I Have A Tip For You

“Fight Against Stupidity And Bureaucracy”

I have to say in my own defense here that I am usually a very good tipper. In restaurants or taxis or whatever, if the service is good, and it usually is, then I have no qualms about rewarding the person who has taken pride in their work and done a good job.

I just wish the world did likewise and rewarded those who did a good job instead of falling over themselves to reward those who don’t and who don’t even want a job to begin with.

But when the service is bad or the person has a bit of an attitude problem, then I don’t tip. Well actually yes I do, but I make the tip so small and derogatory that the message gets through.

In fact, I’ll make that a different sort of tip for anyone reading this blog, if you are in a restaurant or wherever and the service has been bad, pay the bill, without a gratuity if you’re paying by credit card, and leave just a penny on the table for the server. They’ll get the message better than leaving them nothing and so will their colleagues who you will usually see smirking in the background. Oh, and don’t go back to the restaurant, they don’t deserve your custom if they employ people like that.

Fortunately, I haven’t had to resort to that kind of thing very often. I remember though, one time myself and a friend were in the airport in Sanford in Florida. We had a while to wait for our flight which had been delayed and to pass the time we decided to go to one of the restaurants for a beer or coffee and maybe a sandwich. It was a particularly hot day and we decided to sit close to a ceiling fan. It was very comfortable.

Although it was beside the other tables it must have been a place reserved for larger meals than a snack and the waitress paced back and forth, knowing we were ready to order, but deliberately ignoring us. Neither of us were the least bit annoyed, in fact watching her antics helped to pass the time. I’m afraid our comments on her attitude and even her appearance were none to complimentary. She hadn’t been blessed with good looks, nor, from her attitude towards us, much of a brain or a personality either.

There was no one else in the place which should have been a bit of a clue for us. But we persevered. Eventually she came over to our table, took out her notepad and stood there without saying a word. We just ordered a couple of beers which were delivered to the table again without a word and without a smile.

We took our time over those and when it was time to board the airplane we asked for the bill. We left the exact amount plus one penny for the great service. It was all in change, mainly nickels and dimes and pennies. As we were going out the door we stopped and watched as she went over to the table to collect and count the money. We could see her counting it, and then counting it again, and then a third time.

Finally the literal penny in the palm of her hand the metaphorical penny in her head dropped too. She didn’t hope we had good day, in fact the look on her face said just the opposite. But, you know, it didn’t matter, we’d already had one at her expense, literally.    

Then there was another time when my generosity was curtailed, this time it was in New York. I had arrived at JFK from Heathrow, and, suitably tired after first the flight and then the long and humorless ordeal that is US Immigration since 9/11. I was eager to get to my hotel.

I got the first available airport taxi. The driver was a New Yorker, from Queens. An authority on everything, you know the type. So there I was stretched out in the back of the cab listening to this guy give me a lesson on all things New York. It was unnecessary because I was a frequent visitor to the City and knew Manhattan reasonable well, but I listened to him anyway and answered when appropriate, which wasn’t that often because he liked the sound of his own voice.

When we got to the hotel, nice place on West 44^th Street, he stopped the cab and I reached into my pocket for some money. The fare was $20, so I reached him a $20 dollar bill. As I was turning the bunch of bills over to get to the $5’s for the tip, the cab driver proceeded to give me a lesson on life in New York.

“It’s customary to give a tip,” he said in that harsh grinding New York accent. “In fact it’s expected!”  

“Is it?,” I answered innocently. “Would $5 be okay?”

“Yeah, I suppose so,” he reluctantly replied.

“Well then,” I went on, “Here’s your tip, if you’d given me time I’d have gladly given you the $5 and maybe more, but because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut, here’s a dollar. Maybe you’ll give your customers the benefit of doubt the next time.”

In truth I doubted if he would. Needless to say he wasn’t pleased, but neither was I.  

