Why Can't They Make Up Their (little) Minds (Part Deux)

Last month I told you about the gruesome journey that was the booking/unbooking/rebooking/unbooking/rebooking again nightmare that was my Beloved attempting to help me buy her air tickets to the UK.  (See Why Can't They Make Up Their (little) Minds)

The Curse of Travel (Part 3 of 3)

Last day in Scotland, and we're all ready to go.
No chance of the Forth Road Bridge fiasco repeating, as this time the planes not due to take of until 12:30, and it's a regular scheduled flight by British Midland, so no gate Nazis like Ryanair.  It also means we won't have to leave until 08:30, getting to the bridge about 10:00, so no rush hour travel.
Everyone is on British time, so no chance of the "wrong time" syndrome affecting us.
Nothing was ;left to chance.  All was carefully planned.  What could go wrong?

HA.

We left as planned in the hired car (A Saab.  Never hire a Saab.  They look good and drive well, but there's bugger all room in the back seat, and my son's knees were pressed into the small of my back all of the time) at 08:40.  The weather was cold, but only a little snow was in evidence, and we made good time, coming up to the bridge in good time.  Straight over the bridge at 09:50 (it's so much easier since they removed the toll booths, much less congestion) and followed the signs to the Airport and Ingleston.  Many eons ago, when I lived in Scotland and worked as a sales rep. I would have taken one of the back roads to the airport, but the thought just crossed my mind, I had no notice of taking those wee roads now, I couldn't even remember which turning to take.  Better keep on the main road, it would be faster in this non-rush hour traffic.

Traffic getting slower, still about 3 miles to the M8 roundabout, 5 miles to the Airport.  Traffic getting slower still.  We were down to about 5 mph in our inside (airport) traffic lane, but the vehicles on the outside (Glasgow bound) lane were going much faster.

Stopped.

Stopped for 30 minutes.

Traffic on the outside still shooting past.

Thought of changing lanes and following the Glasgow route, but I couldn't remember how far the next off-ramp was on the M8.  If I took the Glasgow route, it could be as much as 15 miles before I would be able to get off and start travelling back towards Edinburgh and the airport, and even then there was no guarantee that the airport turn off was open.

Stopped for 45 minutes.  Time now 10:35.  Final check-in was supposed to be 11:30, to allow for security etc.  Still plenty of time.
Traffic was now moving.
At about 1 mph.

There wasn't one you stupid bunch of useless twats

A sign up ahead.  Road to airport closed.  Take alternative route.

Stupid bastards.  There wasn't an alternative route, unless I went towards Glasgow, got off the Motorway and then returned to the bridge, found the right exit (it had all changed since the last time I drove these roads) towards Dalmenny, tried to remember the back road route.  But even if I didn't get lost, and all traffic was ideal, it would take at least 1½ hours.  Too long.  We'd be better staying and hoping the road closure would be temporary.  There were a lot of cars in my lane, and most (but not all) were staying.  Was this a sign of hope outweighing fear?, or just grumbling apathy.

Traffic still moved at a snail's pace.  I could now see the line of stalled vehicles stretching down and to the main junction.  I could also see many, many flashing blue lights.  Not good.  But this was the main road to Edinburgh.  The only way to Scotland's capital.  The polis (not a mis-spelling, it's the way we say it in Glasgow) would be trying their best to get the road open.
Wouldn't they?
Time now 11:10.  Sweat dripping down my back.  Trying to keep a cool demeanour for the sakes of my family, trapped in this expensive metal box capable of 150 mph, and crawling along at 0.5 mph.

There were no alternatives which wouldn't cost us many thousands of NZ$This was the connecting flight to the Air NZ 747 which would take us home. 

Home

 
Take us home to a kindly country basking under a hot sun, with green fields full of non-threatening sheep, with beautiful beaches skirted by glittering blue waters which anyone could use (as long as they didn't pass the new version of the foreshore and beach Act, which would restrict access according to race and financial availability).
A country which didn't have blocked roads.

The traffic began to inch faster.  We were now doing almost 3 mph.  The junction crept closer and closer. 
It was now 11:20.

We were at the junction, moving towards the airport.  The outer lanes were being directed into the inner (airport) lane.  Something up ahead, many flashing blue lights.

