It’s been up to a month since the events in this post, but over the past few weeks, Burt Bacharach has inspired me as I travelled between Rome and Paris.
Trains
I started to write this post about a month ago sitting in ‘Business Class’ on the OBB Railjet between Vienna and Zurich (having previously pushed down from Rome to Sicily, then up to Venice). Shockingly, it was two minutes – TWO MINUTES!!! – late pulling into Salzburg. Where’s that Teutonic efficiency we all hear about?!? Sigh.
Well, actually, it wasn’t too bad, especially compared to some of my awful experiences with Trenitalia (who, it should be added, don’t bother reporting late running until the train is five minutes late). The worst of these occurred when travelling back from Agrigento to Palermo. When my dad and I, having had a good poke around the Valley of the Temples, decided to get an earlier train, we got to the station and saw that the train that would become our service would be 20 minutes late. Oh well, off to the bar then (one of the many, many aspects of Italian civilisation we would do well to copy is to have a bar in every station) for a beer while we wait. After that, we headed out to the platforms and saw a small crowd milling around the end of the platform. There had been no announcement of a delay to departure, so we joined the crowd and waited… and waited… The delay on the arriving train became 40 minutes, then 50, then 60, and finally 70 minutes. No delay was announced on the departure of the train to Palermo, so there was little choice but to sit around.
Eventually, a pitiful diesel railcar that looked about 40 years old pulled in. ‘Great’, I said to my dad, ‘no air con on these’, based on my previous experience travelling between Florence and Ravenna, which had offered two choices for temperature control: sauna, or window open with face full of diesel fumes. I was proved wrong – very wrong. You see, the air con on this dinky little Trenitalia railcar could be used for snap-freezing vegetables. After the blazing Sicilian sun set, the railcar went from pleasantly cool to arctic. My father and I huddled, shivering, as I pondered what the fine was in Italy for starting an open fire on a train. I had a lot of time to ponder this, because the railcar slowly crept through the Sicilian countryside, getting later and later. Eventually we made it into town, just in time for Palermo to go bonkers after Italy beat Germany in the Euro 2012 final. It was an amazing scene as what seemed like every 18 year old zoomed up the main drag tooting their horn and waving the flag.
If only the night train from Venice to Vienna had the air conditioning switched on before it had departed the railyards. I’d taken a seat on an unused platform on a steamy Venice evening and watched as a ratty assortment of carriages had been pushed into place. ‘Bloody Trenitalia’, I thought as I saw ancient rolling stock with windows down mixed with modern carriages. ‘Surely they can afford to replace these with air conditioned cars’. Then something caught my eye that caused panic to slowly rise: the letters ‘OBB’. ‘Oh cough’, I thought, ‘that’s the Austrian Railways, meaning that’s my train’. As I schlepped my luggage up the platform, the panic started rising as it became apparent that, yes, the ancient rolling stock would be the one I was on.
Stepping inside my cabin, it was a sweatbox. There was no way I would be cracking open the welcome drink (a small bottle of Henkell Trocken), which had been sitting there baking. I poked around my cabin, and found that, yes, they had indeed squeezed a loo and a shower in (unlike the Australian couple next to me who had been advised that they were getting their own shower and loo, but didn’t because they had been booked into the next level down). Eventually, an Austrian railways bloke from central casting knocked and said ‘Bed!?!’ ‘Ja’, I replied, and I was set for the night. Time to go and rustle up some dinner.
I stepped out of my cabin into the middle of a line of people snaking their way up to the front of the train. I quickly cottoned on that they all had the same idea I had: to get a late dinner. As we made our way further and further forward up the train, it became apparent that there was no restaurant car, and so a frenzied scramble for food begun, as about a dozen passengers looked for any source of food. Eventually, I stumbled upon a steward for a different carriage who informed me she’d run out of hotdogs, and that she could only arrange goulash. ‘Any port in a storm’, I thought and ordered the goulash. After miraculously not spilling a drop of it as I made my way back to the cabin, I tucked in, grateful not to have had to survive on a packet of pretzels I had grabbed from the Naples VIP lounge (see below).
