck with us for the entire loop trail. By the end of the day, we’d acquired a good friend.

Tammy Skinner — T-Boy writer

A Hellenic Promise

There are many nuances to being a woman — most of them fabulous but some of them not so much. One of them being the seemingly invisible magnetic sign when traveling that seems to scream VULNERABLE VICTIM. Luckily, I have radar which senses movement of possible predators and over the years of traveling have developed an intricate system to ward them off. I was 21 traveling to Brindisi, Italy by train coming from Paris. My traveling companion (also female) and I were excited to travel to Greece for the first time and our plan was to get to Brindisi and stay up all night then take the early morning ferry to Patras. We befriended a kind young man on the train who was American and, on his way, to visit relatives. Out of concern and respect, he decided he would stay with us once we got to Brindisi in order to protect us from any of the street kids. All was well until we made some “new friends” who followed us around and offered to keep us company as well. Our American friend played dumb pretending he didn’t speak their language and, in the meantime, overheard their plot to kidnap my companion and I by taking us in a boat and pretending to take us 3 but then leaving our “American” friend behind.

Since I knew of this plan ahead of time and had some theater experience under my belt, I decided to act quick. It was around 5am when they took us to the dock (not far from where we would have been actually leaving for Patras only 2 hours later) …my companion and I locked eyes as we approached the boat and off in the distance I saw a group of people who were gathering to already start their wait for the arrival of the ferry. I grabbed her by the hand careful to not show fear to our kidnappers nor draw attention to them in any way that would make them angry and I turned to her and shouted “Look!! It’s Gary and Dennis!! They met us here like they said they would. Hi guys!!!!!” Grabbing her, we ran as fast as we could towards that group all the while shouting our greetings. We were lucky. We got away. That ferry ride to Greece was hotter than hot. We were sweaty, the air was humid and life had never felt sweeter. My memories of Greece are filled with wonder as I recall the beautiful beaches of Santorini, the ruins in Athens, the mouth-watering gyros in Patras and the late nights we spent dancing in Corfu. Life is sweet and is to be savored. Yet the Greek philosopher, Socrates, summed it all when he said “Nature has given us two ears, two eyes, and but one tongue-to the end that we should hear and see more than we speak.” The lesson of my travel nightmare was no doubt doubled as well; to be always aware of your surroundings (remaining vigilant and hyper attuned) and appreciating the beauty in the environment and people you encounter along the way.

Bill Cartmel Maroldo — Television personality and broadcaster:

Be Prepared for the Worst

For the most part, travel is a double-edge sword. I love being in a new place and exploring the highlights – whether it be a village, city, or country. But for me, every vacation has its travel nightmare and it usually comes at both ends of the flight. I guess it would be cliché to say “I hate flying,” and so instead I will say I despise it.

From the park and ride (think of coming back and clearing off your car after a snowstorm); to arriving at the airport (they tell you to come early, but then you sit for a couple of hours next to someone talking loudly on their cell phone); to checking in (trying to relearn the “time saving” kiosks with instructions that change with each trip, and worrying your suitcase is 51 lbs.); to finding your gate (which just changed and is now at the other end of the airport); to boarding (feeling like I’m in line for a Rolling Stones concert); to finding your seat (which someone else is already sitting in, and the overhead storage is already full); to take off (the pilot telling us we’re backed up behind a few dozen other planes, but it won’t be long); to landing (for the moment it almost feels like it’s over, but it’s not); to disembarking (uh oh, my connection is taking off in a few minutes and they still haven’t opened the door); to retrieving the luggage (ok, I realize someone has to have the suitcase which gets loaded last onto the belt). Oh boy! Now I can look forward to finding the car rental and explaining why I don’t need insurance, and then figuring out how to get on the right highway since my GPS won’t work in the parking garage. But at last the vacation has begun, the hyperventilating has subsided, and I remember why it’s all worth it.

Raoul Pascual — Webmaster, illustrator and T-Boy writer:

The Crooks of Philippine Airlines

I will never recommend Philippine Airlines (PAL).

It is the flagship airlines of the Philippines. There are 3 other local competitors that fly people within the country, but it is the only international airline that flies straight from Manila to the rest of the world. Other international flights have a stop-over. Essentially, PAL is a subtle monopoly. This is my experience with the branch in Cagayan (Southern Philippines).

The air crew is great, but the ground crew is like a car salesman. They know they have you under their command, so they gauge your desperation and dangle ridiculous prices that seem to be plucked from thin air. It takes them forever to analyze the history of your itinerary … I mean how difficult is it to read an online document? On the official website, you can’t inquire via telephone … no contact information for an actual human being and their local/branch Philippine travel agents cannot help you. They are merely travel agents who book you and get their commission, but they cannot adjust your itinerary. The travel agent said they cannot even call the airline directly. How ridiculously antiquated is that? Any deviation from your original schedule needs to be addressed face-to-face (not even by phone) with an agent from the official ticketing office (usually on the local airport itself} which can be hours away from you.

