Crunch time, every time

Lesson learned from the train ride to Rome: planning ahead and not doing things last minute makes life a lot easier and avoids stress.  Application of lesson: confirm flights from Madrid to Atlanta a day in advance.  End result: let’s just say it was a little *dramatic*…

Exposition: sometime in March, Jorge and I received our acceptance letter from the UNC Study Abroad office.  It was official; we were going to go to Spain and it was time to book our flight.  Sitting on a couch in the Great Hall of the ATO house, getting ready to watch the UNC basketball game, we logged into STA (a student travel agency that offers great deals for trips around the world) and began to plan our trip.  We were on the same flight going over on May 9; however, as I planned on staying in Europe a week longer than he did, we had different return dates and flights.  All was booked without incident and we anxiously awaited our journey.

The set up: four days ago, this happened.  No way would there be a repeat incident.

First rising action: I log on to STA’s website and find that there is no “Manage My Bookings” option.  Frustrated but not yet discouraged, I go to the Air Canada website (my flight back home was with Air Canada with a connection through Toronto) and select their “Manage My Bookings” option.  I plug in the reservation number that STA had assigned me with the last name “Reeves” (… you know, because that’s my last name).  Nothing.  Did the same with “Reeves III.”  Again, nothing.  Frustrated, a little discouraged, but not yet aggravated, I find the Air Canada phone number and place an international call at 0.15 Euro per minute.  The machine that answered me was predictably unhelpful and after wasting around 1.50 Euros of my time, it was nice enough to transfer me to a hold line with annoyingly almost-soothing music.  As I sat listening to the screeching violin, my aggravation slowly rose at about the same rate as the phone fare.  Finally a representative answered and heard my case.  She said I could not pull anything up on the Air Canada for two reasons.  The first was that my reference number was for STA, not Air Canada; I would need the Air Canada reference number to “Manage My Booking” online.  Understandable.  The second reason was because Air Canada no longer flies from Madrid to Toronto on Friday; rather they changed that flight to Thurdays.  For some reason, nobody (STA) cared to inform me of this.  Frustration, discouragement and aggravation flew out the window; bewilderment, rancor and lividness took their place. 

Mini-dénouement: Thankfully, the lady on the other end of the line was nice, helpful and patient.  She told me that she would “transfer my reservation” (remember this key phrase) to a Continental Airlines flight that connected through Newark instead of Toronto.  She promptly did so and connected me to a Continental bookings agent so I could confirm my booking.  The playlist on the Continental Airlines hold-line was just as unnerving as that for Air Canada, however I was a little more at ease given the Air Canada lady’s help.  When a Continental Airlines representative’s voice interrupted an unimpressive piano solo, she told me that my new 6-digit confirmation number was a valid one.  All I had to do was present it at the airport and I was set to go to Atlanta through Newark.  Success.

Not quite.  But more on that later. 

Intermission:  I sat back satisfied with my preparation; by calling to confirm, I avoided a looming catastrophe in the airport.  Now, I was booked, packed, CONFIRMED and ready to go home.  But first, I had to enjoy my last night in Madrid.  Colin, Shannon and Hillary had just gotten in and we met at Puerta del Sol before going out for dinner and drinks at El Tigre and Mercado de San Miguel.  Although my flight was an hour after theirs, I agreed to meet them at Puerta del Sol again at 7:00 am (what is it with me and early mornings?) and we’d all go to the airport together. 

The detail of my getting to the airport an hour earlier than I normally would have would prove to be crucial.

The climax: I say “bye” to Collin/Shannon/Hillary at Terminal 3 and proceed to Continental Airlines in Terminal 1.  Before reaching the check-in desk, a Continental agent ensured that all the travelers in line had their passport and flight information ready. When he reached me, he asked for my passport and scanned it without issue.  He then asked if I had an itinerary with my information on it.  I told him an abridged version of the above story and gave him my “valid” 6-digit confirmation code.  As he reviewed my documentation, a puzzled look crossed his face; he excused himself for a second and spoke to the check-in clerk.  When he came back, he asked me to join him (skipping the line) at the check-in desk.  My first thought: Air Canada / STA / Continental Airlines / Karma felt bad for the fiasco that had transpired and I was being upgraded to first class.  Oh how wrong I was.  Here is about how the conversation took place: “So you originally booked your flight with Air Canada?” “Yes.” “Do you have a ticket number?” “Yes, its (the 6-digit number I was given).” “No sir, that’s your reservation number; did Air Canada never give you a ticket number?” Dreams of first class quickly evaporated. “No.” I then continue to orate my entire phone conversation from the day before, culminating with how Air Canada had booked my Continental flight for me while I was on the phone with them, and then the Continental lady had told me that the 6-digit code would suffice.

