Freaky Friday
My first battle was to check in online and book a seat on the Thursday, the night before the BA flight to Paris.
It let me do mine on a BA mileage freebie but would not do it for Lucille. After many calls an AA person told me that because BA had booked an AA flight, (something I had no idea about), I would have to check in at JFK and the mere thought was the beginning of a nightmare.
I should have known it was going to get worse when Lucille’s luggage was 6lbs over and the check in clerk wanted $60.00 for it. The fact that mine was 20 lbs under did not impress him.
So out came the credit card, which began to add costs and complications to a trip booked a long time ago.
Lucille and I have traveled all over the world, but this trip was to meet friends, neighbors from CT in Derbyshire where they had arranged to christen their son, Stevie. We had decided that as we were traveling to Europe we would go on to France and spend time in our favorite place, Theole Sur Mer, just outside Cannes.
The complex is called Port La Gallere which is actually a private Club that we discovered some years ago, which had reciprocal membership with the Yale Club. We had previously stayed in the Clubhouse in the penthouse room called
“Cousteau”, which has a 4000Sq ft terrace overlooking the bay of Cannes, but this time had decided to rent a private villa which started off cheaper than the penthouse, but by the time we finished booking, to get a decent terrace for me and a space for Lucille to paint we were way over the budget.
I had booked all the connections months in advance, taking advantage of the USA fares and early bookings to save money. Or so I thought.
So the $60 shock was the first of several nasty surprises we were to experience.
In order to be able to leave on a Thursday, the cheapest traveling day, I had booked a flight to Paris, which would then be the port of departure. I had examined the alternatives of flying into Manchester or Heathrow, but could find no easy economical way of exiting Cannes at the end of the vacation. Many of my friend “experts” advised me that my itinerary could be improved, but no-one offered concrete solutions so I left the booking as I had figured it out over a couple of weeks of drawing routes and timeframes.
I left a couple of hours leeway at Charles De Gaulle station in case the flight was late arriving and a couple of hours at London St. Pancras for the same reason and to make the transfer to Euston St. station. It looked very conservative to me. I also discovered that the Hertz car rental at Manchester Piccadilly Station closed at 6 pm and we would only arrive at 8 given my cushions. So I booked a car at the airport instead, a short cab ride away.
We were delayed slightly getting to the gate at Charles De Gaulle, but I still had an hour or so in hand.
It is a longish walk from the AA terminal but I still had time to spare, right. Hmmmn.
When I checked in the ticket agent told me we would not make the train connection from the TGV to the Eurostar. Why not, I asked her, I had 40 minutes in hand. She explained something no website told me. There is a passport control check in requirement of 30 minutes before the departure and they cut it off if you are late. So I said I still had 10 minutes to walk across the platform from my TGV to the Eurostar.
No she said. Not all the trains go to Lile Europe, and mine went to Lile Frans. She explained that this was a 10-minute walk from station to station and that we would never make it with luggage.
So I forked out $600 to pay for two tickets I had bought in advance for $85. And I lost my cushion at St. Pancras.
The rather officious British immigration people at Lile sent us to the back of the line as we did not have EEC passports and needed to fill in full immigration cards, something the Parisians had not bothered with. We were surprised as we thought that Europe was Europe but apparently not.
Anyway, we dragged our luggage including Lucille’s 56lb bag, which seemed to have gained weight on the trip between two stations.
I became confused on the Eurostar as I fell asleep and lost track of time. Next thing when I looked at my watch, we had four minutes to catch the train to Manchester and we were still on the Eurostar. A couple from Philadelphia laughed and pointed out that there was an hour difference in London versus Paris time. As we seldom traveled in daylight saving time this had not occurred to me. A little more relaxed I planned my strategy for arrival in St. Pancras as the timing had now become more critical.
I threw the bags, including the 56lb beast into a taxi and only once Lucille and I were in with the door shut did I tell the driver I was going 400 yards up the road to Euston St. Station. With an expletive, he took off, swerving the wheel viciously causing the bags, including the beast to land on Lucille’s leg injuring her knee. An old Skiing vulnerability.
I tipped the cabbie as I had promised, but actually I should have reported him. I was left standing on the sidewalk at Euston Station with Lucille in tears as she could not put weight on her foot and was in enormous pain.
I sat her down on the beast and went to find a wheelchair, but quickly learned this was not going to happen in time to catch the train. So I got a baggage cart with an old pound I brought with me, put the beast on it and perched Lucille on top of that.
