In Warsaw... and David Cameron's on the plane!

The first thing worth pointing out is that I never, repeat, NEVER, take an early flight unless it's absolutely necessary; but if I allow somebody else to book my plane ticket... well, what can I say? This morning I had to get up at the crack of dawn (0400hrs) in order to catch the 0725hrs BA flight to Warsaw.

I showered and shaved late last night and then jumped into bed, but was rudely awakened by my iphone alarm at 0400hrs and had 20 minutes to make the final preparations for my trip, namely sort my lap top out, eat a banana and zip up my suitcase. The taxi driver was already waiting outside, but after my trip to Nashville, when the bastard took me to Gatwick instead of Heathrow, I wasn't holding out much hope. In fact, I got a bit worried when he said he was going via Fulham rather than round the M25, but being as it was only 0430hrs I figured there would be no traffic and it was fine.

Once at Terminal Three of Heathrow airport I enjoyed a breakfast of omelette, toast and tea – top marks to the waiter for offering me a free top-up of tea – and then, after a minor wander about I headed for Gate 11 and the flight to Warsaw.

Omelette for breakfast at Oriel, T3.

What amazed me about Terminal Three – although perhaps it's the same for all airport terminals, I don't know, is that very early in the morning it was empty, hardly anybody there. I strolled nonchalantly into the duty free section, sprayed myself with some expensive after shave and then found Oriel and, of course, breakfast. The restaurant was empty but slowly it filled up and before long it was a bustling place along with the rest of the terminal, a bit like watching one of those speeded-up time movies.

Former Prime Minister David Cameron was on the same flight, but I never saw him, although it explains why there was a uniformed copper in the jetty joining the plane to the terminal building. I wonder where he was going? I considered 'having a word' about the in-out referendum he'd been responsible for, but figured it wasn't worth it. "Leave it! He's not worth it!"

The flight was fine, as smooth as you like, until it hit some cloud on the descent into Warsaw, then it got a little bumpy, but nothing to write home about, he said, mildly shitting himself. I know, ultimately, I'm a wimp, but I don't care; and besides, it doesn't really bother me. I'm so used to it these days I just go with the flow.

I'm glad I had breakfast at Oriel because I resent paying BA for an M&S sandwich and a cup of Rosie. No, they should be giving away their food and drink as part of the fare, and, hey, I bet you any money you like that the fare has gone up rather than gone down.

I had some writing to do while in the air and it worked out well, although thanks also (once again) to John Simpson's column in High Life, which is always my saviour on flights long and short. I like Simpson's writing style and I love the stories he tells, this month about a brick he found (and was allowed to keep) in Iraq back in the 1990s. All good stuff in my opinion.

View from room 201, Sheraton, Warsaw...

Having written what I needed to write and not having a book to read – I couldn't fit Steinbeck's East of Eden into my case – I spent the remainder of the flight circling all the destinations I had visited on the High Life route maps and then realised that there were many places around the world that hadn't been graced by my presence. One day, I thought, one day.

Once through passport control and baggage reclaim, it was a short cab ride to the Sheraton Hotel from where I write this. From what I've seen of the hotel so far, it's very good; the room is excellent, not dissimilar to the Hyatt Regency in Irvine, California, except that the weather's not as good.

A curry for lunch – you can't beat a curry for lunch or dinner – and now it's down to work, but I might take a shower and freshen up a little bit first.

Earlier, when I first reached the room after a fairly straightforward check-in process, I did my usual foraging around to check things out: First, the hotel DEFINITELY trusts its guests. Second, the coat hangers are just that, proper coat hangers with hooks; and third, there's a fully-stocked minibar. There's a large double bed, a huge flatscreen television, a decent-looking bathroom, a desk, free WiFi, tea and coffee making facilities, an iron plus an ironing board, a safe and ample wardrobe space. In other words, it's all good – so far – and everything looks neat and tidy as it's all packed away and out of sight.

Room 201, Sheraton, Warsaw, Poland – nice room!

A Viennese whirl...

Tea and a Bakewell tart, Costa Coffee, South Terminal...

The first problem was getting confirmation. I needed confirmation before I could open up the lap top and book my flight and hotel. A week prior to the trip – and only one day after returning from Vienna – I sat at home and I knew that in seven days I would be back in Austria. Or would I be? Biting the bullet and booking the trip would have been a mistake. What if the meeting was cancelled? So I left it and the lack of any real confirmation continued. As the uncertainty mounted, the flights got more expensive.

I wanted to fly BA, like last time, but as time moved on, the likelihood of those Island Bakery Lemon Melts and a small bottle of red wine – for no extra money – and not forgetting the dulcet tones of the Biggles-like BA pilot, were fading fast. There was, I knew, just one option: easyJet.

