The AIRistocrat

I found myself in Colubmia, South Carolina this week and while there I decided to try out a hotel property that I used to pass all the time when in college here but never had a reason in grace with my presence – the Clarion Hotel on Gervais Street downtown. Since SC is a huge early presidential primary state, I’ve seen various events advertised as being held at the Clarion during circus season, so I’ve always assumed it was a nice place, at least for a Republican political function.

Also, for some reason I was under the impression that it was a part of one of the larger hotel groups. After staying here, I was a little dismayed to find out that it’s actually linked up with the Choice Hotels network (Comfort Inn, Comfort Suites, Quality Inn, Sleep Inn, Cambria Suites, Econolodge, etc.), so I seriously doubt I’ll have much of a reason to build up points in an account with that hotel network unless I become a trucker or something. But corporate companions aside, the Clarion on Gervais in Columbia was actually quite charming and lived up to my expectation of a somewhat sophisticated local establishment.

The decor on the hotel’s main floor is characteristically reminiscent of Southern aristocracy, which is quite charming. Some properties try to do this and either modernize it too much or go cheap and it just doesn’t work, but this Clarion seems to have struck a balance between staying affordable and comfortable while presenting quite well.

The restaurant just off the lobby seems to have a fancy and delish buffet spread and an upscale atmosphere of the type you’d take your Southern-society-lady mother to after church on Sunday or maybe on Mother’s Day, although the small size of the place would seem to necessitate reservations for Southern-society-lady holidays. I was tempted to try out the food, but my figure is more important than you knowing how the “sliced beef jaradiniere” [sp?] and “lynnaise potatoes” taste, so I’ll opt for my mid-day protein shake instead and anyone who’s especially upset about that can bite me. I’m sure the food is great because it smells amazing from across the lobby. You temptress, you.

The rooms were pretty blah but sufficient, but the big downside to the property is the out-of-character Motel 6-style annex they have out back. Lord help you if you came here expecting to stay in the main tower and get stuck back there in trucker hell. With such a nice main building, a central location, and a good reputation about town, one would think they’d renovate those motel-looking buildings back there and make it look a little less Econolodgesque.

The fitness center, which was crap, was back in that part too, so of course I had to go rock my bod a little up in there this morning. After my workout, I was shocked to spot a surprisingly nice little sauna/steam room thing off of the main fitness center room. Work it out squalor and sweat it off in style, I guess.

One interesting note about the property is the fact that it was evidently the site of General Sherman’s headquarters during the beginning of the federal occupation of SC following the Civil War. The plaque on the wall outside of the main entrance seems to indicate that it served as HQ for only a few days, yet other plaques around the city and the state continuously remind us that the occupation lasted for years. Still bitter, are we? I guess Sherman decided to upgrade to the Hilton after those first few days here.

Overall, I was pretty pleased with my stay here, based on what I expected for the CAE and the price range for the rooms. One of these days when I’m not dieting and already have a ripped bod, I’ve got to go back and try that restaurant, and maybe the random comedy club that’s strangely attached to the hotel too… if someone good comes, that is. Y’all got Mo’Nique’s digits?

I saw this today article headline today (“America’s Worst Airports”) on an amigo’s Facebook status. Nevermind the fact that it tried to get me to allow access by some Yahoo app crap just to read the damn article, but I googled it and pulled up the original only to realize that the article itself is actually the worst… the worst “Worst Airports” list ever.

These landing pads aren’t the nation’s worst airports by far. O’Hare, Dulles, Atlanta, seriously? It did do right to rank JFK and LAX right up there, but not nearly high enough. And looking at the methodology, they likely just caught a bunch of bitchy, cranky readers who were all complaining about their own local airports, meaning that these big cities probably have the most Yahoo News readers. And what would they know anyway? Who even reads caca from Yahoo anymore? Ugh.

It’s Detroit. Or DTW, to be more precise. In its long-standing competition with O’Hare to have the coolest underground tunnel between terminals, Detroit Wayne County Airport still takes the cake. And passengers take a trip… while in transit between the main A terminal and the satellite-esque C terminal… I think… if I was going in the right direction. Watch, experience, and get the munchies.

Chillin’ at the ATL.
Sports on the overhead screen.
I hate basketball.

