The Five Stages of Missing A Flight

I consider myself an expert traveler.

I can pack efficiently and effectively for a week's trip in less than 15 minutes. I move through security with economy of movement and speed. I have a reference library in my head of clubs, restaurants, and shops for over 20 airports worldwide. I know things.

For instance, I know that the Virgin Atlantic Business Class Club is actually nicer, though a good bit smaller, than the British Airways Business Class Club at Heathrow International Airport. I know that if I'm flying USAir, and I'm not in First Class, and the plane is a Boeing 757, I'd prefer to sit in either 8D or 8E and that both are aisle seats. I know that when in First Class, I don't want to sit in the first row (not legroom or storage under the seat), or the last row (sometimes the seats don't recline).

For over 15 years, I've been flying around North America, and other parts of the world on a regular basis. I have systems and routines for everything from checking into a flight, to checking out of a hotel (I never actually check out, I just get my bill via email).

But somehow, that doesn't stop me from making bonehead travel moves.

It doesn't happen often, but occasionally all reason seems to leave me and I'll do something that makes me look like a rank amateur. I've left things on the plane (iPod, hats, an Armani suit). I've booked the wrong flight (albeit an easy thing to do). And I've missed flights I was booked on.

Missing flights has often involved oversleeping, but more often than not, it's happened due to calculating incorrectly, the amount of time needed to get to the airport.

For instance, last night Jane asked me what time I needed to leave for the airport. I don't take this lightly and usually do a little math in my head. First off, I want to be at the airport at least an hour and a half before departure, and usually more like two hours before. It takes me an hour and fifteen minutes to get from my house to the airport, and it typically takes me forty-five minutes from the time I wake up to the time I walk out the door. I usually do this math fairly quickly in my head, and then instantly set the alarm on my phone lest I forget.

I use my phone, rather than my alarm clock, for a number of reasons. One, I can be relatively assured that even if the power goes out, my phone will have enough power left to wake me. Two, it's plugged in across the room meaning can't hit a snooze bar and oversleep. This has served me well for years after less than optimal results before this system was instituted.

So back to last night. Jane asked me what time I needed to leave. Here's where my brain failed me (math was never my strong suit). Somehow I decided that I needed to wake up at 5am, which would have me leaving at 5:45am. This would get me to the airport at 7am, for....a 7:35am flight. I was off by an hour. I should have gotten up at 4am, left by 4:45am, gotten to the airport by 6am, for a 7:35am flight.

This, I realized, at about 5:35am. I rushed out the door, did about 80mph the whole way, and since I still had to check a bag, just missed the flight. They might have taken my bag, but I still had to park my car and make it through security. There was no way I was going to make it.

This is the worst part. You're trying to negotiate your way out of it, with anyone, with yourself. There's no way I just missed that flight. It's not possible. Not for something that stupid. But you did. You just did.

It's the five stages of grief.

Denial. I'm not too late. I can make it. Really.
Anger. WTF! No. No. No. No.
Bargaining. There must be a way. Please? I'm here. I can make it. The plane is just over there. Please?
Depression. Fuck. I missed the flight. I can't believe I missed the flight. I must be some kind of idiot.
Acceptance. Might as well settle in and wait for the next flight. When is the next flight? Vodka and soda, please?

Now, this isn't the worst thing. I've done worse. I've had situations from jumping another flight and just barely making the meeting by the skin of my teeth. That's just embarassing. The other end of the spectrum is when I've had to turn around and go back to the office and miss the meeting altogether. That's really bad.

I may be alone in this at my agency. I can't think of anyone else who's done this even once, let along several times. This would be a huge problem for anyone else.

I don't know what's wrong with me.

I'm not like I'm trying to make a meeting today. In fact, I just need to be there sometime today, so I can shoot a TV commercial tomorrow. But I did have a lunch scheduled in Santa Monica today with a producer. I would have gotten to spend the better part of the day in sunny Los Angeles, rather than sitting in an airport for hours upon end on a rainy day in Philadelphia. Instead of landing at 10:40am, I get in at 4:50pm. Then I'll be expected to have dinner with the client and be happy.