I nipped in here to buy a Skipper's Tablecloth

And sure enough, when the meeting was finally fixed and set in stone, the BA flight was far too expensive. so I was left with no other choice than easyJet. Look, I'm not anti-easyJet, it's just that they're not as good as BA. Full stop. But I found myself online, booking my flight and my hotel and quietly regretting the whole thing.

On the train towards Vienna Hbf from Vienna Airport...

It was going to be a rushed trip. Flying out on Sunday evening at 1735hrs, getting into Vienna at 2050 and then jumping on a train to a place called Linz. Last week, somebody in my hotel (the Austria Trend Europa in Vienna) said it was an hour, but the reality was one hour and 52 minutes and that wasn't including the train from the airport to Wien Hbf. But hey, if the flight had been on time, there might not have been a problem. But the flight wasn't on time. It was late. I arrived in Vienna later than scheduled and it had a knock-on effect. I took the train to Wien Hbf, that was fine, but the train to Linz wasn't until 2255hrs. Time for an ice-cold fish burger! I was starving and you might be wondering why. I'll tell you. Once airborne, the easyJet cabin crew calmly announced that they would not be accepting credit or debit cards and were unable to provide receipts. Well, sod that, I thought. I was starving – and while I had a tenner in my wallet, I wanted to use my credit card, because that's what I use when I'm on business and the ten pound note was for my own private use. Furthermore, I didn't want to give those capitalist scum my money, not after being so inconvenienced. So I sat there. I couldn't even stare out of the window because, by the time we'd reached 'our cruising altitude', it was dark. I didn't even read as there was no in-flight magazine for my seat, and even if there had been, I wouldn't have read it. It wouldn't have been anywhere near as good as BA's High Life and yes, I was yearning for John Simpson's monthly column.

Crap wine and the remains of a cold fishburger

When the plane eventually landed, I found a Spar store – another brand, like Lipton's, that you no longer see in the UK (another sign of our decline as a nation) – and bought a cheese and ham sandwich for the train ride to Vienna Hbf, but I was still hungry when I got there, and now I was tired too and the thought of two hours on a train to Linz made me seek solace in a Nordsee fish burger. It looked great in the photograph over the counter so I bought one and a bottle of cheap 'rot' wine (plus a plastic mug). I took the food and drink to a table and it was there, having taken a large bite out of the burger, that I discovered the awful truth: it was stone cold. With an unpleasant expression on my face as if I'd been sucking a Seven Seas Cod Liver Oil lolly, I approached the counter. "This is stone cold, can you heat it up?" The woman looked at me as if I'd stolen her last Rolo. "No, sorry, we don't have any ovens," she said. No ovens? You mean everything is sold stone cold? Well, I didn't ask that question, I simply skulked back to my table and finished the burger, having realised that the Austrians DO eat their fish burgers cold. How do I know? Because as I sat there, pulling a face with every bite, I watched as other people bought the same fish burger, although I did wonder whether they were planning on taking their burgers home to a microwave oven.

And then there was the train journey to Linz. Not one hour, but two, in a train that might well have been in the movie The Great Escape. It was mainly a sleeper train and oh how I would have loved a cabin to myself and a ticket all the way to Bregenz on the border with Switzerland, the train's ultimate destination. But I was alighting at Linz, the first big stop, and sitting in one of the two compartment carriages, like something out of a Harry Potter movie. I shared a compartment with two elderly people, a man and a woman, who got off a couple of stops along the line. Then there was a beefy-looking bloke in a tight tee-shirt, and a fat guy with smelly feet who later stretched out, taken off his shoes and tried to get some shut-eye. He, like me, was travelling to Linz and eventually it was just the two of us in the compartment: him snoring and me sitting there playing with my watch, unable to take in the view outside because it was so dark.

A cold fish burger? No ovens to heat it up? Get out of here!

So let's have a recap. First, no food on the delayed easyJet flight. Then a cold fish burger, courtesy of Nordsee – I won't be going back there in a hurry – and now something else to add to the party. I found my way to the taxi rank, told the driver my destination – the Austria Trend Schillerpark – and what did he say? "That's just five minutes away, you can walk!" So off I went, my suitcase rolling noisily behind me. It was almost 0100hrs when I reached the hotel and the fact that I found the hotel was only thanks to the fat guy from the train who I caught up with while walking. He pointed me in the right direction and soon I was in a lift, heading towards room 306 and a few hours of sleep.

Room 306 of the Austria Trend Schillerpark

The following day I had a hearty breakfast of cereal, a croissant, scrambled egg with two sausages, fresh fruit and a small pot of tea. Later on, after my meeting was over, I made the same journey but in reverse. I took a train from Linz to Vienna Hbf and then a train to the airport where I checked in and then sat in the restaurant next to the gate awaiting my flight. I had around two hours to kill and fortunately time flew by as I'd met Mark – on holiday alone in Vienna – and we passed the time of day (or night in this case) chatting about motorcycles and travelling before it was time for me to stand in the queue, go through security at the gate and then wait to board the plane. It was delayed again, this time for longer than before due to a mechanical issue with the landing gear, and while we were scheduled to depart at 2130hrs, it was nearer 2230hrs when we were finally airborne.