Boeing: “I’ll see your A380 and raise you a STFU76000.” And what? I’ll bet Emirates and Singapore Airlines already have 491 on order. Thanks to Miss Pam Ann’s FB page for releasing the top secret spy photo of the test flight. I’m sure she’s wurkin’ it.

A new article out today on HuffPost Travel by the AIRistocrat himself:

As a partner in a boutique American travel company focused on affordable upscale travel to the Middle East, one of the questions I am asked most frequently by our clients is how much cash they should bring with them as they embark upon the trip of a lifetime to Egypt, Jordan, the Emirates and beyond. My advice to them is almost always the same: “Just stick a 20 in your pocket and make sure you don’t spend it on your layover in Europe.”

In fact, I only recommend they bring any cash at all because some Middle Eastern countries, such as Egypt, require you to pay for your entry visa on arrival in American cash instead of local currency, $15 in Egypt’s case. But other than that, most travelers are pleasantly surprised to find out that the other type of Visa will suffice just fine once you’re over there, saving you the stress, inconvenience and liability of keeping track of a huge stash of cash while you travel.

I have always wondered how the 18th and 19th century aristocrats of Europe and the Americas who trotted the globe used to literally pay for their extravagant travel, accommodations, dining and shopping while galavanting across exotic lands far from the centers and sources of their personal wealth. Maybe it’s just a matter of my own historical ignorance, but I cannot imagine a robust foreign currency exchange system in place back in those times in the remote parts of Africa and Asia, or even in the not-so-remote parts of those continents.

Keep reading at Huffington Post Travel.

All these long layovers at Schiphol (high-pitched Dutch accent) and I’ve never taken advantage of the amazingly convenient train into the city that picks up and drops off almost right below the #52 lounge. So today, instead of working like I really should be, I put my bag in a pay locker, skipped through passport control, hopped on the super awesome train, and skidded off to the Central Train Station in downtown Amsterdam.

Twenty minutes of smooth riding (and 20 mins of charging my MacBook Air, score!) later, and here I am. Hallo!! By the way, I hardly know any Dutch at all, so I just throw a few German words out there and pretend like it’s the same thing, which it pretty much is, right? I hope I’m not getting myself on some Dutch nationalist’s hit list… enschnitzel.

Now me and Mary J. Blige are cruisin’ da canals on a some 8 Euro tour I found within 6 seconds of walking out of the train station. Ahoy! And yes that might be the same shirt I was wearing in Madrid the other day, but hey if the shoe fits. Wait, wrong analogy. Wait, that’s not an analogy. Screw it. Shut up, I bought a new shirt in Amsterdam anyway… a really awesome one that says “I AMsterdam,” which I guess is some new slogan they have for the city. It’s a really cool shirt, but I bought it in a medium to encourage me to go to the gym and get all slim and trim so I can fit into it. Actually they didn’t have a medium on the rack, so I stole it off the mannequin. Well, I didn’t steal it, unless the mannequin owned it. I paid 20 damn euros for it, which is like 400 dollars at the current exchange rate. But I like it, so it was worth it.

The first half of this cruise thing was pretty and all, with the rows of quaint little houses and shops and canals and bridges, but the second half just had us checking out the nasty ass harbor. Note to cute Amsterdam boat tour companies: more city, less nasty ass harbor.

I’ve had the same driver in Cairo for the week on most of my recent trips here, and I like his professionalism, personality, and bad-assness enough that I’ve started requesting him by name nearly every time I need a driver here now. I would put his name here and give him a shout out, but I’m afraid some of you sneaky snakes might steal him away and then I won’t have any more awesome nights with him like the one I had last night out in the Cairo ghetto.

Another long week of traveling all over the country, including a 14-hour Sinai journey in one day, ended with Driver (I figure I’d just use Karen Walker-speak instead) inviting me out to dinner on his turf at the week’s conclusion. At precisely 8pm, he had his brother and our company assistant swing by and pick me and my colleague Genevieve up at our 5-star downtown hotel and we proceed to drive a short distance past the other 5-star hotels along the banks of the Nile and then just a few blocks inland through what quickly becomes a ramshackle slum. Of course I knew there were highly impoverished parts of Cairo, but I actually had no idea that they literally lay in the shadows of the glitzy 5-star hotels along the river.