I went to the Iligan, Southern Philippines, to visit my Dad. While I was there, he contracted pneumonia and I had to delay my return flight back to the Manila to care for him. I decided Sunday evening to change my Monday flight to Thursday. I was not prepared for the nightmare that was about to happen.

Monday

Because my Monday flight was set at 6:30 AM, I was forced to drive 1.5 hours to the PAL local ticketing/satellite office in the airport office at 4:00am. When I got there, a man named Frank was late to arrive at his office. He was supposed to open at 4:30 but he got there a little past 5 .a.m. I was the only one waiting but when he opened a rich lady stepped in front of me and she got catered to first. The two chatted and giggled for over half an hour. It appears she and Frank were old friends. When it was finally my turn, Frank took forever to realize that my US travel agent had already cancelled my flight the night before. Then he gave me a list of all official hospital documents I needed to gather in order to justify my change of departure to qualify for free re-booking. He said he could not decide on our exception, so I needed to drive even further the next day (with the documents) to the main city (another hour away) to the PAL office downtown. Before I left, I told Frank to book me in the next flight that was leaving on Thursday.

Tuesday

I spent a half a day chasing after the hospital documents because I had to line up and pay fees to obtain it.

Wednesday

I drove all the way to the downtown main PAL ticketing office. When I stepped in at 9 a.m., Mr. Granada, a massively overweight agent, told us the exception only applied if I were hospitalized, i.e., all those hospital documents were worthless. I needed to pay the full price; $300 more, “but if you want to complain, only my manager could decide on your case.” He told me his manager would be in at 3 p.m.

We returned at 3pm but by that time, a crowd had already gathered so I waited in line for an hour. Mr. Granada then rambled on about a penalty for my “no show” and I explained that my travel agent had already cancelled it. He pretended not to see that in my records. His face frowned realizing I had outwitted him from paying a penalty fee. Then he came up with a new scam. He said I should have made a reservation. I told him I told bald headed Frank to do that for me. He said there was no record of the reservation. He claimed the Thursday flight was fully booked but he would be able to squeeze me in for $1,200 more.

Mr. Granada was testing to see how desperate I was to get out of the country. I called his bluff and told him I could wait. When he realized I was not in a hurry he went to the back room and conferred some more “with his manager” (if there really was a manager). By that time, he returned, I had already checked for alternate airlines. The cheapest fare was about $500 at EVA Air. Granada came back and said the cheapest one he could get me for the flight leaving on Thursday was just a few dollars off the competitor. It was either pay a little more with another airline (and deal with the hassle of transferring flights) or buy the ticket he was offering. I had to bite the bullet and take up his offer.

Thursday (Escape Day)

It was only when the plane left the ground that I could relax. I looked around the plane and there were several empty seats … I realized Mr. Granada had lied about the plane being fully booked. It appears the scoundrel still won in the end.

Epilogue

Philippine Airlines (PAL) has a local moniker: PAL stands for Palaging Always Late. “Palaging” means “Always” so in English it means “Always, Always Late.”

I have written them to ask for an explanation and they have not responded.

Their booking system is outdated. They slide prices according to your desperation. You’d be a fool to change your itinerary once you are trapped in the country.

Steve Rosenfield — Photographer and T-Boy writer:

Story of Lost Luggage

One Friday in December, my wife Elaine and I boarded a flight from Los Angeles non-stop to London Heathrow for the purpose of attending our daughter Amanda’s engagement party in London. The engagement party was to take place in Loughton, Essex, just north of London, beginning on Sunday at 3:30 PM. The engagement party was being hosted by our future in-laws, Gary and Suki, and was specifically scheduled during the Christmas holiday so that my wife and I could attend. There were over 200 guests expected to attend the engagement party.

Our American Airlines flight was scheduled to arrive in London Heathrow at 1:30 PM on Saturday where our in-laws had arranged for a car service to pick us up and bring us to Loughton.

As the flight approached Heathrow, the plane could not land due to poor weather conditions. After circling over Manchester, England for an hour, we were advised by the flight crew that Heathrow was closed, and the flight was being diverted to Brussels. We landed in Brussels at about 4:30 PM local time and sat on the plane for about 2 hours when we were told that busses would soon be arriving to transport all passengers to the terminal from where we would be bused to the Holiday Inn for the night. The flight crew also advised passengers that luggage could not be off-loaded because there were no ground crew personnel available to do the work. We were eventually bused to the hotel where we spent the night and were told to return to the terminal Sunday morning to hopefully re-board the plane around 11:00 AM and make the short flight back to London Heathrow.

My wife and I arrived back at the American Airlines terminal in Brussels at about 9:00 AM Sunday morning and stood in line with many other diverted passengers to find out about the continuing flight to Heathrow. Unfortunately, Heathrow was still closed, and the airline was handing out hotel room vouchers for Sunday night. We were told that the luggage was still on the plane which was still on the tarmac in Brussels.

