Trains, planes and automobiles

By Steven

Trust British Airways to have four classes on their airplanes.

In an effort to show my kids that there is more in the world than just the Jersey Shore, we have started taking vacations at places other than the beach. This year, we’re doing a week in London with a side trip to Paris.

(“What?” you ask. “Aren’t you unemployed?” Well, yes. But my wife isn’t. She’s been working a brutal schedule this past year, and set aside several of her overtime checks to pay for this trip. She earned it, and if I get to tag along, that’s fine with me.)

The flight over was as good as any six-hour airplane trip can be. British Air had us in what is called the “World Traveller” section. It’s akin to steerage on the Queen Mary, where you get glimpses of real comfort, but said comfort never quite made it to our level.

First class, which I saw on a trip last year while medics talked with my ailing neighbor, is really nice. It was obvious I was an interloper there, politely ignored by staff and residents alike.

Business class was really nice, too. In my earlier life, I spent a lot of time there and got used to the legroom, the food and the service. Alas, my current income just isn't quite enough to allow me to sit in that section.

Business class on most U.S. airlines is akin to BA’s World Traveller Plus. Not bad, but not worth the $1,000 to upgrade the four of us.

At least that’s what I thought. Two hours after takeoff, I was wondering if I could have forgone the new tires, brakes and shocks on my 10-year-old car. That money, and some I’ve set aside for books next semester, would have easily paid for the upgrade. We wouldn’t have landed in London any sooner, but we would have had better food (Congealed cheese omelet? Great! Cold steamed spinach? Yummy!).

Of course, with an upgrade, I would have missed some really interesting stuff. The lady in front of me had her seat so far back, I couldn’t open a paperback, much less a laptop. But I did get to watch dandruff flake off all over the place (Hmm, was that the mysterious garnish on my salad?), and her dye job was interesting (Red? Brown? Blonde? What was her hair color?). And the kid behind me kept me occupied. His feet didn’t reach the floor, but they did reach my seat back, kicking all the way from Newfoundland to Heathrow. The nice young woman next to me had her own problems. On her second flight ever, she was headed home after a week in the U.S. She couldn’t figure out the control panel in the armrest, complaining that nothing worked right while changing the channel and volume on my TV instead of hers, and routinely flicking my reading lamp on and off.

Today we’re on the train to Paris. It’s not at all like taking the Amtrak out of Penn Station. There’s no guessing what track the train will be on, the seating is assigned so there’s no fight to board, and the train is clean. Amazing. I’ve never been on a train with assigned seating. It’s just like the Acela, except it lives up to its billing.

Roger, the steward, has just announced (in a very mellifluous voice) that we are doing 186 miles an hour, that we’ll be in the Chunnel for 20 minutes, the current time in Paris is 9:58 and we’ll be there at whatever thus and such a time. (Not at all like the Boonton local out of Hoboken, where the only announcement is about the $5 surcharge for buying tickets on the train). The ride is so smooth, the kids are sleeping and my coffee isn’t sloshing around. I haven’t been to the dining car yet, but based on the menu the waiter (waiter!) handed me, it seems to be a lot better than the dinette on the last Amtrak I rode.

We’re not planning on doing any driving this vacation. The cab ride from the hotel to Waterloo station this morning was enough for me. It’s not so much the wrong side of the road thing, or turning into the wrong lane, though those are bad enough. It’s the stuff like two (opposing) lanes of traffic on a one-lane road, trucks that pull into openings smaller than a Mini, and cabs darting everywhere. Everybody must be driving cars off the Looney Tunes backlot, stretching, bending and squeezing as needed.

At least we got to see Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, Parliament and London Bridge, all before 8 a.m. I can check those off my list. Of course, it was through the rain-streaked windshield of a London cab, but I had more legroom than I did on the plane. We were probably going faster, too.

If they could just do something about British food.

February 17, 2004