I took the two shoulder bags over my left and right shoulder, dragging the two wheelies behind me while pushing the baggage cart with Lucile on it to the elevator.
Once on the departures level, I accosted a Golf cart who wanted nothing to do with me as he pointed out “assisted mobility” had to be booked in advance. I educated him in some feats that required extreme anatomical dexterity to accomplish and headed for customer service.
There they ordered a golf cart both at St. Pancras and Manchester.
It took a while for the cart to arrive and the clock was now crucial. We had 4 minutes to go through a series of gates that opened electronically but painfully slowly
The golf cart driver was concerned as they shut the doors 2 minutes before departure so he recommended he drop us in the middle rather than at the end of the train where our reserved coach was. I insisted he take us to the coach, as I had no idea what to do with Lucille in the middle of the train.
We wedged the beast in the train door to prevent the door from closing. Then I threw the bags over the beast and carried Lucille aboard where she hopped painfully to our assigned seats. I then went back and sorted the luggage as best as I could but if you have traveled on a Virgin train to Manchester you will know that there is no place to put a 56 lb beast. So I leant it against the sign that says do not put luggage here, it’s wheelchair access. I thought we had a right to this space as if I had had time I would have got one.
While the meet and greet with mobility assistance now dutifully booked ahead, did not exactly work as planned, the crew there were very kind and the young driver, coached by his supervisor learned how to go into an elevator with a golf cart, his first time.
They kindly helped us with the luggage into an unsuspecting taxi driven by an East Indian.
This leg got off track when he wanted to know which terminal and I said I didn’t care, just follow the rental car return route. This he found difficult, making lefts instead of rights and vice versa, with both Lucille and I politely pointing out the problem and eventually losing some patience with him.
We found the rental return on the 5th floor of terminal 2 but there was not a soul there. We then found an airport employee who said the 24-hour car rentals were on the 13th floor of terminal 1, so down we went.
But not so simple for our taxi wallah. He put his parking ticket in the slot but when the boom went up he balked, thinking that the boom was too low for the high taxi roof and meter and in the hesitation the boom came down.
We were now trapped between two booms with no ticket. So he and I rushed around the area trying to find a live person. Eventually after pushing every button on the various machines, we got a voice.
Trying to explain our position to someone who sits in a tollbooth for 8 hours was not easy, but a few mentions of needing an ambulance for Lucille seemed to help and they lifted the boom. Our driver needed me to shriek at him this time as he remained convinced the boom was too low.
Now, with relationships strained, we had to get him to the 15th floor of the next terminal, which required that he again enter the boom area. He was also worried about the turning circle of a big taxi with the tight turns but eventually we found the 13th floor.
Only problem was there were no signs or doors on the building indicating that car rental business was being conducted on that floor.
I saw people inside from a back door and knocked and shouted for a bit, then I ripped the flimsy screen like door open, causing the surprised folk who had ignored me great concern. They wanted to get into it, but I yelled at the top of my lungs that I had an emergency and they could give me a car or an ambulance, I was beyond caring about manners or protocol. The taxi driver and I wedged a large water cooler bottle so the door wouldn’t close and I carried Lucille from the car, following with her luggage.
At this moment, I realized I had no British money and offered the taxi driver Euros or dollars. He refused both. So I went around the room begging someone to change money and they all said “currency exchange downstairs”. Sensing my desperation the taxi driver then said he would take anything I had, so I gave him a 50 Euro note and he scuttled out to negotiate another round of booms on his way home, relieved to be rid of these mad Americans.
I carried Lucille out to the car and put in the back seat thinking it would be better for her to stretch her leg. But somehow before we actually left the parking garage I thought she should sit in front.
So I dragged her out of the back seat to a teary dialogue that was less than complimentary. Suddenly there was a sound, like a “crick” and Lucille cried out in pain, but I was past the point of no return so pulled her out and put her in front. She was now in great pain and tears were flowing.
There was complete silence in the car for quite a while and then she came to life offering to help navigate.
I had printed out a complete turn-by-turn set of instructions from Google. (Note to self, never do this again).
Lucille did a yeoman like job of following the utter rubbish published by Sergei’s outfit. And I basically went on autopilot, following the A6, which I had remembered, from the actual map printout I had looked at on the train.
At one point we had been traveling for nearly a half hour and we were worried about our late ETA at the B&B.
The map said A6 north and I was going south as there is no way Bakewell was north of Manchester airport. I stopped and asked at a pub and they confirmed the directions were wrong and that if I stayed on the A6 I would run right into Bakewell.
