Terminal Condition FQR Travel
Travel broadens the mind? The hell it does. And the misery of today’s airports is enough to stop you before you begin, says Lisa Armstrong Before you get the wrong idea, I have not been planted in front of my laptop by Richard Branson to slam British Airways. Au contraire, as a child of the 60s, who was taught to dress in her Sunday best when flying aboard the nation’s carrier on the annual family holiday to Nice, I’m taking BA’s current plight personally. But as I sit here in Terminal 2, awaiting my flight to Milan, I am increasingly distracted by one thought, and one thought only: why does anyone bother to travel anymore? This is not a new question. I have been pondering it since last October when I spent two-and-a-half hours queuing: for check-in, for baggage drop, for security, while people in front of me took off their coats and shoes and then put them on again; for water, for the gate, for more security. Two-and-a-half hours. Roughly a third of the time it eventually took to fly to New York. Ye gods! Man’s ingenuity got us into the sky, even to the moon, but it can’t seem to devise a civilised way to check that people aren’t carrying more than their allotted 100ml of Eight Hour cream. So two-and-a-half hours it is. Time I could have spent reading, watching a movie or, to put this in terms that the reliably avaricious British Airports Authority might appreciate, spending money. I couldn’t listen to my iPod for fear of missing out on some vital Tannoy announcement informing me that my personal luggage allowance had just been slashed to one-and-a-half kilos. I couldn’t put my contact lenses in (I hate being stuck in my glasses all day, especially on the off chance I might bump into George Clooney in the WorldTraveller Plus section, but I hadn’t been able to put them in at home, having had to leave at about 5 am). I couldn’t even rely on the distraction of Naomi Campbell having the mother of all trip-fits, there being only so many places the woman can throw a fit at one time. Factor in the truly life-sapping queue through immigration at the other end and I could have got to lovely Cornwall in a pony and trap faster—and the whole procedure would have been considerably better for my complexion. Before you get another wrong idea, I am not anti-flying per se. Obviously there’s a teensy bit of an issue with its carbon-footprint aspect, which is almost enough—but not quite—to make the Leo DiCaprios and Brad Pitts of this world give it up, or at least forsake their private jets, for good. Equally distressingly, the general dress code of passengers is really not what it was when Cate Blanchett trotted through Europe in The Talented Mr Ripley wearing Dior’s New Look, with what looked like 47 pieces of kid-glove-leather luggage and three flunkies in tow. Standards have clearly declined on all fronts. But let’s be realistic. Given today’s work schedules, being able to reach one’s family in New Zealand in under six weeks and for less than a year’s salary is clearly a boon. Ergo, the idea of democratic travel is as cool as ever. I
ALLER Hotel Confidential CHARLES FINCH’S PERSONAL TRAVEL GURU KATE LENAHAN OPENS HER LITTLE BLACK BOOK When I refer clients to the hotels I most favour in the world, I do so entirely on the basis of their service, location, design, security and, most importantly, general manager. If the general manager doesn’t bother to greet a guest who has been flagged as a VIP, then that is not a hotel to recommend again. A good general manager should run the hotel as he would his home, and those who visit it should not be regarded as bed-fillers but as valuable guests who, when treated properly, will not only return but also recommend. One of the best general managers I have ever met is still resident at The Eden in Rome: the Omar Sharif-like Marcel Levy. Mr Levy is never far from the lobby, with his eyes and ears permanently open to the goings on at every level of the hotel. It helps of course that he always generously invites one to enjoy a martini on the fabulous terrace at the top of the hotel with simply one of the best views in Rome. HOTEL Hotel Bel-Air, Los Angeles
FINCH RECOMMENDS Book A poolside cottage, for sunbathing and service Know Charles, the concierge, who can fix or book anything Claridge’s, London Book The Brook Penthouse Eat The organic breakfast in the Reading Room, in the comfort of an armchair Hotel Eden, Rome Book The Royal Suite, for its view of Rome Drink A Negroni, on the terrace at sunset Le Bristol, Paris Book Suite 950, overlooking the garden Reserve Dinner in the three-Michelin-starred dining room The Lowell, New York Book The Manhattan Suite in winter, for its working fireplace Shop At Chopard and Barneys Hôtel du Cap, Antibes Book A suite at The Eden Roc, to be right on the sea Relax In Cabana 28, for complete privacy while sunbathing Hotel Arts, Barcelona Book The Presidential Suite Eat Catalan tapas, poolside, overlooking the marina Palazzo Terranova, Perugia Book La Traviata Eat At Il Postale in Città di Castello La Gazelle d’Or, Morocco Book The Jasmine Suite, the prettiest suite at the hotel Reserve A hammam massage every day at 4pm Il Pellicano, Porto Ercole Book Room B2 Eat At Da Maria in Capalbio The Carlyle, New York Book A suite in the Tower, for fantastic views of Manhattan Listen To Eartha Kitt in Café Carlyle between June 4 and July 5 Kate Lenahan owns Finch & Partners Travel
summer 2008