Now it gets exciting.

“Yes sir, I see your reservation, but the thing is you don’t have a ticket.” “Wait, I’m confused, I have a reservation, but I don’t have a seat.” “No sir, you have a seat, you’re booked for seat 34A, but you don’t have a ticket.”

I don’t know if it’s that I’m not well versed in the airline vernacular or if this concept goes beyond my realm of understanding, but this blew my mind.  A reservation at a nice restaurant is not for a table that does not come with a waiter or silverware to eat with; a reservation at a hotel is not for a room that lacks a bed for you to sleep in or a bathroom; a reservation with Avis is not for a Pontiac PanAm that doesn’t have a transmission or battery or spark plugs.  How can I have a reserved seat without a ticket to let me sit there?  Especially when both the Air Canada and Continental representatives the day before told me that I was good to go.  After I expressed a few choice words of disapproval, the agent told me that the best thing I could do was to call Air Canada or go to their ticketing office and try to find my original ticket number.  You don’t even want to know what adjectives best describe my emotions at this point.

When I called, the wait to speak to an agent was an hour and a half.  It was 9:30; the flight was at 11:30.  To speak to the Canadian agent, MAYBE get a ticket number, get back to the Continental guy, MAYBE get my Continental ticket, and go through security all within the 30 minutes following the 90 minute wait was absolutely not going to happen, especially with the number of “maybes” in that sentence.  Time to find the Air Canada ticketing booth to see if they could help.  Oh wait, Air Canada doesn’t fly out of Madrid on Friday anymore – that’s why I’m in this predicament in the first place.  Why would there be a representative on a day there are no flights?  Next stop: online at the overpriced pay-per-minute public Internet computers.  When I “Managed My Booking” with my real Air Canada confirmation number (that had been given to me on the phone the day before), it did not register because my “reservation” was now with Continental.  Mount Harrisuvius was about to blow up.  Madrid would be my Pompeii.

My new friend at the Continental check-in counter next directed me to the Continental ticketing agent across the way to see if she could pull up the ticket.  She told me that which I already knew but still didn’t understand: I had a reserved seat, but still no ticket was showing up.  The only way I could get a ticket would be to buy a new one… for 2000 Euros.  I would need parental approval.  After waking up Mom and Dad at 3:42 am Atlanta time, I gave them a brief recap and they told me I had to go ahead and buy the ticket home; I could always talk to each airline when I’m back in America and try to fix things then (oh don’t worry I’ll be contacting a few people and giving them a piece of my mind – you can count on that). 

Luckily, when I went back to the ticketing office I spoke with a different agent who booked a round trip ticket to Atlanta for only 900 Euros.  This I wasn’t even mad about; I just think it’s a nugget of comedic gold.  A one-way flight from Atlanta through Newark costs 2000 Euros; the exact same flight + a return trip to Madrid in August is less than half the price of the one way.  I don’t know if they expect OPEC to launch a Jos. A Banks-style buy 1 barrel of oil get 3 free sale in August, if the system is corrupt in some backwards way, if airline executives are dimwits or if, again, this concept goes beyond my realm of understanding, but something doesn’t add up.  Anyway, I bought the ticket and got through security without incident and made it to my gate with no more than five minutes to spare.  Like I said, I’m glad I got to the airport an hour early with Colin, Shannon and Hillary.  The flight was a little delayed, but my layover in Newark was long enough where it did not matter.  Finally, at 9:05 pm ET I touched down in Atlanta and had arrived at home sweet home.