The local time was now about 10:00 AM in Brussels – 9:00 AM in London. My wife and I had to make a decision – abandon any hope of attending our daughter’s engagement party (which was not a good option) or finding another way to get to London by 3:30 PM that afternoon.

When inquiring about our luggage (three suitcases) if we were to get to London by other means, we were told by the AA agent in Brussels that the luggage would end up at its final destination (Heathrow) and that we could then have the luggage delivered to our local address in the London area.

After listening to other travelers, who were in a similar predicament, trying to get onto other flights to Birmingham or Manchester, England, or trying to get tickets for the EuroStar train from Brussels to London (which they were told was sold out), we opted to look into renting a car and driving to Paris, and from there boarding the train to London. I spoke with an agent at the Hertz car rental desk in the airport who told me that I did not need to drive to Paris, but instead could drive to Calais, a couple of hour drive, and catch the EuroStar from there to London. In the interim, my wife rented a mobile phone in the airport so that we could stay in communication with our daughter and future in-laws as we made our way back to London.

The drive to Calais took about 2 hours in the snow getting us to the train station by about 1:30 PM local time. We found the train station in Calais and went to the ticket window with the intent of purchasing two tickets for the EuroStar from Calais to London but were told that the next passenger train was not scheduled to leave until 6:00 PM that evening. Obviously, if we had waited until 6:00 PM for the train, the engagement party would have ended by the time we arrived in London. The ticket agent suggested that we take the next car-train which was scheduled to leave about 3:00 PM local time, arriving in Dover, England about 35 minutes later. With the UK being one hour behind France, we would arrive in Dover about 2:45 PM local time which would hopefully give us enough time to get to our daughter’s engagement party before it ended at 6:30 PM.

The train was late, and we finally arrived in Dover at about after 3:30 PM making our way to Loughton, Essex, arriving at the engagement party about 5:30 PM, and were fortunate to at least having been able to spend about an hour meeting our future son-in-law, his parents and family, and all of the other guests.

The next day, I returned the rental car to a local Hertz office and began calling American Airlines to check up on our luggage which we assumed was still in Brussels since we were told that Heathrow was still closed. Getting through to American Airlines on Monday was impossible and Tuesday was not better. We called our daughter back in Los Angeles who contacted American Airlines in Dallas and put us on a conference call with the delayed baggage department personnel. We filed our delayed/missing baggage report and were told that we would receive a call (to our local London number) once the bags were found. We were also told that the airlines would reimburse my wife and me up to $300 US for both to buy replacement toiletries and clothing.

My wife and I did go shopping for basic toiletries and clothing but ended up borrowing clothes and cold weather gear from our soon to be in-laws. We were hoping that our bags would arrive and the need to purchase much of what we were missing would not be necessary.

We continued to check the AA website for updates and tried calling a few times, but nothing changed. Then, on Thursday, December 23rd, we talked to an AA agent who told us that one of our bags (the smallest one) was found and that we could arrange for delivery as soon as we filled out the customs forms and sent them in. The forms were emailed to us, filled out and returned that evening. We received confirmation that the custom forms were received and that the bag was scheduled for delivery hopefully within two days due to the backup. The bag never arrived, nor did we hear any news from American Airlines for the remainder of our stay in London.

Our scheduled departure from London to Los Angeles was on Sunday, December 26th at 11:10 AM. My wife and I arrived at Heathrow at about 8:00 AM with the intent of going to AA baggage and trying to find any of our luggage. We were escorted to the pen where all of the missing/ delayed bags were being stored and, with the assistance of the AA personnel there, searched all of the bags without finding our luggage. When we asked about the one bag that American had told us was found and was to be delivered to our London location, no one could tell us what happened to that bag despite someone from the baggage department having physically seen and touched that bag several days earlier.

Three weeks after arriving back home in Los Angeles, our luggage was finally delivered although my wife’s new Ugg boots were missing and presumably stolen from her bag.

Roger Fallihee — T-Boy writer:

Rocket Salad in London

After a wonderful and exhausting day of London sightseeing, that culminated with a stunning viewing of Lichtenstein: A Retrospective, at the Tate Modern, Dot and I ducked into an inviting Italian Bistro for a pre-theatre dinner. Little did we know that our decision to share a Rocket Salad would wipe out our itinerary for the next forty-eight hours.

At around 1:00 am I woke up with the unmistakable feeling of impending gastronomic doom, the kind that lets you know that you had better be in a bathroom within ten seconds or else. I will exclude all the unnecessary details here except to say that the attack was both frightening and ferocious.

I climbed back into bed and my loving and sympathetic wife and I retraced our meals of the day, hoping that our sleuthing would produce an obvious culinary culprit. The Rocket Salad was the only food that we shared. Dot suddenly leaped out of bed and bolted toward the bathroom door. Mystery solved.