spent my teens and twenties zipping to and fro across the globe thanks to cheap student fares, and—bit of an irony, this—I first went into fashion journalism because of all the travel. I’ve proved I love it. Or loved it. But now I don’t. And this isn’t simply because I’ve been there, done that. There are masses of fascinating World Heritage sites I’ve yet to see. It’s just that these days when I contemplate sallying forth into the world, I hear an insistent voice in my head asking whether the Great Wall or even Barneys shoe department, dazzling though each undoubtedly is, will really be worth the mighty effort of grappling with the long-stay car park at Heathrow. I don’t think I’m alone is this very modern quandary. Look at the faces of your fellow passengers the next time you wait for the non-appearance of your luggage and ask yourself, “Is that a look etched with happiness?” I think you have already guessed the answer. At a time when travel has never been more accessible, it has never been less enticing. I know, I know. I’m missing the point. Travel broadens the mind. We all know that. It’s such a truism no one even knows who first coined it (don’t bother, I’ve already Googled). And so, on the pretext of breadth, we backpack to hellholes on our gap years with the same grim determination to enjoy ourselves that we later deploy when we do battle with the school-holiday crowds so that our children won’t feel deprived once term begins again and talk in the playground turns to Sardinia/Cape Cod/St Barts. But does travel truly broaden anything but one’s waistline? “He who never leaves his country is full of prejudices,” pronounced the Italian playwright Carlo Goldoni. In fairness to Goldoni, he made it as far as France, which was going it some in the 18th century. On the other hand, Shakespeare, who could boast one of the broadest minds in history, along with a detailed knowledge of Venice and Rome, never ventured much further south than Deptford, which wasn’t going it some, even in the 16th century. I don’t think it’s completely out of order, given the context, to enquire which of the two writers, Goldoni or Shakespeare, went on to become the more famous. Then again, the Brits travel more than any other nation, as befits our fearless islander spirit; and yet half of us don’t know where Holland is. The point is, this broadening process all depends on the person doing the travelling. If you’re the type who travels with your own portable laptop/portable entertainment centre/cashmere blanket/eye-mask/set meal from Itsu/vast quantities of sleep aids and every single book on the SundayTimes bestseller list (and what sensible person doesn’t? I’ve spent a goodly part of my career recommending the carrying onboard of numerous luxury items to ward off the evils of democratic travel), and if you then also hang out with like-minded friends once you get there, can you really claim to be extending anything but your tan? He who leaves the country can return with some pretty strong views as well. “I suppose,” said my father when, aged 16, I arrived back from an academically critical cultural exchange in Germany, “it was the bread and the loos that did for you.” I’m afraid he was right. I abandoned my German A-level shortly thereafter. Subsequently, I’ve tried leaving all the grown-up cuddle blankets at home in a bid to travel more authentically, to bond with my fellow voyagers, but frankly it’s hard to feel much empathy with the bloke who just spilled tomato juice on your Prada jacket and the cabin crew who are informing you that your bags are now on their way to Perth. Which is why eventually I succumbed to the anti-social option. No woman is an island, wrote John Donne. (I paraphrase; he wrote that no man is.) She is when she’s travelling with noise-cancelling Bose earphones. Lisa Armstrong is the fashion editor of The Times
Hard Day’s Flight
Sure, big airports are a big nuisance—but travel wasn’t meant to be easy. Chin up and light out for the territories, says Steve King Travel—if you accept that travel involves getting somewhere beyond the red letterbox on the corner—has always been a pain in the neck. A walk in the park? Never. That’s what you do once you’ve done the travelling part. Until the advent of the steam engine, travelling anywhere that wasn’t within strolling distance was expensive, slow, uncomfortable and quite possibly dangerous. Of course, it still feels like all of those things when your flight out of Heathrow is delayed for the third time, or summarily cancelled, or the fat guy in the seat next to yours begins to wriggle and whistle tunelessly 20 minutes into a fully-booked 12-hour flight to Hong Kong. Alas, there’s nothing new about delays, cancellations or unsympathetic travelling companions. You could have been the grandest of 18th-century grandees setting off on the grandest of Grand Tours and nevertheless found yourself stuck next to a wriggling, whistling fatso in a cramped coach-and-four for 12 hours. What’s more, you’d have only made it to Hastings at the end of your ordeal. So, really, when we moan about the misery of travel today, we’re moaning about the loss of something we never had. It was never particularly pleasant. A certain amount of ghastliness is part of the deal. You travel, you suffer. But since blaming other people for the things that spoil our sense of entitlement is one of the privileges of our species, who are we to blame for this? Film-makers, I suspect.Travel always looks better in the movies. Oddly, it doesn’t seem to matter what happens on the way, either. We forget that Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper’s chopper-straddling hippies get blown away by rednecks at the end of Easy Rider. We still want to ditch our square jobs, rev up a Harley and hit the road. We forget that Peter O’Toole’s Lawrence of Arabia has been burnt, buggered and beaten with sticks before he arrives— splendidly, ecstatically, to the strains of a symphony orchestra—at the beach at Aqaba. We still want to book a camel safari. Murder on the Orient Express? No worries! Death in Venice? Whatever! Sadly, the notion of frictionless freedom, of travel without inconvenience, is a fantasy. Understandably, there’s a temptation just to cancel that trip, forgo the Terminal 5 nightmare, stay at home, fire up a reefer and watch Easy Rider again. Surely better, though, to show a bit of backbone and head out into the great unknown—even if that means risking a dreary couple of hours at an airport, or a stout rogering by Turkish soldiers, or any of the other character-building experiences that await the undaunted traveller. Steve King works for Vanity Fair in London
RETOUR
For more travel tips, Ask Finch at www.finchsquarterly.com/askfinch or email Kate Lenahan at klenahan@finchandpartners.com
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