Conclusion with a twinge of comedic relief: So I’m an only child who was home for all of three days between college and Europe; I had seen my parents for probably a total of seven days over the past six months.  Much less, I was headed to Athens for the weekend early the next morning to celebrate Michael Steele’s 21^st birthday, so my time at home would be short lived.  I cringed when I thought about what kind of embarrassing welcome was awaiting me at the top of the Hartsfield-Jackson escalator that connects the arrival terminals to the baggage claim.  Would it be a huge welcome poster with family and friends clapping?  Would there be confetti, banners, noisemakers, etc?  No.  Au contraire.  I texted my parents as I landed “I’m home!!”  A minute later, I get a phone call from Dad: “Welcome home!  We’re actually at a dinner party celebrating Mrs. Vincent’s x^th birthday.  There’s a hide-a-key in the garage if you want to take MARTA to Lindbergh station and then a taxi home?  We’ll meet you there!”  Appropriate conclusion, works for me.  

Homeward Bound: 3 days, 4 countries, 5 cities

Just as I was getting comfortable and settled into Florence, the time to plan how I was going to get to Madrid to catch my flight back home had come, was upon me, was long overdue.  Crunch time.  I tried every website possible to book a flight to Madrid: edreams, transavia, orbitz, ryanair, wizzair, Brusselsairlines, etc.  Flights from Florence to Madrid were in the 400 – 500 Euro price range; flights from Pisa to Madrid primarily in the 180-300 price range (and on the wrong date); trains from Florence to Madrid were nonexistent.  The Ryanair flight that I found less than 100 Euro from Pisa to Madrid did not accept my credit card (which I had used with them before) because apparently I made a mistake entering the information each of the 20 times that I tried.  When I called customer service, the office had just closed 15 minutes earlier and a machine instructed me to try again tomorrow.  It was time to get creative.  Long story short, easyJet and the Italian railway system are lifesavers.  Long story long, international travel is rarely convenient. 

The nearest city not named Pisa with an international airport was Rome.  Thankfully I found 2 flights going from Rome to Madrid with plenty of seats – one was at 9:45 am, the other at 21:00.  However, in order to make either flight, I needed to find a train that would to Rome from Florence.  Because you can't buy tickets online, I had to go to the train station around 22:00 to reserve a seat (all this of course I did before booking the flight because I had to ensure that I would make it to Rome and so that I could determine which flight I could make). I got a train ticket for 5:50 am with the hope that I could catch a 9:45 am flight to Madrid.  Unfortunately, I did not realize that the train from Florence to Rome was a 3 hour ordeal; had I booked the early flight out of Rome, I have had just under and hour to unboard the train, find transportation to the airport, get through security and board the plan.  Not happening.  Instead I opted for the 21:00 pm flight to Madrid; looked like I’d have a full day in Rome to bum around.

But it doesn’t end there.  When the Canadian crew got back to the hostel (see post below from my Florence synopsis, they were my roommates in the hostel), they told me they were going to Rome too, but on the 11:00 am train.  They invited me to join them and tour the city for a few hours before I headed to the airport.  I knew that you could change your train reservation once free of charge, so it sounded like a good idea to me; I planned on going to the train station first thing in the morning, switch tickets, and then join them.

"Planned" is the key world.  I rolled out of bed at 5:20, got to the station at 5:30, and went to the ticketing machine to switch trains (ticket window wasn’t open yet).  To my chagrin, only 2 trains were available: the 5:50 I was already on and the 18:00 pm that would not get me to the airport in time.  It was 5:40.  I didn’t have my luggage.  I bolted out of the staion and hailed a cab, expressing my urgency in blatent terms.  He broke innumerable traffic laws on the way to my hostel, I heaped all my clothes into my bag, and he broke even more traffic laws to get me back to the train station at 5:51.  As I ran through the station’s entrance, the train was half way out the gate.  I dropped my bag where I stood and took off after the train.  To anyone wondering, no matter how desperate you look or how fast you run, once the train has started, it ain’t stoppin for ya. 