For the next several hours our hotel room took on the look and feel of a traditional English farce, with us crossing paths in and out of the bathroom, desperately hoping that one of us would be finished before the other needed the room. I started to worry that our inability to sip even a tiny amount of water could force us into an ER and IVs, courtesy, of course, of the National Health Service.

Around 9:00 am I decided to make my way down to the dining room before they ended the breakfast food service to get some toast or rolls or fruit or anything that might be able to be successfully consumed. I made it half-way to the elevator when nature forced me to head back to our room… quickly.

I reached out to the front desk at the Park City Grand Plaza Hotel in Kensington and as I explained our predicament to Ashley she said, “Can I pop up to your room?” A few minutes later Ashley arrived with a notepad. “Let’s make a list and I’ll run to the market.”  We asked for ginger ale, Premium Saltines, oranges and anything else that she thought might be appealing. Ashley came back an hour later with two bags of snacks, beverages, candles and matches (thoughtful and welcome) and a few magazines.

Throughout that day and the next, Ashley and her coworkers called regularly to check on us. They made additional trips to the market and offered to take either of us to the ER if needed. By the following morning we were feeling mostly human again, but not completely out of the woods, so we decided to hunker down for another day.

The next morning, we woke up and it was as if nothing had ever happened. We felt great. We took the tube over to the Churchill War Rooms for a fascinating tour of the tiny rooms that PM Churchill, General Eisenhower and others used to plot the demise of Adolph Hitler.

As we wandered the streets near the Parliament we realized that we were actually hungry. I asked Dot what she was in the mood for. She dryly replied, “Mmmm, how about a nice Rocket Salad for two?”

T.E.  Mattox — T-Boy writer:

I’m not going anywhere near those places!

Although, I did buy a Swiss watch in Zürich.

The post Travel Nightmares: Travel Lessons Learned appeared first on Traveling Archive.

Since you’ve got a lot of ground to cover, here’s how to plan a bike tour of London:

Fueling Up

A bike tour is a great scenic mode of transport as you don’t travel too fast and it counts as a form of exercise while traveling. This also means that prior to your ride, you need to fuel up to help sustain you throughout the route. If you’ve had a big English breakfast – which is a generous amount of fuel to get you going – perhaps allow yourself some time to digest before you hop on the bike. Even a quick energy boost or caffeine kick can get you pumped. And if you have had too much morning coffee you will easily be able to find a healthy alternative. Pretty Me’s review of Lean N Green coffee highlights how it has less caffeine than regular coffee beans but is packed with powerful antioxidants. These can give you an unexpected dose of nutrition alongside protecting your heart health while biking. If you foresee yourself getting hungry, Cyclist recommends good old Clif Bars to tie you over and keep you stimulated until you can finally dig into some fish and chips at a local pub.

Basic Rules Apply

Basic cycling rules apply in London, so if you are booking a tour with a company, be sure to inquire if helmets come with the bikes. Opt for reflective clothing so that you are easily spotted. Stay alert throughout the ride – and try not to get too distracted by all the beautiful sights!

Choosing a Path

Alas, you know what to do prior to your bike ride – but do you know which tour you will be taking? There are numerous bike tour options in London, depending on what angle of the city you wish to see. You will usually have to allocate three to five hours of your day to do a tour as well. First timers may benefit from guided tours that take you around all the postcard-worthy sights such as Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, and Tower Bridge, among others. Guided tours also ensure you get your dose of history while riding, and if you want to go off the beaten path, there are also tours that take you through some of the artsier and more cultural spots that are bustling with action and noise. Evening tours can give you a taste of the vibrancy of London’s nightlife in all its lit up glory.

Adventurous travelers may want to take a self-directed tour, and a guide to cycling in London by Vogue advises asking locals or friends what their preferred routes are. Chances are, you will discover lesser known parks, waterways, and back streets that can give you a shortcut around the city while still remaining in the bike lane. This way, you might even feel more like a Londoner on a commute, than a traveler on a mission.

Exclusively for travelingboy.com by Pearl Welch.

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The sounds of the city entering through the swinging door of the celebrated Ritz London late at night are strangely subdued, muffled under moisture-laden clouds hovering over a slumbering Piccadilly. This elaborate palace with its imposing pink-hued marble pillars standing tall, crystal chandeliers sparkling overhead, and floor-to-ceiling mirrors holding secrets of clandestine love affairs long forgotten, is the perfect finale to a dream-filled London evening. The ageless mirrors once reflecting the Ritz’s opening day more than a hundred years ago in May of 1906 when horses and buggies lurched through the streets amidst the electrifying clatter of London life.