The flight was pleasant enough. The cabin crew accepted credit cards so I enjoyed tea, cookies and some fizzy lemon drink in a can, although somehow I managed to get chocolate over my suit trousers – odd when you consider that the cookies were on the tray and my lap was underneath tray. We landed at Gatwick at past 2300hrs and after queuing for the electronic passport control, my taxi driver failed to show. He eventually arrived having gone to the wrong terminal and soon I was on the last leg of my awful journey. By the time I got to bed it was 0130hrs. Needless to say I went in to work later the following day.

Flying home...

After dinner I moseyed on upstairs to room 535 – a number that adds up to 13 (5 + 3 + 5 =13). I bring that up because the flight number of the American Airlines plane that was not going to take me to Chicago on Friday evening was AA3073, which also adds up to 13. Had the gate been 13 I might have re-booked and would probably have ended up in the Sheraton with my other self in the same restaurant, wondering why the bloke sitting alone in the corner reading USA Today was, in fact, me. But let's not go there, it gets too confusing.

I got a reasonable night's sleep, aided by the fact that, seven days since I flew out of the UK, I was now fully acclimatised with US time – and now I had to go home and re-acclimatise myself with BST. That glass of red wine and the meal (see previous post) also helped. I washed, shaved and showered and soon found myself back in the restaurant eating granola, fresh fruit, a yoghurt and a slice of bread, not forgetting a mug of black tea. I was tempted to go the whole hog and have the hot breakfast (sausages, scrambled egg, diced and fried potatoes, hash browns) but I decided to keep up with my regime of healthy eating.

My Jumbo 747-400 to London Heathrow at O'Hare's Gate M12

Back in the room, albeit briefly, I did my final checks. Had I left anything behind? No. And I was off. Check-out was simple and the shuttle bus took all of five minutes to reach the terminal. Then there was security. Security is weird because it's not consistent. Some airports demand that you take off belts and shoes, others don't. Cleveland wanted shoes off. The worst bit about flying is going through security because you have to take the lap top out of the case, put it in a tray of its own, empty your pockets and then walk through the scanner. Sometimes you have to raise your hands above your head, like a criminal, and be searched by one of the guards, other times not, and then you find yourself on the 'other side' in the strange world that exists beyond passport control where the shops sell expensive perfume, wines and spirits, not forgetting watches and stuff you rarely see people actually wearing.

I tend to ignore the shops and head straight for the coffee retailer, although I always order tea and sometimes a pastry of sorts. Then I sit down, realise that hell will freeze over before I manage to suss out how the WiFi works and simply resign myself to wandering around, looking at other people waiting for other planes going to other destinations.

I started chatting with a woman from Cleveland who was on her way to see her mum, to surprise her because it was Mother's Day on Sunday. We talked about mice and houses and gardens and she seemed very amused at the fact that I was looking forward to having lunch at Romano's Macaroni Grill on O'Hare airport (opposite gate H3 if you're interested and well worth a visit). I think she was amused because, apparently, Romano's Macaroni Grill is a chain. The woman, whose husband worked for American Airlines, has plenty of family in Chicago and will probably visit most of them while she's in the Windy City. She was on stand-by and managed to get on the flight. In Chicago we said our goodbyes and she hoped that I would enjoy Romano's. I did, but I shouldn't have ordered lemon drizzle cake.

In fact, the drizzle cake led me to spend around an hour, possibly longer, simply walking around the airport. I passed virtually every gate in an effort to burn some calories and I must have burned plenty hauling my hefty suitcase behind me. The walk not only did me some good, but it was an education. I discovered that I didn't have to go through security twice in order to access the international terminal and Gate M12 from where my BA jumbo would depart. There was a bus service going from Gate K12 and that, my friends, is worth remembering. When I say I went through security twice, I meant that I endured it at Cleveland and you'd think that would be it, but no; at O'Hare, having arrived at what was essentially the domestic terminal, passengers taking the transit to the international terminal then find they have to go through security again – but not if you take the bus from K12.

The international terminal was a lot swisher than the domestic side of the airport (although it didn't have Romano's). I decided to do some more walking but not until I'd asked for a better seat. They'd given me a seat in the middle row of the plane (a 747-400) and I wasn't at all happy. The thought of being sandwiched between two other passengers for seven hours was horrific, but I was in their hands and after leaving them my boarding card, I wandered off and once again found that I couldn't work out how to use the airport WiFi.