I helplessly/frantically walked to the ticket office (with a person working there) that had just opened to see if there was any way I could get on one of the 15 trains to Rome Termini – there was no way that that many people were going to Rome on a Wednesday morning/afternoon.  Turns out, when switching tickets on the machine (instead of buying a ticket for the first time on it like I had the night before), they don’t show all the available options because the one ticket works for any train that leaves in the next 12 hours (hence why it only showed the 5:50 and the 18:00 options).  All I had to do was talk to the conductor, ask if there was an available seat and I’d be good to go.  By that point, I was exhausted yet wide awake, packed up yet disheveled, stressed yet relieved, but most of all, ready to get to Rome so I could finally breath easily.  Sorry Canucks, I hope you have a good time in Rome, but I ain’t waitin 'till 11:00 for you; the 6:10 to Roma Termini pulled in the station and I didn’t even think to look back.  Funny thing is, no one on the train checked my ticket and I just as easily could have walked on without issue. 

Lessons learned: there is a definite advantage to planning in advance.  I should look into considering that more often, but it’s not nearly as exciting.  On the other hand, if there is ever a need to get something done at the very last possible second – be it a paper on King Charles II, study for an ECON 410 final, pack for freshman year of school, (Mom, Dad, or whoever, I’m sure you can add a few more examples here), or booking reservations to get home from Italy – I have demonstrated more times than I’m proud of that it can be done.  I think I’ll be better off applying the former lesson in the future though.

In 2 weeks, Rome hasn’t changed.  I got to go inside the Coliseum and the archaeology site this time as well as eat some pizza with a glass of Italian wine for lunch during my 14-hour layover, so the stress was not for naught.  Best yet, I didn’t ever have to take a taxi so there was never an issue there. 

And now the beginning of the end has come, from Florence to Rome to Madrid to Toronto to Atlanta.  Come Friday I’ll be eating Chickfila instead of tapas, taking road trips instead of discount airline flights, and clocking hours of work instead of leisure.  I’ll save writing my final synopsis of the entire trip for the flight back to the homeland, so I’ll close this post off by saying I’ve safely made it to Madrid.  I have a day to meet up with Colin, Shannon and Hillary again and hang out here.  Weird how things fell into place and my last day in Europe will resemble the first (minus Jorge).  

¡Hasta pronto!

Flying through Florence

After saying my goodbyes to Derek, Abby, Becca, Sterling and Shanti, I took off to Florence and began the segment of my trip that I would complete on my own.  Although I was traveling alone, I was by no means lonely as my hostel was very conducive to meeting people.  Surprisingly, these people were all Canadian and I was outnumbered 6:1.  I don’t think I’ve ever taken part of a conversation with more mispronunciations of the words “out” and “shout” or have heard more people say, “eh” in my life.  All was well though and we enjoyed the nightlife of Florence together.

Unfortunately we were all on different sleep patterns, so after waking up before my northern neighbors I toured Florence solo.  Without a Rick Steve’s handy or any real knowledge of the city, I probably could not tell you any of the names of the places that I went except for the Medici Chapel, but that does not make them any less spectacular.  After a few minutes of wandering aimlessly, I found myself staring at an enormous green and white, marble, Gothic cathedral.  The line in front of it was huge, so I figured it had to be of significant importance and that I had to go in.  30 minutes in line and then 463 stairs later and I was standing at the highest point of the city – the top of the Duomo.  The red rooftops of Florence continued on for seemingly forever until they reached the foothills of the mountains.  Honestly, I feel like all city overviews are pretty similar, but this one was distinct because it came with an up close view of the painting on the interior of the dome and a damned good quad workout.  After snapping a few pictures, I went back down to ground level and continued wandering.  Only in Florence can you stumble into an enormous plaza filled with Michelangelo and other Renaissance sculptures, including an exact replica of the David.  Can’t say that happens much in Atlanta.  The most interesting thing I saw in Florence was something I never expected to be there: a special art exhibit they had on Picasso, Miro, and Dali.  They had a vast collection of the Spanish artists’ works on lease and traced their friendships and how they created the origins of cubism.  Although Dali and Miro are more known as surrealists than cubists, the three artists were closely connected and influenced one another a great deal throughout their careers.