So I think the moral of this post is, reward good work generously, but do not be afraid not to reward incompetence, bad service or people who expect something for nothing. They’re literally not worth it.

Lost In Transit

“Fight Against Stupidity And Bureaucracy”

I wrote a little while ago about Tommy who got lost in the fog in a field beside his own house, and about Thomas Nutall the worst explorer in the world. Well, sense of direction, or the lack thereof, has come up many times in my journeys.

I used to travel on business with a guy called “Bill”. Bill was a nice man, old-school, good manners, fairly prim and proper I suppose you would say. He was in his seventies when I got to know him and worked along with him.

He should have been retired from business but he had a wife who sounded a lot better from a considerable distance and luckily she was not unhappy about getting rid of him for a while – as often as possible as it turns out!

Anyway, domestic bliss aside, Bill made frequent plane trips which obviously meant using airports.

Getting him on to a plane usually wasn’t so bad, although if he stopped to buy something or talk to somebody and you walked on without him, he would always be the last man on to the plane.

But the real fun was when Bill got off the plane. Even on short trips, where the gin and tonics hadn’t been flowing in his direction.

Actually, I’ll come back to that in a moment – I’d forgotten about this until I started to write this blog post.

Bill even got lost once inside the airplane itself. I mean actually inside the airplane! Can you believe it?

He had got up, I presume to go to the bathroom – no, hang on, I absolutely refuse to call what they have on airplanes a “bathroom”; for a start there’s no “bath”, and for another thing there’s no “room” either; it’s a “toilet”, and a small one at that, okay! And for another thing why are they always so small, whether you are on a huge 747 Jumbo jet (I haven’t yet been on one of those Airbus monsters) or a piddly small 737, the toilets are still the same size. All for the sake of being able to offer a couple of extra seats to keep more passengers total discomfort. End rant. Sorry about that, back to today’s blog.

As I was saying, he had got up, I presume to go to the bathroom. There had been a queue at the toilet closest to where Bill was sitting, so he wandered to another one on the far side, and at the back, of the plane (it was 747, small toilets but a big plane!)

But when he opened the door and walked out he didn’t know where he was! I mean, he knew where he was, he knew he was on a plane, but he didn’t know where his seat was and he couldn’t remember the number. And his routine was to put boarding passes, tickets and other paperwork neatly away in his carry on bag before take-off, so he had nothing to refer to.  

He had a walk round first class and was gently ushered out of it by a polite, but firm, flight attendant, before he managed to make his way up the stairs. He inspected business class but saw nothing familiar. Then he spent the next twenty minutes walking up and down the wrong aisle looking for his seat in coach.

I watched what was going on. But I didn’t help him out. And I kept my head down so that he wouldn’t see me. We were sitting together and I didn’t want to give him a clue as to where to look. It was too funny and I was enjoying it, much better that whatever film they were showing at the time. And I knew there was a limit to where he could go.

After a good half hour he showed up.

“You were away for a while,” I said when he got back.

“I didn’t feel too well,” he told me. “And I went to ask one of the flight attendants for some water and an aspirin.”

“Oh?” I answered. “I though maybe you’d got lost or something.”

“No, no, nothing like that.”

I just left it, he’d already given me enough entertainment. He went to sleep and that was it until we landed.

Which is actually what I started to say in the first place. Bill was just a normal bloke when the airplane doors opened and everyone started to funnel out into the terminal. It was when he got out into the open that the fun started.

For some strange reason Bill invariably took off like a bullet. And always in the completely wrong direction. If he was going for a connecting flight he headed for baggage claim and the exit. If he was at his journey’s end he headed for connecting flights. And all at top speed.

The first few times I tried to run after him, but it was hard work, he had a remarkable turn of speed for an older man. After that I just let him run wherever he thought he was going. Once he even walked from Terminal 3 to Terminal 1 at Heathrow airport, and back again, and that is quite a distance despite what the airport brochures tell you. It was perhaps fortunate that he didn’t get on the underground train and end up in the middle of London somewhere.