When it was time to board I found that there was good news and bad news. The good news was that I'd been upgraded. The bad news? I still had a middle aisle seat sandwiched between two passengers. But there was more room and I decided to endure it until after dinner and then stand up in the galley area for an hour or so. Dinner was good and because I'd been upgraded I got a real wine glass (made of glass) a menu from which to choose either pasta or steak and a cloth napkin instead of paper. I opted for the steak, listened to Money for Nothing by Dire Straits about half a dozen times (the music choice was awful) and then got up and went for a wander around. After standing in the galley area for about 30 minutes I walked to the rear of the plane where I a found a seat used by the air hostesses at take-off. I sat here for some time watching the sun rise outside as we edged our way towards daylight and chatted to an IT consultant from Bournemouth who, like me, has a 16-year daughter about to take her GCSEs.

The flight itself was relatively pleasant. No turbulence. I returned to my seat for breakfast (a chunk of cake) and found that my fellow passengers – the ones I was sandwiched between – were both asleep. I had to wake one of them up to take my seat.

We landed, I said goodbye to my IT friend and then headed towards departures to find my taxi driver who had called to say he was outside. I then endured a nightmare journey that involved said taxi driver missing turnings (clearly no idea of where he was) asking personal questions and playing his music miles too loud. I was so relieved to pay up and get out when I reached home.

Stranded in the Windy City

Travelling can be a right palavar! And it always seems odd that I start to make decisions that will somehow backfire on me later in the day. One, for example, was deciding to check in my suitcase. I put my laptop in there and my wallet full of receipts and all because I figured that with such a full suitcase I'd have one helluva time getting the laptop back in after going through security. So I checked it in: mistake number one. Well, perhaps that was the only mistake, I don't know. I also distinctly remember a conversation I had with Mike, the manager of my hotel, the gist of which was that to fly long haul with an American airline was not good and certainly not as good as flying with British Airways. And guess what? I will eventually fly home on an American airline. It's amazing how conversations tempt fate in a certain way and how decisions come back to haunt me.

Anyway, I reach Indianapolis airport, Sam drops me off and I go through security and, for the first time ever, I hear my name boomed over the tannoy system. It turns out they want to search my bag and they need the combination on the lock. I give it to them and that's the end of it, although I start thinking, what if they simply steal my laptop or my wallet? So that bugged me, but I went through the security process and soon it was obvious that there was something wrong with the plane. It turns out that there's a faulty door and we, that is me and my fellow passengers, wonder if it'll be fixed in time. Eventually it is fixed and we're sitting in the plane. Outside there's some pretty severe storms going on and this means, as we're making our way to the runway, the pilot decides to turn us around and go back to the gate to get more fuel. Why he didn't have enough fuel in the first place is not explained, but I'm thinking it's got something to do with re-routing the journey and so on.

But of course it doesn't end there. We're told 10 minutes, but it turns into a couple hours and soon it is obvious that all of us on board are going to miss our connections. We eventually fly out of Indianapolis, the flight's pleasant, we land and then the process of sorting things out begins. I wanted to know what would happen to my suitcase as it won't be transferred to the London flight because that was long gone. Eventually I'm rebooked on an American Airlines flight to Dublin for Saturday night and this means a stay in the Marriott O'Hare, which is fine if you forgive them for labyrinthine corridors.

Dinner was pleasant enough and that old Dunkirk spirit crept in too, which is always nice. There was a small group of us: an American judge from Indianapolis and his South Korean wife, a former cop from Colorado and a girl who's heavily involved in to some kind of historical re-enactment society based in Indianapolis (she was flying to Lake Tahoe, the rest of us to London). In fact, the cop was staying near to me in Kingston upon Thames.

We all had breakfast and then I checked out and right now it's Saturday morning and I'm considering going downtown, although I don't want to be stranded down there and miss my flight, but I'll probably jump on the train (the CTA) at a place called Cumberland and ride the 40 minutes into town just to say I've been there. I need to be back around 3.30pm to catch the shuttle back to the airport (Terminal 3) and my flight to Dublin and from there my flight to London.

I discovered by chatting to people and listening to media reports that Indianapolis and Chicago are virtually equal in the battle to be the USA's most murderous capital. Whoever loses, of course,will be number two and it's looking as if Indianapolis might win. And guess who was staying in a dodgy neighbourhood out on East Washington? Yes, you guessed it. Me. And my taxi driver told me there were crack heads in a motel a few blocks away from my hotel and all manner of unsavoury people hanging around elsewhere. And now I'm in Chicago, a city with similar crime credentials.

I can't upload any images for this post because my camera is in my case along with everything else I need. American Airlines kindly provided me with a small overnight bag containing all the essentials, so at least I could shave and brush my teeth, but they didn't provide a change of clothes so I'm dressed exactly as I was yesterday. Still, I'm rested and ready to get back on the plane later today.