It was then time to sleep. Well, I use the term loosely because between the noise of the carriage, its jerking and the warmth of the cabin, I did not get much sleep at all. Perhaps I am just not cut out to sleep on transport. The shower was not much chop either, as the tap had to be continuously pressed to keep the water flowing, meaning I had to contort myself into all sorts of positions I never thought imaginable to keep the water flowing. Eventually, I cleaned myself up though.
Paradoxically, I was able to nap quite well in the Business Class seats on the Rail Jet as I pass through some spectacular picture postcard scenery of the Austrian alps. The seat is much like Premium Economy on an aircraft, with reasonable recline and a thigh (but no foot) rest. Business Class costs 15 euros over first class and you get a welcome drink (I went for champers, which normally goes for about 7 euros). It’s definitely worth it for the eight hour journey, and the experience was great.
Finally, I took the train from Zurich to Paris. It was another uneventful TGV journey in first class. First class departing Zurich was virtually empty and I settled back and had my welcome drink, a lemon tart, and a copy of the International Herald Tribune to peruse. Unusually for welcome snackies, I managed to score a second lemon tart as well, so yes, it was shaping up as a good trip. Even after the train filled up after crossing the French border, and first class went from being almost deserted to being completely packed, I happily chilled out until about 90 minutes before the ETA in Paris. As it was beer o’clock and we’d gone through the last station, it was time for a reccie to the bar car to see if I could get some dinner and/or booze so as to burn through the last of my stocks of Swiss Francs. Success (in a manner of speaking) came in the form of a microwave meal consisting of salmon, rice and green beans; it was by no means the best seafood meal I’ve ever had, but remarkably, it was not the worst either (for details on that dubious distinction, please keep reading). After forcing it down, I grabbed a beer and a bag of chips and headed back to my seat… Only to find that there were no vacant single seats and a Japanese tourist was sitting in what I had thought to be my space for these four hours. ‘Errr… Excuse me, that’s where I’m sitting’ I said, quite perplexed. He pulled out his ticket, and, pointed to the number on it, 65. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, as I reached past my jumper and other junk I still had stashed in the seatback pocket to find my e-ticket, ‘but this is seat 41. Could you please move back to your own seat? Thanks.’ At this point, the person in seat 65 (which, thanks to the crazily counterintuitive TGV numbering system was the other window seat in the row) in piped up: ‘We didn’t know where you’d gone.’ (I fought with every ounce of strength to avoid launching into Basil Fawlty-like contortions while launching a rant that would have gone something like ‘Where the bleedin’ heck do you think I went? Jumping off a moving train at 300 km/h? Magically teleporting myself to Paris because it’s a bit slow on the train?’). After suggesting she may wish to move, she huffily did so from seat 65 to her own rear-facing aisle seat as though I was asking her to move to second class or something. At long last, I managed to kick back with the beer and chips, but it was still an annoying end to the trip.
Still, it was smoother than my experience on the Paris RER trekking out to CDG. My hotel was in Nation, which is on the RER A. A couple of stops up the line was the connection to the RER B, which would take me straight to CDG. Too easy, and reasonably priced too. At least that’s what I thought.
You see, I made the mistake of relying on Paris public transport in July. Now, for those of you who are unfamiliar with French culture, in August pretty much every Frenchperson clears off for their holidays (and indeed, if you’re unable to afford a beach holiday somewhere exotic, an artificial beach is constructed in Paris). This means that there is a six week window when what seems like every piece of maintenance work conceivable is undertaken. And so it was on the RER B when, after navigating through the large crowds at Chatelet Les Halles with two bags, I got to the right platform, only to find all roads were leading to Gare Du Nord, although fortunately I spied a little note that said that trains to CDG were leaving platforms 32 and 33. The train that came was so crowded, it would not have been out of place in Melbourne or Sydney peak hour. I squeezed on, before embarking on the amazingly complex task of trying to get from platform 38 to platform 32. ‘How hard could that be?,’ I wondered, not realising that 25 minutes of schlepping luggage around awaited, as platforms 32 and 33 were elusive. Eventually, I managed to get there, and indeed got a seat on the seemingly empty next train, due to depart in about 10 minutes. However, I didn’t realise that the RER B, as well as being the airport train, is also a local suburban train, so that by the time it left, it was packed.