The peaceful silence of this London night provides the perfect opportunity to experience the potent elegance and creativity expressed in the slumbering hotel through the art of interior creativity. Special design touches catch the eye, flashing like diamonds, catching guests’ imagination and bringing to mind the radiance of the people who created this historic setting. Guests here are rarely surprised to learn that the Long Gallery on the ground floor has been described as one of the all-time masterpieces of hotel architecture. The brainchild of Cesar Ritz, a skillful and gifted Swiss gentleman with forward-thinking ideas, the hotel was brought to life by two talented architects, one British and one French, who were influenced by the Louis Seize-style architectural traditions of Paris. The pure classical forms common in the architectural design and furniture of the reign of Louis XVI of France are carried throughout the hotel’s decor.

On this contemplative night, the hotel seems to be taking a deep breath to settle itself while guests in 136 elaborate rooms and suites are resting. The city is subdued as the clouds decide to open and let fall a gentle but steady rain. The Ritz has hosted the elite of the world — kings and queens, writers, actors, wounded soldiers, celebrities from prima ballerina Anna Pavlova to Charlie Chaplin, and bartenders who knew them all.

During World War II, Winston Churchill, Dwight Eisenhower, and Charles de Gaulle met in the Marie Antoinette Suite to discuss tactics, hopefully over champagne. Damaged nine times during German bombing raids, like fervent London sentinels, the Ritz’s original 1906 Portland stone and gray Norwegian granite held firm.

The hotel, caught in a historic British time bubble and still showcasing the modern edge of the 20^th century, was recently listed among the world’s top five hotels; not a big surprise to hotel aficionados. Inside, the gorgeous Palm Court feels almost spiritually imbued with good thoughts, an impression heightened by the absolutely brilliant use of light and space. Its splendor was intended as the ideal fashion-forward setting for some of the world’s most stunning women, all adhering to the classic Ritz dress code as they took pleasure in afternoon tea and carefully prepared cuisine with live background music.

Palm Court Afternoon Tea

For more than a hundred years, the Palm Court has been a gracious host and the only hotel in the UK to have a certified Tea Sommelier who offers 18 different types of loose-leaf tea, including a unique house tea developed specially for the Palm Court. With a bit of imagination it’s easy to imagine Princess Diana, Sophia Loren, Jackie Onassis, and Audrey Hepburn, sipping champagne or tea and wondering who may have been enjoying the Palm Court earlier today.

At 2:30 a.m. while the rain continues in a misty haze, the Ritz kitchen is filled with the tantalizing aroma of freshly baked bread, croissants, and rolls fashioned by the baker who works throughout the night to gratify Executive Chef, John Williams. The Chef, personable, articulate, and honored with a Michelin Star, is distinguished among the top chefs in both Great Britain and Europe. With a team of 65 cooks and sous-chefs, Chef Williams oversees the Ritz dining scene. Enthusiastic, passionate, and vigorous, he creates the menus for The Palm Court, Ritz Restaurant, Secret Garden, Rivoli Bar, Room Service, banqueting and private dining rooms — an astonishing and artful task.

Admired by the Royal family, Chef Williams has cooked and catered for Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, celebrating two of her birthdays at private dinners for the Royal family, both at The Ritz and at Buckingham Palace.

Williams was born and raised in South Shields in northern England, the son of a Tyneside fisherman, one of six children, from humble beginnings and a hard-working family. His mother set the pace for her young son. He explained that she was a simple, practical cook, who fed the family well with lots of different fish and allowed him to help in the kitchen. Williams attended college and cookery classes working his way through the kitchens of England, tutored by French chefs, before finally landing at the Ritz as an Executive Chef in 2004.

Following in the footsteps of Auguste Escoffiere, the father of modern cooking who was chef at the Ritz during the first years of its opening, Williams says that he prefers modern cuisine and loves to stretch the boundaries, but regardless everything must fit under the roof of the Ritz. “We strive to make it relevant, aim for the stars, and create flavor that gives people joy.”

It’s 3:45 a.m. and the Ritz’s wine cellar of some 500 bins of goodness is locked tight. There is nothing to do now but count the hours till lunch when it will be time to enjoy Chef Williams’ creations. The list embraces Langoustine a la nage, Cherry Bomb Chicken, Drunken Mussels or Eggplant Parmesan Casserole, and a sip of Bordeaux wine.

Before heading for the lift and a bedroom on the second floor, a man, hatless, dripping wet in a brown suit, strides in carrying a thin brief case with a cell phone attached to his ear. He pauses by the grand piano which is played to accompany the Afternoon Tea sitting. He bends over and plays a few bluesy chords, and then continues up the famed staircase, a design urged by Cesar Ritz who believed that a curved staircase allowed ladies to make a dramatic entrance and showcase their fashion. Halfway up, he stops, removes the cell phone from his ear, turns to view the Long Gallery and the Louis XVI setting for a long moment, and with an immense smile nods goodnight. It’s that kind of place.