Two huge 44 tonnes trucks, locked in some terrible geometric tangle.  The cab of one was smashed to scraps, and I wouldn't think the driver would have survived.
Suddenly we're past the accident scene, and moving towards the terminal.
Great sense of relief, we'd just make it.
Great sense of guilt.  I'd been worried about making my flight in 10 minutes, but perhaps in an ambulance screaming toward Edinburgh Royal Infirmary, a truck driver was worried about actually being alive in 10 minutes.

It's all about perspective.

We made our flight with no extra alarums.  Except that we had to unpack and redistribute some clothes from suitcases to backpacks, because the BMI gate Nazis didn't reckon we were within our limits.
Did the total wight carried by our planes change?
No.
It just satisfied some jumped-up Hitler to make the poor bastards actually paying for his/her salary jump through some arbitrary hoops.
Bastards.

Hope that truck driver survived.

The Curse of Travel (Part 2 of 3)

Travel stress.  It gets worse
We'd really enjoyed our 5 days in gay Paree, but we had to catch the Ryanair return flight from Beauvais, which meant catching the bus near the Place de Congress (about 8 km to the North of where we were staying ,Le Grand Hotel Leveque, Rue Cler, recommended for a basic hotel)
Being of a rational and controlling nature (No, really), I had planned our journey tomorrow.
Get up, shower and leave hotel (06:30)
Buy breakfast (Fresh croissants) on way to Metro Station (Ecole Militaire) (06:45)
Board Metro, taking Route 8 to Concorde (06:55)
Change at Concorde, take Route 1 to Porte Maillot (07:25)
Walk to Bus Station (07:45)

I had even bought tickets for us all on the previous day.
What could possibly go wrong.

Ha.

When we had arrived in France, the time difference was +1 hour.  All of my family changed their watches to the new reference, but I kept mine unchanged, to keep a reference to the UK.  My beloved also left the time settings on her phone to UK time for the same reason (Actually it was because she really couldn't figure out how to use the correct menu on her new phone).  But it wouldn't matter, because all I had to do was remember to add an hour, anyway our children's watches had been set to the correct French time, as had my beloved's watch.  It really wouldn't matter.

Ha.

I awoke on our day of departure at 5:00, checked my watch, too early and went back to sleep.
Woke again at 6:00, better get up.  I awoke my beloved, and we started to shower and change.  Thumped on the adjoining wall to let our kids know we were up, and to remind them that they should also get up and get ready.  Silly kids, they weren't very good at getting up and ready on time.  That's what parents are for, to make sure they were ready on time.

Ha.

At 06:30, I opened our door, and knocked on the kids room and was pleased to see that they were dressed and ready.
Actually they were both sitting on their beds fully dressed.  "All ready?" I asked.  "We've been waiting for an hour Daddy", said my daughter.
"What?"
"It's 7:30 Dad", said my son.

SHIT

I'd completely forgotten about my watch being on UK time.  It WAS 7:30
Never mind, my travel plan had some spare time built in.
We'd still make the bus.

Checked out of the hotel, and walked quickly to the Metro, buying the croissants en route.
Straight to the train on Route 8. It was 7:40. We'd still make the bus.  No worries (as we Kiwis say)

Ha.

We got off at Concorde and followed the signs to Route 1 (La Defense), and as we came around the corner of the corridor to the stairs leading to the platform, 2 officials of the Metro were putting up a barrier across the stairway.
They were also putting up a little sign.

Route 1 FERMEE

SHIT

For some reason (I never found out why) Route 1 would be closed until 10:00
They were very helpful, and gave me the alternative routes in quite good English (My little French had evaporated as my adrenaline levels spiked).
The alternative route would take another hour.  We were stuffed.  Miss the bus meant missing the plane, which meant buying 4 more tickets at €250 each.

SHIT

Quick (but heated) family discussion/name calling/blame allocation ensued.
TO THE SURFACE

Ran up the stairs.  Where the Hell were we?  Place de Concorde (There wasn't a lot of Concorde amongst us at this stage)
Fast walk/waddle to the nearest road, flagged down a little taxi, piled in ("Mais Monsuir, supplement €3 pour quatre" dite le chauffeur de taxi.   "Oui, Oui, allez vite" Je l'ai dit)

Made the bus station at 08:00, and actually got an earlier bus.
Cost of taxi?
€13
Cost of Metro tickets?
€6.80

Why hadn't I thought of a taxi before?

MERDE

Travel does broaden the mind.
Travel also empties the wallet.
Travel also leads to an increased incidence of myocardial infarctions, family breakdowns and random violence.