By the way, when an airport brochure says “close” reckon on at least half a mile or more, and if have lots of luggage that’s a long way.

Remarkably though, he always turned up – eventually. He never said what had happened or where he had been. And I never asked, so I don’t know.

I’m certain that made two of us!

Have you had similar experiences? Send them along. Let the world know what is happening before it is too late.

The Worst Airport Greeting In The World

“Fight Against Stupidity And Bureaucracy”

This is a sort of follow on from yesterday’s blog about Mr Nicholas Scotti, the worst tourist in the world.

Today’s is about Mrs Josephine Williams and her family, who in 1975 went to meet a long-lost brother at Heathrow Airport (London).

Eventually the traveller wandered into the airport lounge, greatly relaxed by the in-flight drinking facilities, and was immediately smothered with the kisses of Mrs Williams and her sisters.

“Gee, this is great,” he kept saying, all the while cuddling Mrs Williams in a manner which she later described as “not like a brother.”

His enthusiasm for British hospitality was modified, however, when Mr Williams shook his hand firmly and ushered him to a parked car.

They first suspected that something might be amiss when their long-lost relative tried to jump out of the car while travelling at speed up the motorway.

When told that he was being taken to a family reunion in Coventry, he replied, “Take my money. Here’s my wallet. Take it and let me go.”

Slumped miserably in the front seat, he added, “This is the first time I have been to England and I am being kidnapped.”

“I thought from the beginning he wasn’t my brother,” Mrs Williams said later, “but my sisters wouldn’t listen. They said I was only twelve when he left for America and wouldn’t remember.”

They had taken home a complete stranger!  I don’t know if they ever met up with their brother or not.

 

The Worst Tourist In The World

“Fight Against Stupidity And Bureaucracy”


 I don’t know whether any of you have heard of Mr Nicholas Scotti?

I hadn’t until I read about him on the internet.

But his story is one that fits well into the ‘stupidity’ category that is one of the underlying themes of this blog.

Mr Scotti holds the title of being ‘The Worst Tourist In The World’, or certainly one of the least successful ones.

 Nicholas Scotti is of Italian descent and is from San Francisco, USA.

In 1977 he decided he would like to visit his relatives in his native Italy.

 An inexperienced traveller, Mr Scotti booked his vacation trip using a travel agent and on the appointed day made his way to the airport for the flight. Getting on a plane was a relatively easy and quick process back in 1977 (oh, those were the days!!), and Mr Scotti made it on to the plane without incident. He settled down for the long flight.

 En route the plane made a one-hour fuel stop at Kennedy Airport and the passengers disembarked.

 But Nicholas Scotti didn’t know about the re-fuelling stop. He thought that he had arrived in Rome, Italy.

He duly left the airport and spent two days in New York believing he was in Rome.

 When his nephews were not there to meet him, Mr Scotti just assumed they had been delayed in the heavy Rome traffic they had mentioned often in their letters.

 While tracking down their address, the great traveler could not help noticing that modernization and new construction had brushed aside most, if not all, of the ancient city’s famous landmarks, but that didn’t deter him.

 He also noticed that many people spoke English with a distinct American accent. However, he just assumed that Americans got everywhere. Furthermore, he assumed it was for their benefit that so many of the street signs were written in English.

 Mr Scotti spoke very little English himself and next asked a policeman (in Italian) the way to the bus depot. As chance would have it, the policeman came from Naples and replied fluently in Italian, which only helped to reinforce his belief that he was in Rome, not New York.

 After twelve hours travelling round on a bus, the driver got fed up with him and handed him over to a second policeman. This one was not Italian and a brief argument ensued during which Mr Scotti expressed amazement at the Rome police force employing someone who did not speak their own language.

 Scotti’s brilliance is seen in the fact that even when told he was in New York, he refused to believe it.