A few twists and turns through dark alleys later and we emerged on a bustling random roundabout where Driver’s smiling face suddenly appeared in the widow outside the car, nearly frightening the heebie geebies out of me. “Heeeyyyyyy! Welcome. Nice to see you again,” he proclaims as he jumps in the car with us and we speed off through more narrow alleys, a maze of children playing in the dimly lit streets, cart vendors peddling bread and vegetables, and a bazillion cats scurrying about.

Finally we screech to a halt at the entrance to yet another alley in which a series of overhead lights and colorful blankets had been strung up over several sets of plastic chairs and tin tables. Unlike anything in the “Western” areas of Cairo, I knew this was going to be some really authentic Egyptian grub. Driver excitedly mumbled something in Arabic to the cafe staff milling about, and within minutes dozens of little plates of food appeared all over the two tables they had put together for our extra comfort. I guess they expected to feed us enough to make us expand out beyond one table, and that they did.

Some of the stuff I recognized and gobbled down gladly, while other things looked a little sketch and I hid under the table or fed to the cats when they weren’t looking. While I was somewhat afraid of eating the meat (Mummy Tummy!), the kofta was to die for (fingers were crossed that I wouldn’t really in the end). I stole a few pieces of Genevieve’s kofta b/c I ordered the kabob and it was only ok. But man was I regretting not ordering a full plate of that kofta. Yum!

The table full of food and little side dishes kind of reminded me of Korea, where panchan would end up covering every square inch of your table within 10 minutes of sitting down at a restaurant. Unlike Korea, however, these Arab panchan were mostly edible. My fav is always salata badali – this awesome mix of cucumbers, tomatoes, parsley, onions, and sometimes cilantro if it’s my lucky day.

While gettin’ stuffed, our crew talked for over two hours at this quaint alley cafe about life in the States, life in Egypt, our previous few trips around the country, Driver’s plans for the future (I think he wants to save enough money to get married… awww), and then some. Since I’m currently looking for a personal assistant when I’m in Cairo, I quizzed them on what locals with different skill sets make and what would be a super good monthly salary for them there. That of course led them to ask me whether $300 would be a good monthly salary for people in the States too, so imagine their surprise when I had to be honest and tell them that even someone making $1000 per month in the states is considered dirt poor. That sounded ever so slightly more understandable when I also explained that rent prices in the States usually start at about a grand, and a $1 taxi ride in Egypt would cost about $15 back home. Explaining the cost-of-living concept seemed to put their minds at ease a little and not make us look like glutinous, spoiled have-it-alls… even though we are.

At the end of the night, Driver paid the tab – presumably from the enormous tip I had given him that morning for the previous week’s work – and we sped off again through the ghetto alley maze toward the bright lights of the Corniche. On the way, Driver and Assistant stopped off at a desert shop and surprised us by getting us this giNORmous platter of traditional Egyptian sweets to take back to our hotel residence. As gracious as I was, all I could think about was what the ratio of crunches-to-treat would be if I partook, and there were at least 50-70 of these oh-so-sweet treats nicely arranged on this giNORmous platter with which they sent us on our way back to LaLaLand. After sampling a few, the rest made a nice gift for the bellhops and security guys at the hotel, who I’ve come to rely on almost as much as Driver and the company assistant.

All in all, it was a terrific, authentic night out in the “real” Cairo. I thoroughly appreciated it too, b/c after so many years in this region I know well that you don’t get many nights like that when locals take you under their wing and takes you out to see and experience their world. But in the middle of the night that night I suddenly awoke with a stark realization — I should have ordered the kofta instead of the kabob… MUMMY TUMMY!!!!!!!

So I wrote Layover Freak-Out: Part 1 about a week ago on my last stress-filled layover in Amsterdam. The intent in breaking it into two posts was 1. not to have such a long post but still give you all the juicy details, and 2. to build suspense (bwahaha). And while I intended to have posted part 2 by now, I kinda forgot. But being back here at Schiphol airport now a week later on another layover jolted my memory about finishing the second half of that saga from last week. Now I’m going to pretend like I was just intentionally building a LOT of suspense with the delay and hope the conclusion lives up to it. So if you didn’t catch the intro to this, go back and read it first here so you have a clue what the hell I’m talking about. Go ahead, I’ll wait…

Ok, I’m totally not waiting. So anyway, I get back to my comfy chair by the windows in the Crown Lounge and nearly lose the little bit of Euro breakfast I’ve been nibbling on while I fixed my plate at the buffet. I suddenly realize that my laptop, my life, my baby is missing in action!! #FML!