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With the recently celebrated 75th Anniversary of VE Day, commemorating the end of World War II in Europe, A Royal Night Out, currently streaming on Netflix,  couldn’t have been re-released at a more appropriate time.  This delightful film, written by Trevor De Silva and Kevin Hood, and exquisitely directed by UK director Julian Jarroid (Brideshead Revisited,) was originally released by Lionsgate on May 8, 2015.  This glorious film tells the story of how Princesses Elizabeth (Sarah Gadon) and Margaret Rose (Bel Powley) supposedly celebrated that historical moment.

Raucous celebrations are breaking out all over London and future queen Elizabeth, whose nickname is “Lilibeth,” and her younger sister by four years Margaret, who refers to herself as “P2,” (princess 2) desperately want to join in the historic celebrations.  They beg and plead with their parents – George VI (Rupert Everett) and their mother Queen Elizabeth (Emily Watson) – to allow them to participate in the festivities.  They want to see first hand how everyone is celebrating.  The sisters have lived a very sheltered life and have never even been abroad, which is worrisome to their parents.

At first their parents are unbending, as they are fearful for their daughter’s safety, but finally relent with specific rules.  They must be incognito and be chaperoned by two soldiers, Lieutenants Pryce and Burridge, delightfully played by Jack Lasky and Jack Gordon. Caught up in the excitement, in short order they are literally seduced by two young ladies of the night and lose track of their charges.  There is a delightful scene of them drinking what they believe will be their last drink before being court-martialed.

Margaret, the wilder of the two sisters, gets separated from Lilibeth in the hundreds of people milling about in the streets and fearlessly sets off on her own to have the time of her life.  Aware that they are to make an appearance at several parties, the future queen hops on a bus but when the conductor asks her for money, she looks at him and says, “Oh dear, I don’t have any money.”  The conductor, not recognizing her, insists that she either “Pay or get off the bus.” Sitting next to her is handsome Jack, a seemingly disgruntled member of the RAF, who reaches into his pocket and pays her fare.  Well played by Jack Reynor, whose character has gone AWOL, resumes leaning against the window with his eyes closed but Elizabeth, absolutely perfectly played by Sarah Gadon, insists in engaging him in conversation.  She tells him about her search for her sister and eventually, fixing her broken heel, agrees to help her.  In the meantime, pandemonium continues to break out as midnight approaches, the official end of the war in Europe.

People are dancing in the streets, kissing each other, drinking champagne right out of the bottle, waving flags, singing, and dancing. After suffering through the Blitz, Londoners are truly ready to celebrate this momentous occasion. P2 somehow winds up at a “knocking shop” in Soho where a naughty Lord Stan spikes her drink with thoughts of seducing her. Experiencing dizziness, she wanders around until she comes to an office with a couch and is rescued by the proprietor of this “house of pleasure” who recognizes who she is.  Bel Powley captures the absolute joy and innocence of Margaret’s zest for life.

To continue this evening of extraordinary fun, she and some of the “working girls”  travel together to a party near Trafalgar Square, which is precisely where  Elizabeth and Jack are headed. As you might have deduced by now, the girls find with each other and jitterbug the rest of the night away.  At one point, a scrap breaks out between Jack and another soldier.  Seeing him getting the worst of it, Elizabeth assumes command of the situation by announcing who she is and for a few delicious moments, quiet fills the room as everyone curtsies and the fighting ceases.

Past the curfew, Margaret goes back to Buckingham Palace by taxi but Elizabeth says she will meet her back at the palace later on.  She, already somewhat smitten with Jack, as he is with her, decides to walk back with him and much to the chagrin of her parents, invites him to breakfast with them the next morning.  They question him about his service where he reveals that he flew 50 missions over Germany, shooting down five planes and witnessing the slow death of one of his friends who was mortally wounded. Spoiler alert:  The final scene is beyond precious.

Technically, this film is sheer perfection from Claire Anderson’s exquisite period costumes and Christophe Beaucarne’s beguiling cinematography, to Luke Dunkley’s Film Editing and Paul Englishby’s Musical Score, which includes some of the wartime hits such as “Don’t Sit Under The Appletree” and “In The Mood.”

Whether this story is totally true or cobbled together from heresay, this is one spirited, joyful film depicting how two famous princesses joined with the people for the first time in what was probably one of the most memorable moments of their lives.  In this difficult time, anything that is uplifting and makes us smile, is a temporary antidote to the isolation many of us are facing.  So, for a few hours of fun, I heartily recommend “A Royal Night Out.”

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The rippled river, a distinguished passageway exploited by the Romans, Saxons, Vikings, and Normans alike, though not one of them with a hint of good thoughts, is where during the construction of the County Hall, a 38-foot Roman boat, circa 296 CE, was found buried in the muddy banks, a refining cleansing omen for the indefatigable Thames.