After visiting Rome, I presumed that I would never find better cuisine on my trip than that of the pizza / pasta / Panini / doner kebab that I had there.  That opinion was short-lived.  When I was actually trying to go somewhere and knew my desired route, I (predictably) made a wrong turn and started navigating small side streets.  Either that, or I was following my instinctive nose instead of the highlighted route on my map.  In the most unassuming of places, I found an open market much like the Mercado de San Miguel in Madrid; however, instead of tapas, empanadas and Mahou cerveza, it was a slow-cooked Florentine steak sandwich, gelato and Birra Moretti.  Apparently the stand I went to is pretty reputable because I saw a few tour guides taking their group there, but it was cheap and delicious.

I wish I could have spent more time in Florence, as it was a fascinating city that I only small a small part of, but I think I saw most of the highlights as well as discovered some of its small secrets.  I'll still mark it down as a place I'd love to go to again.

Not Running With the Bulls

Everything in the past two days happened so fast and unexpectedly that I really don’t know where to start this.  I mentioned how the train and hostel were booked at the last possible second.  The Amsterdam train station might as well have been a labyrinth lined with hedgerows, but luckily I got there with plenty of time to spare and caught the train no problem.  The hostel was a complete wild card.  Having booked it just hours before checking in, I had no idea what to expect other than that it could sleep over 300 and that I booked the last bed available for both nights I was there.  With a wild card, you win some and you lose some; I won in a big way.  The rooms were without question the cleanest ones I had seen yet, the staff was friendly, and there was a cheap café / lounge in the main lobby.  Not only that, but it also happened to be where Shanti and Sterling (friends from the Sevilla program, who I had no idea were even in Paris at the time) were staying for the next 2 nights too. 

Because I did not get in until late afternoon, I only had time to go to the Louvre the first day (which we sped through in record time) and went out by the Moulin Rouge area at night.  The next day, though, we made it to most of the other big sites: the Muse d’Orsay, Notre Dame (saw the service / communion too), Jardin des Tuleries, lock bridge, and the Eiffel Tower at night.  Some of the sights I remember seeing with Mom, Dad and Caldwell many years go - Mona Lisa still hasn’t decided if she wants to smile or not, Quasimodo still does not reside in Notre Dame, and the Eiffel tower still stands as the most spectacular building in the world that serves no relevant purpose.  It was still a lot of fun to see everything again though; its like watching a good movie for the second or third time – you know what’s about to happen but no entertainment value is lost.

The real highlight was catching up with everyone that was there.  It sounds like Florence was just as rewarding an experience for Derek / John / Abby / Becca as Sevilla was for me.  Also, if there was one gripe I’d have with the Sevilla program, it’s that the group was so big that it was impossible to get to know and hang out with everyone.  I really did not get to know Shanti or Sterling until the last few days in Sevilla (and we were supposed to meet up with them our first day in Amsterdam, but we were never able to coordinate that), but enjoyed touring Paris with them yesterday and hearing about their European travels. 

Overall, the crepes were as good as always, the nightlife was pretty wild and the city was spectacular.  I didn’t want to / plan on traveling to Paris because I wanted to only go to places I’ve never been before, but I’m definitely glad I made the trip here.

Well, my trip to Florence was planned as haphazardly as the Paris one was (train booked yesterday, hostel booked this morning); I can only hope it turns out as well.  On a 13 hour overnight train as we speak and arrive at 7:15.  Kind of unrelated side note – apparently I can pass for an Australian.  In the train station, I met two girls from UC – Davis who are taking summer wine-tasting classes in S. France (what was I doing studying Spanish Art / Grammar?).  When they asked where I was from, I said, “Atlanta” (knowing they were American… Atlanta is a big city, figured it didn’t need explanation).  Given their quizzical look, I had to finish with “……Georgia.”  I guess 8 weeks away from home and I’ve lost whatever southern accent I once had (and have adopted an Australian one?)  I don’t know, you can be the judge when I get home I guess; I just think they’re crazy.

That’s about all I got.  Cheers.

3 for the price of 1

....I guess 4 now if you include this one.  Just clarifying the past 3 posts; I got a little behind, so I just posted them all at once.  I tried to do it in reverse order so it would read Prague first, then Amsterdam, then transportation story to Paris, so it would read in the same chronological order that it happened.  Its late though, so I mixed it up and moved the transpiration to Paris before Prague / Amsterdam.  Sorry.