The first thing I do is scramble around my immediate area looking for it in case I moved it to the other side of the comfy chairs or placed it somewhere from whence it fell. I also hastily go through in my head where I’ve been over the past 20 minutes or so since getting off the plane from New York. I pretty much came from the gate straight to the Crown Lounge without stopping, so I’m sort of dumbfounded for a moment as to where I could have left it. I’m in the freakin’ Crown Lounge where everyone’s at least an upper middle-class flyer, so the chances of it being stolen here are pretty low. And on top of that I’m in the Netherlands, i.e., the DoGooderLands, so theft here is not that common anyway. And my luggage was within sight of me while I was at the breakfast buffet anyway. W.T.F.?

Then it dawns on me – I did stop on the way here. I stopped on the jet bridge to put my suit jacket on so I wouldn’t get condescended upon again by the Delta Diamond greeter like last time. And when the cracker wasn’t even there (by the way, no greeter again this time either, and no greeter when I arrived back at JFK on the other end of last week’s return flight. tsk tsk, Delta), I put my stuff down again to ask the gate agent where the Crown Lounge was. Holy moly… this means it WAS left amongst the common folk who might be more inclined to steal than the Crown Lounge folk… and that flight came in from New York on top of everything. Holy crap, I’m in trouble!

I immediately darted over to the lounge’s customer service desk to finally put to use some of that superior service that’s supposed to be available in these lounges. It sure didn’t help to have the woman react as if I just told her I think I left my laser spear at the gate. “I’m sorry, what? You left yuuuu’re brieeeeefcaaaaase??? At the gaaaate…???” I’ll bet if I said I left my sack of tulips or my KLM mini delft house back at the gate, fierce gay Dutch storm troopers would have popped out of the woodwork to assist, and she might have been more immediately helpful too.

I’m normally not demanding, but I was seriously freaking out and I made the gal call the gate to see if a briefcase was found at either location. While she was taking forever and a day to do that, I told her to keep trying and then just took off for the gate myself on foot. Even though I’ve mentioned it before, it bears repeating – the KLM #52 lounge is way the hell out in Belgium and I could feel my heart beating with every one of those 7,296,454 footsteps back to the D terminal and the 4th gate from whence I had earlier emerged.

As I approached – damn, nobody’s down there. But then I found a little cart driver chillaxing on her little cart near the same gate and I asked her if anyone had found a briefcase. She called over to a passing security guy and waived me over to him about “the left briefcase.” (Was there one on the right too?) Suddenly now I had this thought that if this were the U.S., Homeland Security would have had some high-tech bomb-proof robot out to isolate and destroy that thing in a jiffy. All I could think about was my precious little MacBook Air inside all crushed into an even thinner aluminum pancake. But I can’t even tell you how reassuring it was to gather that my bag was at least in the possession of airport employees instead of in the possession of a Friederic or a Frolombokaka or a Fred and on its way through customs as their very own “finders keepers” surprise of the day.

The security guy radioed some crap in Dutch to another another security guy, who quickly brought out my nondescript black briefcase and laid it out on a table. Before he could even ask, I volunteered up ID and cards and the like to prove to him that it was indeed mine. Luckily, I had some ID and credit cards in the briefcase, and other ID and cards in my wallet b/c I like to split the location of my wallet-stuff when I’m traveling in case I do something stupid like leave my briefcase somewhere. When Mr. Schnitzel-fruuugen was satisfied that the briefcase was indeed mine, my lover and I were finally reunited and I breathed a huge sigh of relief while thinking, “Man, I really dodged a bullet that time. I’ve got to be more careful!!!”

Oh, but the story’s not over! Not 7 minutes later, the damn thing was lost AGAIN. I kid you not. But this time it involved alcohol. To be continued…