The man was a veritable genius!

 To get Mr Scotti on a plane back to San Francisco, he was raced to the airport in a police car with sirens screaming. Even then he remained unconvinced. “See,” he said to his interpreter, “I know I’m in Italy. That’s how they drive.”

Airline Announcements And George Carlin

“Fight Against Stupidity And Bureaucracy” 


Today we seem to be back on the subject of travel again. It has a way of cropping up quite a bit.

 This time it’s another video presentation, part of a routine by comedian and life observer George Carlin.

 I was always a big fan of George Carlin. I didn’t agree with a lot of the things that he said, and he never refrained from using strong language when he wanted to, but he had a great gift for seeing the funny side of life, and for that I was grateful. Too often we get too frustrated and angry at the idiots we have to deal with and miss the ridiculous absurdity of what is happening around us. Not George.

 Sadly George is no longer with us, but his work lives on.

 *** WARNING: As usual if you are likely to be offended by strong language, then perhaps you should give this one a miss, otherwise, enjoy!

TSA Vid

Hi,

Back to flights and airports todau.

Here is a video about the TSA (courtesy of AirportsMadeSimple.com).

Hope you enjoy.

Finally, I Made it! (The Journey, Part 8)

The following day I checked out of the hotel, again!

Told them I had had to leave a suitcase behind in the room because of the rigmarole at the airport. I said they could let the housekeeping girls take and sell it or keep it or whatever, it was no more use to me.

I got my receipt, again.

Left the hotel, again, in the same shuttle bus, again, with the same driver, again. We’re now good friends, we spent so much time together.

Arrived at Miami International again.

Got a trolley, again, don’t start me on that!

Went to the AA check-in desk, again.

Did the swipey bit at the stand alone screen, again, and joined the queue, again.

When it was my turn, this time it was a man, not the girl from yesterday. I handed over my flight details and passport and explained that I had been rescheduled from yesterday’s flight. He checked that and it was okay.

Then I off-loaded my bags from the $5 trolley and placed the first one on the scales to be weighed and tagged. It was okay for weight, just about and no more. (I had spent a good part of yesterday evening regulating my luggage, trying to put all the heavy gear into one and the lighter stuff into the other. No sense in paying an overweight surcharge for both when one would do.)

Then I set the other one on and sure enough it was well over, $100 worth in fact. He tagged it and sent it on its way, wherever it is that they go.

I was standing there waiting for him to hand me my boarding pass with the luggage tags, but instead he looked towards my trolley and said,

“Is that it?”

“Is that it??”  I didn’t understand.

“IS THAT IT???”

What did he mean, “Is that it?”

I asked him.

“What do you mean, is that it?” I said.

“Is that all your cases, sir? Do you have any more or are you done?” he replied.

W T F???

“That’s all I could bring with me,” I told him. Then followed up quickly with, “There’s an embargo.”

Oh no! Crap and double crap!! Now I was doing it, instead of the AA girl!

“Is there?” he replied.

It’s a really good job they don’t let you bring guns into airports these days, because at that point I could have cheerfully shot somebody.

I started to explain about the embargo, but quickly caught myself on. “It’s okay, it doesn’t matter,” I told him. “Yes, that’s all my check-in luggage.”

Now, I still don’t know what had happened. Whether they had changed the regulations overnight, whether the embargo had been in effect only up to midnight on December 23^rd, whether he just didn’t know about it, or whether they’d realized what a stupid bloody rule it was and scrapped it. All I know is that the day before it had caused me no end of problems, and expense, and today it was as if it had never existed.

I took my passport and papers and staggered away, just looking back briefly to make sure I had really been at the American Airlines desk. What had just happened to me was the equivalent of a mugging. It had left me with a lot less dollars in my wallet, but there were no black eyes or other wounds to show that it had happened. They’d messed with my head and there was nothing I could do.

Nothing except get the hell away from there as fast as I could. I headed for security and then the boarding gate.

