We decided to return to the States by June, 1976. A number of factors led to this decision. We had no professional or economic futures in Spain and, since we were neither wealthy nor retired, we definitely needed those. Our daughter had already returned to California to live with her grandparents and go to high school. There were only the three of us and so long as we stayed in Spain, we were spinning our wheels. Ultimately, we were just tired of living overseas.
The decision to return presented its problems. We thought TWA really screwed us over when we flew to Spain. That was before we found out what they wanted for one-way air fare back.
We found that we could book a round trip tour from Málaga to London, stay in a hotel for overlooking the Serpentine for five days, jump the tour and not return to Málaga, take a another round trip tour from London to Los Angeles and jump that tour as well for hundreds of dollars less than three one-way tickets on TWA.
Someone introduced us to a British couple who wanted to retire to Spain, but were prevented by British law from bringing enough money to even start them out. This was way before Common Market days. They agreed to buy tickets for us on the Wily Coyote Tour Company when they returned to England using their British currency. We agreed to deposit the equivalent money in pesetas in an account in their names in Torremolinos. Does this sound like another version of the politician’s widow in Kenya?
When we were ready we shipped what we wanted and sold or gave away the rest, and got all of our money in cash from the bank in a wad of thousand peseta notes that would choke a camel. Then we set out for the airport with high hearts and open minds.
Before they would let us on the plane, a female customs agent pawed through Joanne’s purse and counted the money. Joanne forget every word of Spanish she ever knew, including some choice phrases learned on the grammar school playgrounds in East Los Angeles when she was a girl. Couldn’t even say, “mierde suave.”
Customs finally let us through because we apparently did not have too much money. We’ve never had that problem, by the way, and we didn’t even entertain the possibility before this aduanera began combing through Joanne’s purse.
We arrived in London and enjoyed our five-day stay, made all the sweeter by the knowledge that TWA wasn’t getting a dime of our money.
Our hotel had several interesting qualities. It sat on a five-sided block and I got lost the first time I tried to walk around it. You know, four right turns and you're back where you started?
In the past, I've usually been lost while Joanne almost always knew where we were. But not in London. This time our map was printed upside down and I knew where we were and she was lost.
The hotel didn’t have a safe with a lock but we were welcome to put our camel choking wad of pesetas in an envelope and they would be glad to keep them for us in their office. No thanks.
Nobody in the hotel drank water with their dinner. Until Joanne. Our waiter became huffy. “If Madame insists.” Madame insisted and the waiter went off in a royal snit.
We left London from Gatwick, not Heathrow. Gatwick lies to the south of London, twenty-eight miles to the south. Our driver, a man from some Southeast Asian nation, spoke English well enough to understand “Gatwick,” but not well enough to tell us it was twenty-eight miles away. The longer he drove, the more nervous we got. We thought he intended to drive us to Los Angeles.
We arrived at Gatwick safely enough and presented ourselves to the Wily Coyote reception desk where we were informed they had never heard of us. It was an emotional moment. Fortunately, we had some evidence that we had paid cash in advance and eventually they found our names somewhere.
They then checked our luggage in and told us to relax because our be departure would be temporarily delayed until they found an airplane. I began to think more kindly of TWA. They may have ripped us off in big jagged pieces, but at least they had airplanes. Then I realized that Coyote Air had thoughtfully provided me with entertainment for the morning. I could watch peoples’ faces when they were informed, after their luggage was checked in, that we would all leave as soon as someone found an empty plane.
Morning jollies came to an end when we were all herded into a bus and driven to a hotel lobby. “Cool,” I thought. “Maybe we’re going to stay in this hotel until they find a plane. Maybe tomorrow.”
No such luck. Coyote Air found a plane. But we had an interesting few hours in the lobby nonetheless. Joanne and I strolled about and came to the swimming pool where British Overseas Airlines (BOAC) happened to be holding an evacuation drill for a class of stewardesses. In these modern times “stewardess” is a political incorrect term. Everybody’s a steward now. But these stewards were all good looking young females in bikinis.
Joanne and I watched as the young women climbed up a ladder and slid down a slide into the water. When they reached the water they were to stand up and help the next person off the slide. They were practicing dry land evacuation and were just using the pool for comfort's sake. At the time England was in mid-drought condition (it hadn’t rained anywhere in two weeks) and it was in the mid-nineties that day.
All was proceeding well. The young women were having fun and Joanne and I enjoyed watching them. Then one of them broke a fingernail and fainted. Her mates had to fish her out of the water to keep her from drowning. We hoped we never got into trouble on that girl's flight.