At this point Lucille was commenting that her leg felt better and could even stomp her foot on the floor without pain. She thought that something good had happened when I yanked her out of the back seat, which was hard to believe. But actually, this was confirmed by a Dr. the next day when we told him the story.
She had dislocated a small bone in her knee and inadvertently when I pulled her and foot became stuck, I had reset the bone.
So from anticipating an emergency ward and possible cancellation of our vacation, we moved into eager anticipation of our now awfully late arrival at a sight unseen bed and breakfast booked on the cheap in Bakewell.
I was filled with trepidation because Lucille’s standards of cleanliness exceeded most people’s expectations.
Marie, the proprietress was not irritated by the late arrival and was as charming on our first meeting as she was all weekend.
Seldom does one find that accommodation is exactly as advertised. It is the perfect little B&B in a perfect little Derbyshire village.
The breakfast is also perfect and we would recommend the Melbourne House in Bakewell to anyone.
One other disaster to befall us was that AT&T had misunderstood my request to make international call and had not set up international roaming. And I needed to find our host as we did not know where he was staying.
So one bit of business we needed to attend to was to buy a mobile phone, (unbeknown to me, my Blackberry was locked, another AT&T issue), which I did in Chesterfield from Vodaphone. They were the nicest people, Sophie in particular. When I got to France they sent special offers and I plan to keep my UK Vodaphone pay as you go service rather than deal with AT&T again.
The Christening went of perfectly with Lucille as a Godmother.
It was at the Duke of Devonshire’s Estate Chatsworth Chapel in Pilsey. The clergymen there were almost good enough to sign me up. David, the asst. Vicar was so broadminded I could have talked about religion with him for hours. But he had to get away and see his father who is 103.
The reception was at Haddon Hall, another marvelous old estate which has been in the family of Lord Edward Manners for 800 years.
The afternoon was capped by a visit to the Cathedral at Tideswell where we photographed three gravestones, potentially ancestors of Lucille’s.
While we heard many horror stories about driving from Bakewell to Heathrow for our flight to Nice, the drive was uneventful and we are now in France enjoying the near perfect climate at one of our favorite paces in the world, Port La Galere.
France June 8 2011
Building #2 Apt. 25
It let me do mine on a BA mileage freebie but would not do it for Lucille. After many calls an AA person told me that because BA had booked an AA flight, (something I had no idea about), I would have to check in at JFK and the mere thought was the beginning of a nightmare.
I should have known it was going to get worse when Lucille’s luggage was 6lbs over and the check in clerk wanted $60.00 for it. The fact that mine was 20 lbs under did not impress him.
So out came the credit card, which began to add costs and complications to a trip booked a long time ago.
Lucille and I have traveled all over the world, but this trip was to meet friends, neighbors from CT in Derbyshire where they had arranged to christen their son, Stevie. We had decided that as we were traveling to Europe we would go on to France and spend time in our favorite place, Theole Sur Mer, just outside Cannes.
The complex is called Port La Gallere which is actually a private Club that we discovered some years ago, which had reciprocal membership with the Yale Club. We had previously stayed in the Clubhouse in the penthouse room called
“Cousteau”, which has a 4000Sq ft terrace overlooking the bay of Cannes, but this time had decided to rent a private villa which started off cheaper than the penthouse, but by the time we finished booking, to get a decent terrace for me and a space for Lucille to paint we were way over the budget.
I had booked all the connections months in advance, taking advantage of the USA fares and early bookings to save money. Or so I thought.
So the $60 shock was the first of several nasty surprises we were to experience.
In order to be able to leave on a Thursday, the cheapest traveling day, I had booked a flight to Paris, which would then be the port of departure. I had examined the alternatives of flying into Manchester or Heathrow, but could find no easy economical way of exiting Cannes at the end of the vacation. Many of my friend “experts” advised me that my itinerary could be improved, but no-one offered concrete solutions so I left the booking as I had figured it out over a couple of weeks of drawing routes and timeframes.
I left a couple of hours leeway at Charles De Gaulle station in case the flight was late arriving and a couple of hours at London St. Pancras for the same reason and to make the transfer to Euston St. station. It looked very conservative to me. I also discovered that the Hertz car rental at Manchester Piccadilly Station closed at 6 pm and we would only arrive at 8 given my cushions. So I booked a car at the airport instead, a short cab ride away.