From the outside terrace of the six-story London Marriott County Hall located near the foot of Westminster Bridge, visitors soak in the view of shredded clouds gilded with saffron brilliance that hover above the river boats riding low in the water like sluggish ants just awakened from a deep sleep, while tour vessels crowned with camera-laden visitors move to and fro. The police boat like a toy removed from a bath tub slips pass as indifferent pigeons in chirring flight ruffle their wings.

Renowned throughout Europe, County Hall has been greeting guests since 1922 when King George V and Queen Mary first waved their batons to mark its grand opening as the London County Council headquarters. Designed with a Portland stone facade, floors of teak and oak, heavy bronze doors, and elaborate paneling in the floor-to-ceiling English Renaissance style, the County Hall inspired a grand reawakening on the South Bank.

The Edwardian Baroque-style edifice quickly became a symbol of London government comparable to the palace of Westminster. In World War II, the already historical monument was hit by a German bomb, yet in true stiff upper lip fashion continued greeting the notables of the era, including Heads of State and Winston Churchill cigar dangling.

Serving for 60 years as the headquarters of the Metropolitan government in London, County Hall was purchased by Marriott in 1998, and then carefully retained the significant exterior and ambiance of the building, preserving much of the original flooring, the wide corridors, Block Belgian Marble fireplaces, and wood paneled chambers. The building was skillfully decorated with art deco detailing, notable black and white photos, Coats of Arms, and glorious large format paintings depicting the building’s original era.

A London Spectacle

The architects back in the day cleverly used its prime location to accentuate the building’s splendor and design. The 206-room hotel with 12 exclusive suites, seven boasting private balconies, represents the ultimate in five-star retreats and offers the best views in London, if not all of England.

The suites embrace 180-degree vistas of London’s cityscape, encompassing the busy Thames, The Houses of Parliament, Big Ben, Westminster Bridge, The London Eye, Golden Jubilee Bridge, and the Jubilee Walkway. The suites were planned for those on the road who appreciate good taste and comfort and are a favorite among Cunard transatlantic cruisers. High thread-count bedding, loos with early 20^th century style mosaic flooring, walls decorated with London maps from the era of the building’s infancy, and a large orange armchair, a tribute to the orange and red leather upholstered seating used in the London Council Chambers, are in place.

Dining with a View

Respected Chef Jamie Welch from South Hampton oversees County Hall’s popular Gillray’s Steakhouse & Bar. Welch partnered with O’Shea’s, a farm in Northern England producing organic, pasture-fed, Aberdeen Angus beef aged for a minimum of 35 days, and Spatchcock Chicken, prepared with a glaze of honey and mustard. The extensive menu also lists a Vegetable Patch Vegan entrée, and for starters offers an appetizing roasted garlic soup, scallop and lime ceviche, and garden-fresh smoked asparagus.

High Tea

Afternoon High Tea in the Library is a Marriott County Hall tradition served by a collection of attractive and articulate ladies from Spain, High Tea is an elegant refined service that includes a selection of twelve teas, French Champagne, London-cured salmon, freshly baked scones with County Hall strawberry jam, pastries, and cakes. The romantic setting is a County Hall exclusive every afternoon while beyond the Thames, Westminster City awaits.

Westminster Wow

Stepping out into the heart of Westminster, clouds are often hanging low over the Thames while drivers with great skills negotiate the narrow streets designed for horse and carriages. Occasional buskers playing Chopin on weather-worn violins bring an aura of romance and elegance to the city streets. With its roots in the 11^th century, Westminster has England’s greatest variety of architecture and an abundance of buildings with historical significance including Westminster Abbey and the Tower of London dating back to the time of the Norman conquest of 1066. Surprisingly, Westminster is also home to more than 100 green spaces, as well as Whitehall Gardens, just steps from Marriott’s County Hall.

When You Go

The Victorians struggled with traffic congestion in 1897 and Westminster and London are continuing the pattern. For an intriguing overview, hook up with Golden Tours and their Hop-On Hop-Off open-top buses, or use the world’s finest cab drivers who have no need for GPS and can often even sing a little Sinatra.

For further information, visit Marriott County Hall; Cunard; Golden Tours.

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When you think about canal trips in big cities, you probably imagine Venice or Bruges in Belgium. But London? Now then, did you even know there are canal cruises in that world famous city? Well, I hope you take this marvelous boat trip when you’re in London. I was captivated not only by the trip itself, but also by its name – so British and understated, with the humble name “Jason’s Trip.”

I was over the moon to find out about this cruise and, after actually doing it, I could see how offbeat it is, and I was thrilled that it gave me a wonderful – very interesting – new “London Experience.” I mean  seeing the historic scenery of this world famous destination from these unique canals, gave me a completely different appreciation of London.

Jason’s Trip is the original Regent’s Canal Tour and has been operating since 1951. What made it extra special for me, is the fact that Jason is an authentic 108+ year-old canal boat which was originally used as a cargo-vessel on the canals before being fitted with a diesel engine and converted to passenger-carrying duties. How’s that for a bit of British history? Indeed, it makes one wonder, what was going on in London 108 or so years ago? The tour runs between Little Venice and Camden lock, and takes about forty-five minutes. On the trip from Little Venice up to Camden there is a live commentary from trained guides who will tell you all about the canal’s history from 1800 to the present day. No commentary on the Camden to Little Venice trips.