Last night in Paris though before I catch an overnight train to Florence tomorrow.  I'll have plenty of time to recap Paris when I'm on the train.  Au revior

The Best that Never Was

Note: this was written on the train ride from Amsterdam on the 7th, but was not posted until today.  

This is supposed to be where I make up some elaborate lie and say I’m going to Italy or Germany or Moscow or Dubai or Sydney or really anywhere.  This is supposed to be where I tell you I’m doing anything except taking a flight to Madrid and a bus to Pamplona.  This is where I am supposed to tell you that I am doing anything BUT running with the bulls when I get there.  Alas, instead I find myself telling the truth: this is where I tell you how I found myself in a train to Paris when I least expected it.

I had originally planned on flying back to Madrid the same day Jorge leaves (today)(at the time, today was the 7th), meeting up with a couple of people, taking a bus to Pamplona and running with the bulls.  Unfortunately, nobody could find a reasonably priced way to get to Pamplona so the plans fell through.  That left me in Amsterdam with one day to plan where I was going.  At the last minute I found out Derek and John are in Paris and that trains run there regularly (and are cheaper than last minute flights).  Hostel booked, train boarded, and I begin my final week in Europe.

Czechin out Prague

Until about 5 days ago, I had no idea where Prague was.  I knew it was somewhere east of Germany, but that’s about it.  Now, Prague stands as one of my favorite cities in the world. 

After getting ripped off by the cab/bus drivers when going to the airport in Rome, it was a welcomed change to arrive in a place where everybody spoke English.  Not only that, but we got rid of our Euros and picked up a stack of 1000 koruna bills.  Unfortunately the multiplication table for 17 was left out of my middle school curriculum so the exchange rate was a little hard to compute, but the 1USD = 17.5 CZK was much welcomed.  We got a full meal for the price of an appetizer in Rome and all the locally brewed beers were cheaper than water. 

I’ll continue the beer train of thought… They are great in Prague.  The internationally famous beer brewed in the Czech Republic is the Pilsner Urquell however it was only served in a few of the pubs and restaurants.  There were several microbreweries that served exclusively their own beer and other restaurants served a variety of other small Czech beers like Kozel.  In a country that drinks the most liters of beer per capita in the world, it’s fitting that there is a wide variety for them to choose from.  On our last night in Prague, Jorge and I went on a beer tasting tour where we visited on pub and two microbreweries.  We tried 5 different beers, from light lagers (light, not lite) to darker ales. 

The beer was a great treat that the city had to offer, but it was not the only one.  The first few days we did a city tour and a castle tour.   When looking at Prague from a distance, there are few buildings that jump out and grab your attention like the castle on top of the hill, the cathedral and clock tower in the city center, and the Charles.  Especially when compared to the Western European architecture that I’m used to, the tall towers on these buildings look like Disneyland.  I was surprised when the city/castle tour showed us so much more than that – they were just small stops.  The most interesting part was the old Jewish quarter.  Jews in Prague have a long history of injustice.  They lived in a small ghetto that always got flooded when the river rose.  However, over the years, their old neighborhood has built a rich history.  Prague is home of the 2 oldest synagogues in East Europe.  The most haunting reminder of their persecution is the old cemetery.  They were only allotted a tiny plot of land on a city corner to bury their dead.  In order to offer a proper burial for hundreds of years of people, they began burying really deep.  As a result, the small piece of property is filled with headstones (at least 12,000 headstones for up to 100,000 people).

When we split off on our own, we went up to a beer garden at a park on the top of the hill by the metronome monument.  The monument replaced the giant stone statue of Stalin that once overlooked Prague.  Symbolically, the metronome represents time lost during communism as it ticks back and times moving forward with democracy as it ticks ahead.  Physically, it offers an incredible panorama of the city.  Under the monument was the Lennon wall, a wall on which it is legal to graffiti and is littered with Beatles quotes.  It started as an anti-communism protest but over the years the layers of paint represent the youth voice and free speech. 

We felt like we did a pretty good job seeing Prague 3 days.   To celebrate our country’s independence, we found the next best foreign place to celebrate other than London: Amsterdam.