I still don't like those new scanner things, never will. I’m sure, despite what the experts say, that they’re not good for you. But if you want to travel these days, there is very little you can do but grit your teeth and bear it.

In fact, all you have to do is grit your teeth, you don't have to bear it, the machine apparently does all that for you!

At least they know how to work them now. When I was in Miami airport the year before they were just getting the first of them installed and everybody was terribly new-fangled with them. As they tried to figure out what to do, I spied the two footprints on the floor and said, “I think I’ll stand here.” 

They thought that was a good idea too, and they tried the machine.

“Have you any paper in your pockets?” the guy asked. “This thing doesn’t work if you have paper in your pockets.”

I shook my head incredulously. Here was the US government, and many other governments, spending $billions installing these machines at airports all over the world that could see through your clothes but not through a bit of paper! Wow!!!

In answer to his question, I told him “Yes, I have a lot of paper in my pockets.”

And so I had. I had a real drippy head cold and before I left the hotel I had raided the tissue box in the bathroom and stuffed them into my pockets. ALL my pockets!

“Bear with me,” I said to the security guy. “This is going to take a minute or two.” 

And I proceeded to first of all take out my passport and boarding pass and then started pulling tissues out of everywhere like some demented magician. They came out of my left trouser pocket, my right trouser pocket, the pocket in the back of my trousers, the left breast pocket of my shirt, and the right one too, even a few from the pocket in the front of a teeshirt I was wearing under my shirt.

I looked over. The security guy was smiling. I think he half expected me to produce a rabbit, or at least a couple of white doves, and was getting ready to applaud. How embarrassing! 

When I had finished I looked over at him and said, “Well, I did warn you.” He smiled a bit more, grinned in fact. Then they whizzed the machine around me and I gathered up all my gear, redistributed the paper hankies and was on my way to the departure gate.  

Just like this time. Departure gate. Flight called. On the plane. Aisle seat. Nobody sitting beside me. Happiness and joy. My luck had changed. It had to eventually.

In less than two hours, (although it was three hours later - funny thing time??) I arrived at my island retreat in the Caribbean. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no Richard Branson, when I say “my” island retreat, I don’t own the island, only a small house on it. I just call it mine because I live there for the most of the year, trips here and there permitting.  

Got off the plane, went to immigration, which is a painless process, but I can never get to grips with the logic of it. There are forms, of course there are. Where aren't there forms to fill out these days? But they are usually taken care of during the flight. At arrivals at the airport, first I join the inevitable queue. Then when it comes my turn, one fellow or girl takes $10 from me and gives me my tourist card. Then I walk about ten yards further and another bloke or girl takes my tourist card off me scans it and throws it into a bin. It's always that way, but they do it quite efficiently and pleasantly. Then yet another bloke takes my passport, looks at it, hands it to yet another one who stamps it, and off I go in search of my luggage.

This time no problems, everything has arrived safely. Another trolley - they're free here as they should be at all airports, and I head for Customs.

I have always so much gear with me on these trips at holiday times that I usually get at least one of my bags searched. They're looking for drugs and I usually have quite a few in my bags. The legal kind, I hasten to add. So one customs guy hauls one of my bags off the trolley and the other opens it, pokes about a bit not recognizing half the stuff in there. He brings his hand out clutching a big jar of Calcium capsules, a prezzie for a lady acquaintance who is affected by osteoporosis. I do my best to explain that it is just vitamins and, although he doesn't look at all convinced, he gives me the benefit of the doubt, and the other guy zips up the case, puts it back on the trolley and off we go out the door and into the sunshine.

That first blast of heat is always something of a shock to the system, even after you’ve been in Miami for a while, but nice all the same. As is the welcome. Lots of hugs and kisses and smiling faces.

The journey is over - for now.

It’s nice to be home for Christmas.

Have you had similar experiences? Send them along. Let the world know what is happening before it is too late.