I'm flying British Airways to Amsterdam and it's only a short flight, something like 40 minutes, but the flight is full and I had to go to the desk close to Gate A10 to secure a seat. I asked for a window, but I've been given seat 8D, which is an aisle seat, and I'm happy with that because it's not a long flight so it doesn't really matter. Had it been a little longer, I would have been happy with an aisle seat, so all is well.
There's not enough time to chill out with a cup of tea and a Millionaire's Shortbread - or something of that ilk - so I thought I'd start blogging early. Normally I can't do this because my old Macbook was, well, old, and it wouldn't have the battery power, but my new Chromebook is a different kettle of fish. The battery's been going since yesterday morning and there's still loads of power left, so I can sit here, at the gate, blogging until the flight is called. I'm now at Gate A2 and the crowds are gathering, not to watch me blogging, I hasten to add, but to get on the plane.
It's currently 1532hrs and outside it's bright and clear skies, a complete contrast to yesterday's drizzly, cold day. And now that I'm sitting here writing, I realise the reason (apart from the poor battery on my Mac) why I don't normally blog prior to arriving at my destination: there's not much to say. The journey here was pretty uneventful and, look, I'd better go as they're boarding the flight, we can continue this conversation later.
Later...
The flight was packed. So packed that there was no room for my suitcase. I stood in the aisle next to seat 8D as I knew there were people destined to sit in seats 8E and 8F. They eventually arrived, but I remained standing, my suitcase on my seat. When the steady stream of passengers filing in to the plane slowed to a trickle, I went in search of a member of the cabin crew to tell him or her there was no room for my suitcase. A male steward moved a few bags around, placing them in other overhead lockers and then invited me to place my case in the vacated space. At last I could take my seat.
The plane trundled out of the gate and made its way to the runway. The pilot said it was excellent flying weather and he was right. I ordered a peppermint tea and a KitKat and shortly after I finished my tea and had read John Simpson's column in High Life (the only piece of writing in the entire magazine worth reading in my opinion) the pilot announced there was 10 minutes until landing. We hit the tarmac with a thud and made our way to the terminal building and then I went in search of the hotel shuttle buses.
Having listened (watched) Will Self giving a lecture at Google HQ on the subject of 'psychogeography' I looked at the taxi rank with suspicion. Taxi drivers, says Will Self, are the arch enemies of the psycho-geographer and I knew what he meant. I was reminded of a quote that appears in Fahrenheit 451, something like "if they give you lined paper, write the other way'. So I waited for the hotel shuttle bus, which rolled up after about 15 minutes of hanging around. I was the only passenger. It didn't take long to reach the hotel, but I was a little concerned that it was closer to the airport than Amsterdam's downtown, where I'm guessing my conference hotel is located.
It's a good hotel - so far. The check-in was quick and friendly, the room is very good: twin bed, flatscreen television on the wall opposite the bed, a desk looking out on the city (I'm on the fifth floor of 18) and there's even a sofa, a safe, a telephone, tea and coffee making facilities and a few magazines, everything you might expect, including a bottle of mineral water. But no minibar. Not that I want one. And no wardrobe either!
Time was moving on and I needed some dinner. The restaurant is on the 17th floor and it offers panoramic views of Amsterdam and an interesting menu. I opted for brocolli soup, an FL17 burger (basically a beefburger with bacon, lettuce, cheese) and an apple pie with ice cream - or rather a kind of 'tart', certainly not a pie. I ordered a bottle of mineral water (sparkling) and a Solero 'mocktail', which was more ice cubes than cocktail. I had a side order of chips and a mayo dip and just sat there, alone, people watching and listening to the loud music that played throughout my time there. Not my kind of music if I'm honest.
I headed back to the room to get my credit card (I wasn't allowed to put the meal 'on the room') and then returned to the 17th floor to pay the bill. Now I'm back in my room, the Brexit documentary is on the television (I can get BBC1 and BBC2 here) and I'm feeling tired. And there's nothing worse than feeling tired and not being able to switch off the television. Yes, there's a big red button and I know it's the power-off button, but it doesn't work so I spent an inordinate amount of time faffing about pressing different buttons and getting nowhere. Eventually I resorted to calling reception. "Press the big red button at the top of the remote," said the guy on the other end of the phone. "Thanks," I said, and hung up. I then spent a good 15 seconds, maybe longer, possibly 20 or even 25 seconds with my finger pressing down the red button before, suddenly, the screen went blank. Now, I can get some sleep. And yes, you're right, I re-logged in just to write five sentences.