Boats
It has not been all first class extravagance, however. In order to save a few bucks, I was tempted by the prospect of taking the ferry between Naples and Palermo. For 80 euros, I would be transported to Sicily AND get a night’s accommodation. What’s not to like?
Well, a lot actually.
It started at the Naples docks. They were huge, and chained off everywhere. Dad and I traipsed all over the place looking for the elusive combination of paths that would lead us to the SNAV offices to check in. After jumping a low fence or two along the way, we finally made it and got checked in.
Then there was getting on to the boat itself. I’d done my knee the day before, so climbing up stairs, particularly when carrying heavy luggage, was not a pleasant experience. Dad and I eventually reached the point where passengers without vehicles embarked: a four-storey staircase. There was no lift. Slowly, and with much pain, I ascended with my bags and I found my cabin, which looked comfortable.
Once settled, dad and I went off in search of food. After downing an extortionately priced pot of beer and some cold french fries while watching Naples disappear into the distance, we went looking for something more substantial. There was a nice looking restaurant on board, but alas it was closed. Instead, it was down to the self-service area which had all the appeal of a hospital canteen. I had something described as ‘risotto marinara’ (NB I could not make out anything resembling seafood to verify this claim) and some very bad Italian red wine (yes, there is such a thing) that its own label proclaimed proudly that it had (and I kid you not) ‘flavours of wood’. No, not gooseberry or cherry or whatever else the marketers can dream up. Wood.
Again, little sleep was had either, as the pain of the knee and the noise and vibrations of the diesel engine conspired against it, and I emerged into the Palermo daylight quite tired. Fortunately, the hotel in Palermo we stayed at (the Hotel Garibaldi, which I can recommend without hesitation if you’re in that neck of the woods) gave us breakfast giving us the strength to go and see the amazing mosaics in Monreale Cathedral while they made our rooms up.
Planes
Some more flights to report on. Regular readers of this thread will know it should have been one flight between Palermo and Venice, but that Alitalia unhelpfully cancelled their direct morning flight between the two points. I had a choice of either getting on the flight that night, or getting two flights with a three hour layover at Naples. I chose the latter, so that I could arrive into Venice during the day.
The first of the two flights (from Palermo to Naples) was on a dinky little Bombadier CRJ900. I have not flown on a plane so small for many years and was amused by people with large carry on bags having to stick them into little slots under the plane, sort of defeating the purpose. The flight was quick (fifty minutes) and passed without incident. However, the catering (a glass of your choice of warm still or sparkling mineral water) was rubbish; if this is what a ‘full service’ airline offers, give me a LCC and the ability to buy junk food and tat any day.
I then had several hours to kill at Naples Airport, so I shelled out 22 euros and visited their VIP Lounge. Well, I was intending to settle in, but was informed there would be a meeting held there an hour and a half into my stay (and boy, were a couple of poms having a good whinge about it). I shelled out anyway. After all, I could still graze while aimlessly surfing the web during that time. Only problem: the internet was down. This meant there was one thing and one thing only I could do: I had to eat and drink as much as possible during the hour and a half I was there, and take as much food and drink out with me as I could. So after three plates of sweet cakes, several drinks, a fully laden plate of savoury stuff to eat while waiting for the flight to board, and a backpack full of beverages and snacks, I think I did end up getting my 22 euros worth.
The second flight was as uneventful as the first, although there were two things of note. First, I got the hallowed 1A seat, although I’d originally been booked in 1B but in the chaos of trying to get everyone on board (Italians are not great respecters of allocated seating), I’d agreed to swap with another person. Second, the catering had improved; not merely content with offering water, Alitalia pulled out all the stops to offer… tea and coffee as well. I reached into my backpack and pulled out a Coke Light and a packet of snacks to graze on instead. Ultimately though, me and my luggage arrived in one piece, which is all a person really needs from a flight. And I got a daytime water bus to the Hilton.