It was hot and dry that day, totally unBritainlike. To the undoing of one young Brit, the hotel bar was open. Thinking that he might not have any alcohol before he got to Los Angeles, he partook liberally and then decided to remove his shirt and take a nap in the sun. His milky white torso turned fiery red. When he came to, he was too drunk to realize that he was going to fly from England to Los Angeles with moderate first degree burns over a major part of his body.
He’s undoubtedly middle-aged and arthritic by now but behaves better in public. If he has survived.
The plane was actually nice. Plenty of room. And that lasted all the way to Shannon Airport in Ireland. That’s when a second tour group got on. Large people they were, filling and overflowing the seats. Moving about became impossible. For all purposes, we were a flying cattle car.
Onward we proceeded to Los Angeles. Normally we would have gone by way of New York. But these were not normal times. The Canadian air controllers were on strike and we couldn’t fly over Canadian air space. So we had to land at Hartford, Connecticut. Huh?
My geography of anything east of the Mississippi will never win me big bucks on a quiz show, but if we could get to Hartford, why not New York?
No matter. We landed at Hartford and confronted customs. The B team. Either they were either trainees or had insulted somebody’s wife at the office Christmas party, but these guys were not top drawer. One agent was really suspicious of our cameras, lenses, some items we’d picked up elsewhere. He wasn’t reassured when Joanne presented receipts from Hong Kong, Morocco, Guam, etc. But having these items and receipts wasn’t illegal, and he had to let us through. But he didn’t have to like it.
We reboarded our plane finally landed at LAX, but at a freight depot a mile from where our family waited for us. As luck would have it, it was in the middle of the night and cell phones had not yet been invented. Our joints were swollen because we hadn’t been able to move, but we were so glad to be on the ground that even the smog smelled good. Great to be home, even if it’s LAX.
And off we went to whatever destination our own incompetence might lead us.
Showing posts with label TWA. Show all posts
Showing posts with label TWA. Show all posts
Friday, April 9, 2010
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Flight to Spain
Flight to Spain
Copyright Ken Harris 2008
My wife, Joanne, and I taught on Guam from 1970 to 1974. Our contracts expired in June, 1974 and we decided to live somewhere else for a couple of years. We applied for teaching positions in various countries, but received no offers. So we decided to move to Spain for a year without jobs since we understood prices were reasonable and a year’s stay would not make serious indentures into our savings. (We had saved a lot of money on Guam.)
Before we left Guam we visited a travel agent and presented a specific itinerary. We bought tickets ahead of time from Agana to Los Angeles, and then Los Angeles to New York to Madrid. Our plans extended no further than that. We had everything worked out except what kind of sandwiches we would eat at Kennedy.
By then we were seasoned travelers. Our daughter, Patricia wanted to leave ahead of us, visit a friend in Connecticut, and meet us in New York on the appointed day at the appointed time. Somewhere in Kennedy. (If you’ve never been to that airport, it’s about the size of Rhode Island.) We saw nothing wrong with her plan because she was, after all, almost a 10th-grader and as long as she didn’t go to Spain without us, what could go wrong?
Over the summer two job offers at Sunnyview School in Torremolinos came up, high school for Joanne and a 6th-7th combination for me. We accepted because, while the financial rewards were dismal, it would give us something to do while we enjoyed the culture of Spain. We adjusted our plans to include a leg from Madrid to Málaga (MAH.lah.gah), only twenty kilometers (about 12 miles) from Torremolinos.
We spent an indolent summer with Joanne’s parents and visiting friends. Our daughter was in Connecticut, but our son, Eric, who at that time was enjoying an extreme case of 8th-grade-it is, stayed with us. He aggravated his grandfather Heyser almost beyond endurance, but we kept them on opposite sides of the house most of the time and thus got through the summer without homicide, mayhem, or even a 911 call.
Eric did not want to go to Spain, and so he drew up this elaborate “rap sheet” that he attributed to the FBI. His plan was to be intercepted at Madrid airport and put on a return flight to New York. He would work out the further details from Kennedy. He had done the entire document in blue ink from a Bic pen in his finest printing, but I doubt if the Spanish customs would have been impressed. In any event, he had lost the folder by the time it came for us to leave for Spain.
Joanne, Eric and I checked into Los Angeles for our first flight. We were flabbergasted to learn that we owned another $400, right now, on the spot. Not even a kiss. The clerk contended we hadn’t paid enough on Guam. And there we stood at the head of a long line of people waiting to buy their tickets and Pat was already on her way from Connecticut to meet us in New York. There really wasn’t much time to think. So we paid the $400, vowing to write a letter of complaint and seek a refund later.