There's not enough time to chill out with a cup of tea and a Millionaire's Shortbread - or something of that ilk - so I thought I'd start blogging early. Normally I can't do this because my old Macbook was, well, old, and it wouldn't have the battery power, but my new Chromebook is a different kettle of fish. The battery's been going since yesterday morning and there's still loads of power left, so I can sit here, at the gate, blogging until the flight is called. I'm now at Gate A2 and the crowds are gathering, not to watch me blogging, I hasten to add, but to get on the plane.
It's currently 1532hrs and outside it's bright and clear skies, a complete contrast to yesterday's drizzly, cold day. And now that I'm sitting here writing, I realise the reason (apart from the poor battery on my Mac) why I don't normally blog prior to arriving at my destination: there's not much to say. The journey here was pretty uneventful and, look, I'd better go as they're boarding the flight, we can continue this conversation later.
Later...
The flight was packed. So packed that there was no room for my suitcase. I stood in the aisle next to seat 8D as I knew there were people destined to sit in seats 8E and 8F. They eventually arrived, but I remained standing, my suitcase on my seat. When the steady stream of passengers filing in to the plane slowed to a trickle, I went in search of a member of the cabin crew to tell him or her there was no room for my suitcase. A male steward moved a few bags around, placing them in other overhead lockers and then invited me to place my case in the vacated space. At last I could take my seat.
The plane trundled out of the gate and made its way to the runway. The pilot said it was excellent flying weather and he was right. I ordered a peppermint tea and a KitKat and shortly after I finished my tea and had read John Simpson's column in High Life (the only piece of writing in the entire magazine worth reading in my opinion) the pilot announced there was 10 minutes until landing. We hit the tarmac with a thud and made our way to the terminal building and then I went in search of the hotel shuttle buses.
Having listened (watched) Will Self giving a lecture at Google HQ on the subject of 'psychogeography' I looked at the taxi rank with suspicion. Taxi drivers, says Will Self, are the arch enemies of the psycho-geographer and I knew what he meant. I was reminded of a quote that appears in Fahrenheit 451, something like "if they give you lined paper, write the other way'. So I waited for the hotel shuttle bus, which rolled up after about 15 minutes of hanging around. I was the only passenger. It didn't take long to reach the hotel, but I was a little concerned that it was closer to the airport than Amsterdam's downtown, where I'm guessing my conference hotel is located.
It's a good hotel - so far. The check-in was quick and friendly, the room is very good: twin bed, flatscreen television on the wall opposite the bed, a desk looking out on the city (I'm on the fifth floor of 18) and there's even a sofa, a safe, a telephone, tea and coffee making facilities and a few magazines, everything you might expect, including a bottle of mineral water. But no minibar. Not that I want one. And no wardrobe either!
Time was moving on and I needed some dinner. The restaurant is on the 17th floor and it offers panoramic views of Amsterdam and an interesting menu. I opted for brocolli soup, an FL17 burger (basically a beefburger with bacon, lettuce, cheese) and an apple pie with ice cream - or rather a kind of 'tart', certainly not a pie. I ordered a bottle of mineral water (sparkling) and a Solero 'mocktail', which was more ice cubes than cocktail. I had a side order of chips and a mayo dip and just sat there, alone, people watching and listening to the loud music that played throughout my time there. Not my kind of music if I'm honest.
I headed back to the room to get my credit card (I wasn't allowed to put the meal 'on the room') and then returned to the 17th floor to pay the bill. Now I'm back in my room, the Brexit documentary is on the television (I can get BBC1 and BBC2 here) and I'm feeling tired. And there's nothing worse than feeling tired and not being able to switch off the television. Yes, there's a big red button and I know it's the power-off button, but it doesn't work so I spent an inordinate amount of time faffing about pressing different buttons and getting nowhere. Eventually I resorted to calling reception. "Press the big red button at the top of the remote," said the guy on the other end of the phone. "Thanks," I said, and hung up. I then spent a good 15 seconds, maybe longer, possibly 20 or even 25 seconds with my finger pressing down the red button before, suddenly, the screen went blank. Now, I can get some sleep. And yes, you're right, I re-logged in just to write five sentences.
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