Two weeks ago, I had flight number two on Air France from Paris to Saigon. Unfortunately, I cannot give a detailed review of the CDG terminal 2E lounge because after the slow ride out to the airport, and the even slower de taxe process at CDG airport for VAT refunds, I only got about 30 minutes there (enough for some beer, wine and cheese). The flight itself confirmed my earlier views of Air France: reasonable food and drink, and attentive cabin crew, but a poor seat (which among other faults previously described lacks thigh support when reclining) and amenity kit. The food was okay though, with chicken a la orange for dinner (at midnight local time!), which was prepared based on a recipe of noted French chef Guy Martin (Air France gets celebrity chef to prepare one of the three meal choices out of CDG) washed down with a choice of Joseph Drouhin Rully chardonnay, Anton Rodet gamay or Baron de Brane Margaux (all quite pleasant), chocolate puff pastry and apricot shortbread for dessert (and a cognac for a digestive), and French toast with cinnamon apples for breakfast. All were very nice indeed.
The professionalism of the Air France crew contrasted once again to the slightly disorganised Vietnam Airlines service. While there was nothing particularly wrong with it, there were a few problems. Like not having a menu. I chose the steamed fish (one of the two Asian choices), and while the main course was fine, the dessert, a Vietnamese green coconut cream thingie, did not do it for me. Chastened, I went the Western option for breakfast, an omelette, which was fine. Also, I once again tried to sleep. I have hunted down the model of the seat Vietnam Airlines use in their Airbuses: the Simca Zodiac Majesty. It was comfortable sitting, but being angled, sleep comfort was not ideal (but far better than Air France), and the footrest, a solid metal job, gets quite uncomfortable after a while.
In conclusion then, for Vietnam Airlines, don’t expect Cathay or Singapore levels of service and quality for your money and you won’t be disappointed.
… And a $40 Cheeseburger…
Okay, so this is where the Burt Bacharach analogy breaks down a little, but I did want add a little on my experiences in the Hilton Molino Stucky Venice, and the parallel universe that is Hilton pricing.
I had booked the Hilton because I wanted to see exactly what I got with the gold membership of HHonors wangled through the Visa Infinite promotion.
The answer was: a lot. I did not merely get upgraded from a regular room to an executive room as expected. I scored an upgrade to a suite. Yes, little old me who paid $180-ish per night using the Corporate Benefit rate, found himself in an executive suite (rack rate 700 euros per night). It was quite palatial, and tastefully furnished to boot. There was even a welcoming bottle of fizz. And a kitchen sink. All very civilised.
The executive lounge was attached to the main foyer bar, but had quite a good spread, particularly at breakfast. Again, I tried to eat and drink as much as I could, but alas, the snacks did not quite hit the spot as a dinner substitute. So one night, to satisfy a craving that had been with me for about six weeks, I ordered a cheeseburger. This was not just any cheeseburger, mind you. This was a Hilton cheeseburger, and that meant Hilton could charge about four times the going rate for gourmet burgers (or 31 times the going rate for a McDonald’s cheeseburger in Italy): 28 euros (plus 3 euros cover charge). Now, admittedly, most vendors of burgers don’t offer you the opportunity to get the burger cooked ‘medium’, nor use little gherkins in them, nor supply little tubs of mayo and mustard, but still…
The burger itself was pretty good, although I’ve had better for less. Also, being in the executive lounge softened the blow, and I made an extra special effort to consume as much other food and drink as possible (including several beers, a glass of wine and nine little dessert thingies). I can therefore rationalise the decision. Just.
One final gripe about the Hilton: electronic mini bars. I opened the door on the mini bar twice during my stay, looking for a price list. Once located, I vowed never to touch the mini bar again. On the final morning, I went to check out and found that Hilton wanted to charge me an extra 18 euros (!) for two cans of beer. Fortunately, they removed them quick smart when disputed, suggesting there are frequent ‘issues’, so keep an eye on your mini bar tabs when staying in Hiltons kiddies.
The Hilton experience contrasted with my experience at the Ho Chi Minh City Sofitel, where my wangled Platinum Le Club Accorhotels membership secured me an upgrade to a room with Club Sofitel access, along with a pretty fabulous welcome spread of little cakes, a carafe of OJ and a big bottle of Perrier. When combined with room service regularly dropping by with more little cakes, a great spread in the Club Sofitel (including a cooked breakfast) which eliminated the need to buy food and friendly staff, the contrast with the giant sucking sound of money getting hoovered out of my wallet at the Hilton was great.
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