We were delayed slightly getting to the gate at Charles De Gaulle, but I still had an hour or so in hand.
It is a longish walk from the AA terminal but I still had time to spare, right. Hmmmn.
When I checked in the ticket agent told me we would not make the train connection from the TGV to the Eurostar. Why not, I asked her, I had 40 minutes in hand. She explained something no website told me. There is a passport control check in requirement of 30 minutes before the departure and they cut it off if you are late. So I said I still had 10 minutes to walk across the platform from my TGV to the Eurostar.
No she said. Not all the trains go to Lile Europe, and mine went to Lile Frans. She explained that this was a 10-minute walk from station to station and that we would never make it with luggage.
So I forked out $600 to pay for two tickets I had bought in advance for $85. And I lost my cushion at St. Pancras.
The rather officious British immigration people at Lile sent us to the back of the line as we did not have EEC passports and needed to fill in full immigration cards, something the Parisians had not bothered with. We were surprised as we thought that Europe was Europe but apparently not.
Anyway, we dragged our luggage including Lucille’s 56lb bag, which seemed to have gained weight on the trip between two stations.
I became confused on the Eurostar as I fell asleep and lost track of time. Next thing when I looked at my watch, we had four minutes to catch the train to Manchester and we were still on the Eurostar. A couple from Philadelphia laughed and pointed out that there was an hour difference in London versus Paris time. As we seldom traveled in daylight saving time this had not occurred to me. A little more relaxed I planned my strategy for arrival in St. Pancras as the timing had now become more critical.
I threw the bags, including the 56lb beast into a taxi and only once Lucille and I were in with the door shut did I tell the driver I was going 400 yards up the road to Euston St. Station. With an expletive, he took off, swerving the wheel viciously causing the bags, including the beast to land on Lucille’s leg injuring her knee. An old Skiing vulnerability.
I tipped the cabbie as I had promised, but actually I should have reported him. I was left standing on the sidewalk at Euston Station with Lucille in tears as she could not put weight on her foot and was in enormous pain.
I sat her down on the beast and went to find a wheelchair, but quickly learned this was not going to happen in time to catch the train. So I got a baggage cart with an old pound I brought with me, put the beast on it and perched Lucille on top of that.
I took the two shoulder bags over my left and right shoulder, dragging the two wheelies behind me while pushing the baggage cart with Lucile on it to the elevator.
Once on the departures level, I accosted a Golf cart who wanted nothing to do with me as he pointed out “assisted mobility” had to be booked in advance. I educated him in some feats that required extreme anatomical dexterity to accomplish and headed for customer service.
There they ordered a golf cart both at St. Pancras and Manchester.
It took a while for the cart to arrive and the clock was now crucial. We had 4 minutes to go through a series of gates that opened electronically but painfully slowly
The golf cart driver was concerned as they shut the doors 2 minutes before departure so he recommended he drop us in the middle rather than at the end of the train where our reserved coach was. I insisted he take us to the coach, as I had no idea what to do with Lucille in the middle of the train.
We wedged the beast in the train door to prevent the door from closing. Then I threw the bags over the beast and carried Lucille aboard where she hopped painfully to our assigned seats. I then went back and sorted the luggage as best as I could but if you have traveled on a Virgin train to Manchester you will know that there is no place to put a 56 lb beast. So I leant it against the sign that says do not put luggage here, it’s wheelchair access. I thought we had a right to this space as if I had had time I would have got one.
While the meet and greet with mobility assistance now dutifully booked ahead, did not exactly work as planned, the crew there were very kind and the young driver, coached by his supervisor learned how to go into an elevator with a golf cart, his first time.
They kindly helped us with the luggage into an unsuspecting taxi driven by an East Indian.
This leg got off track when he wanted to know which terminal and I said I didn’t care, just follow the rental car return route. This he found difficult, making lefts instead of rights and vice versa, with both Lucille and I politely pointing out the problem and eventually losing some patience with him.
We found the rental return on the 5th floor of terminal 2 but there was not a soul there. We then found an airport employee who said the 24-hour car rentals were on the 13th floor of terminal 1, so down we went.
But not so simple for our taxi wallah. He put his parking ticket in the slot but when the boom went up he balked, thinking that the boom was too low for the high taxi roof and meter and in the hesitation the boom came down.
We were now trapped between two booms with no ticket. So he and I rushed around the area trying to find a live person. Eventually after pushing every button on the various machines, we got a voice.