If I had thought things through, I would have bought an extra ticket for one of our suitcases, Los Angeles to New York only. It would have cost less than $400 although a boarding pass for S. Harris might have raised some eyebrows.
We met Pat and caught our flight to Madrid. It was a huge plane with humanity packed in as tightly as could be. Once underway, Joanne, still steaming about the $400, began to regale all of the passengers around her with our sad story. Others began to contribute their tales of woe. We had paid more than anybody else, but everyone had paid a different fare to be on that flight.
A flight steward appeared and asked what the problem was. I think it says somewhere in the Steward’s Handbook that you don’t ever let customers compare prices with each other. He quickly bought us a round of drinks. Doubles. Then he gave us the address of a senior vice president to whom we could complain and said something definitely would be done. It was a magic address. We wrote the letter and sent it after we arrived in Spain, but never heard any more about it. Like most magic, it didn’t work.
I suspect the steward may have given us his own home address. And I suspect something was done with our letter. In my imagination I can hear the toilet flushing now.
Copyright Ken Harris 2008
My wife, Joanne, and I taught on Guam from 1970 to 1974. Our contracts expired in June, 1974 and we decided to live somewhere else for a couple of years. We applied for teaching positions in various countries, but received no offers. So we decided to move to Spain for a year without jobs since we understood prices were reasonable and a year’s stay would not make serious indentures into our savings. (We had saved a lot of money on Guam.)
Before we left Guam we visited a travel agent and presented a specific itinerary. We bought tickets ahead of time from Agana to Los Angeles, and then Los Angeles to New York to Madrid. Our plans extended no further than that. We had everything worked out except what kind of sandwiches we would eat at Kennedy.
By then we were seasoned travelers. Our daughter, Patricia wanted to leave ahead of us, visit a friend in Connecticut, and meet us in New York on the appointed day at the appointed time. Somewhere in Kennedy. (If you’ve never been to that airport, it’s about the size of Rhode Island.) We saw nothing wrong with her plan because she was, after all, almost a 10th-grader and as long as she didn’t go to Spain without us, what could go wrong?
Over the summer two job offers at Sunnyview School in Torremolinos came up, high school for Joanne and a 6th-7th combination for me. We accepted because, while the financial rewards were dismal, it would give us something to do while we enjoyed the culture of Spain. We adjusted our plans to include a leg from Madrid to Málaga (MAH.lah.gah), only twenty kilometers (about 12 miles) from Torremolinos.
We spent an indolent summer with Joanne’s parents and visiting friends. Our daughter was in Connecticut, but our son, Eric, who at that time was enjoying an extreme case of 8th-grade-it is, stayed with us. He aggravated his grandfather Heyser almost beyond endurance, but we kept them on opposite sides of the house most of the time and thus got through the summer without homicide, mayhem, or even a 911 call.
Eric did not want to go to Spain, and so he drew up this elaborate “rap sheet” that he attributed to the FBI. His plan was to be intercepted at Madrid airport and put on a return flight to New York. He would work out the further details from Kennedy. He had done the entire document in blue ink from a Bic pen in his finest printing, but I doubt if the Spanish customs would have been impressed. In any event, he had lost the folder by the time it came for us to leave for Spain.
Joanne, Eric and I checked into Los Angeles for our first flight. We were flabbergasted to learn that we owned another $400, right now, on the spot. Not even a kiss. The clerk contended we hadn’t paid enough on Guam. And there we stood at the head of a long line of people waiting to buy their tickets and Pat was already on her way from Connecticut to meet us in New York. There really wasn’t much time to think. So we paid the $400, vowing to write a letter of complaint and seek a refund later.
If I had thought things through, I would have bought an extra ticket for one of our suitcases, Los Angeles to New York only. It would have cost less than $400 although a boarding pass for S. Harris might have raised some eyebrows.
We met Pat and caught our flight to Madrid. It was a huge plane with humanity packed in as tightly as could be. Once underway, Joanne, still steaming about the $400, began to regale all of the passengers around her with our sad story. Others began to contribute their tales of woe. We had paid more than anybody else, but everyone had paid a different fare to be on that flight.
A flight steward appeared and asked what the problem was. I think it says somewhere in the Steward’s Handbook that you don’t ever let customers compare prices with each other. He quickly bought us a round of drinks. Doubles. Then he gave us the address of a senior vice president to whom we could complain and said something definitely would be done. It was a magic address. We wrote the letter and sent it after we arrived in Spain, but never heard any more about it. Like most magic, it didn’t work.
I suspect the steward may have given us his own home address. And I suspect something was done with our letter. In my imagination I can hear the toilet flushing now.
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