Vive la VISA

The Curse of Travel (Part 1 of 3)

I get stressed when I travel.  Not the fear of crashing while being strapped in a metal tube 5 miles above the Earth's surface (pretty reasonable when you think about it), but a fear of being late, of missing my flight.
So, I always try to arrive at least 30 minutes before the stated time, and if I don't, I get stressed, my pulse rate goes up, I get snappy with my family and I start to mutter, curse and twitch.
Going to the UK was no problem, everything was under control, no excitement, no stress, everything in plenty of time.

Ryanair chief Michael O'Leary with two of the flight attendants who feature in this year's 'Girls of Ryanair' charity calendar

While we were in the UK, my lovely daughter had arranged a 4 day trip to Paris (Posted previously), and we were using Ryanair to fly to France.  For those readers who haven't used this service before, let me explain.  It's a very cut-price airline.  The return fare to Paris (Beauvais actually, 40 km outside Paris) cost £5, but there are severe restrictions on baggage (One small piece of hand luggage), no free refreshments (a bottle of water at £2.20) and if you don't check in 40 minutes before your flight leaves, they cancel your seat.
We had to get from St. Andrews in Fife (Scotland) to Edinburgh Airport.  When I'd lived in Scotland, I always allowed 1½ hours for the journey, and I automatically added an extra 30 minutes to my travel plan, leaving in plenty of time.

But, I'd made two small errors in my calculations.  When I'd lived in Scotland, I wasn't actually living in St. Andrews, but in a small town near Dundee (Newport on Tay), near the motorway system, 30 minutes closer to Edinburgh.  The second error was forgetting that the Forth Road Bridge that we had to cross was sometimes a bit busy during rush hours, and we were planning to travel at 7:30am on a Tuesday.  I knew we were in trouble when the motorway traffic began to slow to 5 mph . and we were still 6 miles from the bridge.

For the next 60 minutes, time crawled.  It felt like every stupid bloody commuter was heading to Edinburgh at the same time.  We crawled over the hill, and I could see the bridge ahead, jam-packed with cars moving at a snail-like pace.  I could see the bloody airport, I could see the lines of glowing tail-lights stretching out towards it.
We were absolutely stuffed.  If we missed the 40 minute deadline (so my lovely daughter informed us) we would be off the flight. We could get on the next one, but we'd have to buy new tickets.  At £200 each.
We finally arrived at the airport with 10 minutes to spare, but I had to hand back the hire car first.

We made the gate with 2 minutes to go.  It must have been quite an amusing sight.  An elderly white-bearded gent, sweat running down his face under his possum and merino beanie (it was still -5C outside), sprinting up to the Ryanair desk, being followed by his daughter, son and beloved (wearing for some reason a full length formal coat, patterned on the Wehrmacht's greatcoat design)

 doing a fast waddle and towing a small cabin-baggage sized overnight case, with smoke drifting up from its over-stressed wheels. 
When we 'd all got our breath back, my beloved mentioned casually that it was all my fault (again), and that she'd wanted to leave 40 minutes before my set time.
I was very good.
I didn't smack her, or even swear.
I just put the scene carefully in my memory.  My time would come.

Snow Sucks

We were supposed to jet off from sunny NZ to cold, freezing Scotland on Christmas Day, but the huge snowstorms which have closed Heathrow and other European airports has thrown a spanner in the works.

It is now extremely doubtful if we're going to get away on time, if at all.  Air NZ is now warning their passengers that if they choose to fly (we're going via LAX) then Air NZ will not be responsible for any accommodation or other help if we get stranded half-way.  They are offering a refund on the tickets, which is I suppose quite reasonable, but I want to see my daughter and my Dad.

We'll just have to wait and see, but the latest news from Heathrow doesn't look too good; they're saying that any delays will continue well past the 25th.  Bugger.

How is it every year the UK gets caught out.

Minister of Transport thinking "What's that white stuff"

Every year that it snows, the powers that be look up and say, "What's that funny white stuff?" and the whole of the UK comes to a grinding halt.
Cars, buses, trains and now aeroplanes.

You think they'd learn that heavy snow =  transport chaos.

Airports in Norway, Sweden, Finland and even Russia are managing to stay open, but not good old blighty.  The spirit of Colonel Blimp is alive and well, "Don't worry Lads, we'll muddle through somehow".

Well they haven't

Here's a nice picture to cheer me up.

Can I open my present now?