On a very personal note: Growing up in London as I did, my mother had a wonderful, longtime family friend, Lady Ann Hill, who lived at 31 Maida Avenue by the canal, and we visited frequently. I recall, as if it were yesterday, how often I thought how neat it’d be to live right by the Canal at the above address. So, when my trip aboard the Jason glided past this home many decades later, wow, what a mental trip back into time THAT gave me. Looking at the Jason online website, I came across this comment, and it encapsulates 100% what the Jason experience is all about: “Excellent. This is a relaxing trip, and we can highly recommend this to anyone. It’s a very peaceful and relaxing thing to do in central London. The Commentary was excellent.”

For more information Google “Jason’s Trip.” Here’s another idea for you in London. Get a LONDON PASS. It’s a sightseeing pass for tourists coming to London, and consists of a “Smart Card” that you pay for in advance, and is available in two basic forms: admissions only, or admissions plus Travelcard. The London Pass generally is available as a 1-day, 2-days, 3-days and 6-days pass, that can be used within 12 months after purchasing it. Tourists can order the pass before they travel, and it becomes active as soon as the first sight is visited. Google London Pass Info. Jason’s Trip is one of their highlighted attractions. CONTACT John:

jd******@gm***.com

The post You’ll Love THIS Cruise As It’s So Unexpected – But Also Highly Enjoyable. appeared first on Traveling Archive.

First, why would anyone living in Los Angeles take the train to San Diego, I mean you can get there in about 2 hours on the Freeway, and second, was San Diego’s airport runway, and was it long enough for the long distance flight to London? A few years ago I was invited on a trip to London by way of San Diego, with the purpose of the journey being to experience (and write about)  British Airways service to London from that city.  More on THAT airport, in a moment or two.

As I live in Los Angeles, what is the most interesting way to get to San Diego? Well, I reasoned, THIS would be the ideal time to do something I’d THOUGHT about forever, but never made time to actually do. Take the train. My goodness, what a relaxing and enjoyable trip it was. I even wished it lasted much longer. I boarded in LA’s Union Station where, in its heyday, it was THE place for movie stars of the day, yes movie stars, to go back and forth across the country by train in luxury. Indeed, Union Station is a glorious reminder of the Golden Age of US railroad travel.

I rode in Amtrak’s Double Decker Business Class with large panoramic windows, making it a real joy to enjoy the scenery as we went on our way. On the First level there’s a special area to get coffee and cookies and other sweet pastries to tempt your palette. If work is your thing, there are electrical outlets for laptop computers, and lots of stretch out legroom.  I’d long since given up my Surfboard (!) but I could easily have taken it along, unboxed, as well as my bicycle, because Amtrak allows you to take both on the SURFLINER as carry-on luggage! Try THAT with an airline, and you’ll be on the receiving end of laughter and the word “No.” Amtrak obviously loves southern California lifestyles!

Some of the stations en route were so quaint and romantic, making me think of yesteryear when times were more peaceful and tranquil. A fact stunningly illustrated as the train lazily glided along the extensive beach part of the trip. Any closer and we’d have actually been on the beach!

I asked a fellow passenger – a lady on the other side of the car – the obvious question – why take the train? Part of the answer was in front of me, as she had her lap top out on the tray table and was busily typing away. She said “I take the train because it’s relaxing. It’s all peace and quiet. No worries about traffic.” Like me, she said she also loved the fact that much of the trip is right by the Pacific Ocean. In fact, when we arrived in San Diego, I wanted to instantly do the whole trip over again, as it’s so enjoyable.

OK, now to that amazing San Diego airport. The airport’s original name was San Diego Municipal Airport – Lindbergh Field, located on 661 acres, 3 miles northwest of downtown San Diego. The runway though, has a unique place in American aviation history. It is the busiest single-runway airport in the nation, at 9,401-feet long and 200-feet wide.

As an ex-airline employee (I was Manager of PR for Continental Airlines) I was mesmerized by the fact that San Diego’s Lindbergh Field has a shorter runway than many other airports in the US who have long distance flights to Europe. So, I wanted to experience it firsthand. As we waited to take off it seemed to me that the aircraft revved up its engines to an extraordinarily high RPM degree that I’d never known before. Indeed, when the pilot released the aircraft’s brakes, I felt as if I was on a “thrill ride” at Disneyland: it was if we’d been shot out of a canon because the acceleration was so intense and instant, as the aircraft thundered down the runway. It was, I thought, just like a thoroughbred racing car at peak performance. Yes, of course we made it, but it was – at least for me – a huge thrill as we lifted off the runway almost within its final few feet.

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