Trying to explain our position to someone who sits in a tollbooth for 8 hours was not easy, but a few mentions of needing an ambulance for Lucille seemed to help and they lifted the boom. Our driver needed me to shriek at him this time as he remained convinced the boom was too low.
Now, with relationships strained, we had to get him to the 15th floor of the next terminal, which required that he again enter the boom area. He was also worried about the turning circle of a big taxi with the tight turns but eventually we found the 13th floor.
Only problem was there were no signs or doors on the building indicating that car rental business was being conducted on that floor.
I saw people inside from a back door and knocked and shouted for a bit, then I ripped the flimsy screen like door open, causing the surprised folk who had ignored me great concern. They wanted to get into it, but I yelled at the top of my lungs that I had an emergency and they could give me a car or an ambulance, I was beyond caring about manners or protocol. The taxi driver and I wedged a large water cooler bottle so the door wouldn’t close and I carried Lucille from the car, following with her luggage.
At this moment, I realized I had no British money and offered the taxi driver Euros or dollars. He refused both. So I went around the room begging someone to change money and they all said “currency exchange downstairs”. Sensing my desperation the taxi driver then said he would take anything I had, so I gave him a 50 Euro note and he scuttled out to negotiate another round of booms on his way home, relieved to be rid of these mad Americans.
I carried Lucille out to the car and put in the back seat thinking it would be better for her to stretch her leg. But somehow before we actually left the parking garage I thought she should sit in front.
So I dragged her out of the back seat to a teary dialogue that was less than complimentary. Suddenly there was a sound, like a “crick” and Lucille cried out in pain, but I was past the point of no return so pulled her out and put her in front. She was now in great pain and tears were flowing.
There was complete silence in the car for quite a while and then she came to life offering to help navigate.
I had printed out a complete turn-by-turn set of instructions from Google. (Note to self, never do this again).
Lucille did a yeoman like job of following the utter rubbish published by Sergei’s outfit. And I basically went on autopilot, following the A6, which I had remembered, from the actual map printout I had looked at on the train.
At one point we had been traveling for nearly a half hour and we were worried about our late ETA at the B&B.
The map said A6 north and I was going south as there is no way Bakewell was north of Manchester airport. I stopped and asked at a pub and they confirmed the directions were wrong and that if I stayed on the A6 I would run right into Bakewell.
At this point Lucille was commenting that her leg felt better and could even stomp her foot on the floor without pain. She thought that something good had happened when I yanked her out of the back seat, which was hard to believe. But actually, this was confirmed by a Dr. the next day when we told him the story.
She had dislocated a small bone in her knee and inadvertently when I pulled her and foot became stuck, I had reset the bone.
So from anticipating an emergency ward and possible cancellation of our vacation, we moved into eager anticipation of our now awfully late arrival at a sight unseen bed and breakfast booked on the cheap in Bakewell.
I was filled with trepidation because Lucille’s standards of cleanliness exceeded most people’s expectations.
Marie, the proprietress was not irritated by the late arrival and was as charming on our first meeting as she was all weekend.
Seldom does one find that accommodation is exactly as advertised. It is the perfect little B&B in a perfect little Derbyshire village.
The breakfast is also perfect and we would recommend the Melbourne House in Bakewell to anyone.
One other disaster to befall us was that AT&T had misunderstood my request to make international call and had not set up international roaming. And I needed to find our host as we did not know where he was staying.
So one bit of business we needed to attend to was to buy a mobile phone, (unbeknown to me, my Blackberry was locked, another AT&T issue), which I did in Chesterfield from Vodaphone. They were the nicest people, Sophie in particular. When I got to France they sent special offers and I plan to keep my UK Vodaphone pay as you go service rather than deal with AT&T again.
The Christening went of perfectly with Lucille as a Godmother.
It was at the Duke of Devonshire’s Estate Chatsworth Chapel in Pilsey. The clergymen there were almost good enough to sign me up. David, the asst. Vicar was so broadminded I could have talked about religion with him for hours. But he had to get away and see his father who is 103.
The reception was at Haddon Hall, another marvelous old estate which has been in the family of Lord Edward Manners for 800 years.
The afternoon was capped by a visit to the Cathedral at Tideswell where we photographed three gravestones, potentially ancestors of Lucille’s.
While we heard many horror stories about driving from Bakewell to Heathrow for our flight to Nice, the drive was uneventful and we are now in France enjoying the near perfect climate at one of our favorite paces in the world, Port La Galere.
France June 8 2011
Building #2 Apt. 25
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