So, at least I'm the only one who suffers, and no real damage done, but still. What a bummer. And there's no one else to blame but me, which is what really hurts.

Postscript:
I'm trying to eat healthy while traveling, but it's freakin' hard. Once you start paying attention to calories, let alone sodium, you feel like you can't eat ANY prepared food. It's insane. I can't bring everything with me all the time. I just don't live that way. If I was home every day, I could do it, but I'm not.

As an example. Legal Seafood (not that it's a bastion of health) offers a tuna melt that has 35% more calories and 20% more fat than the fucking beef burger! You can't assume anything anymore.

I read somewhere that McDonald's has a salad that has more calories than a fucking Big Mac!. What bullshit. Even for people who are TRYING to eat healthier, they're getting screwed.

Obviously, I had some time to kill, so I walked around looking at menus. Depending on the internet site I look at, I need to be somewhere between 1200-1900 calories a day. Even at the high end that's not shit. Of course, that's me wanting to still lose another 15 pounds. Might be easier to just fast again for a week or two. With exercise, I don't see any problem eating under 2500 calories per day.

But as I said, I have almost zero confidence in controlling my intake when eating out. It's really nerve racking. Everything is cooked in butter, or has sugar added, or uses all kinds of processed SHIT.

Honestly, I think the big change in my life isn't going to come solely from changing my diet. Something else has got to change. This traveling sucks.

Taking Street Portraits

I've had a bunch of people ask me about taking portraits of strangers. They want to know, do I ask first, or just take the picture? It depends.

Rastafarian smoking ganja. You can tell he's not worried about me taking his picture.

When I'm in a place where I feel safe (North America or Europe for instance) I often just shoot first and ask later. Even in Russia, I often just took the shot (until the Secret Police in Red Square told me not to). If I want a direct to camera portrait, then I'll ask. Some say no, but often they say yes.

I shot in Venice Beach, CA on the boardwalk all day once, and mostly I asked. It also depends on if I'm just taking a quick shot of an interesting looking person, or if I want to stand in front of them and take a bunch of pictures. Obviously if you stand in front of someone and want to take 15-20 pictures, and you don't ask, you're going to get smacked. If I'm shooting with a telephoto lens, I'll often just steal shots. I take the picture and then look at something else immediately so that they're not really sure I was even looking at them.

In a place like Jamaica, I find someone who will take me around. A local that won't draw suspicion and who speaks the language. In Jamaica this means Patois, the unofficial language. They act as guide, interpreter, and bodyguard. They can get you into places you couldn't or wouldn't go, and can get people to open up to you. They also keep the beggars from harassing you too much.

Me having a beer with a subject. He sold beer and sodas on the beach.

Usually I give the subjects a "tip". Sometimes it's a little cash (equivalent of a buck or two), sometimes you just need to buy what they're selling, and sometimes it's a beer. As long as they don't feel like you're taking advantage of them, then they become very friendly and usually enjoy it. It takes a little teasing, a little flirting and a little conversation. A good guide also knows what's reasonable. Who you can get away with just asking, and who you need to pay.

This shot was taken before I showed her what I was doing.

After she saw her pictures, she started flirting and posing.

After I've taken a couple of pictures, I usually show them some of the pictures I've taken on the back of the camera. Then they're usually ready for me to take more.

Often the first 5, 10 or even 15 shots aren't much good. You're warming them up, not yourself. Sometimes, you take only a few. It's just a gut thing.

There are tour guides you can hire almost anywhere, but they cost a fortune (The Ritz had people on hand for $90/hour) and they want to take you to the places where all the tourists go and where they can get kick-backs. I usually find a waiter or bartender at the hotel I'm staying and convince them to take me out on their day off. I pay for their beers and lunch and then give them anywhere from $60-100 for their time.

My guide/driver/consultant/interpreter Sean. A good man.

Typically, I get to see things and hang out in places I would never go by myself, certainly not with $10k worth of camera equipment hanging around my neck. And I learn a lot.

In my opinion, you can't look at this as the cost of doing photography. I probably spent $150 the day I went out in Jamaica. Maybe only $80 in Mexico. But I look at it like an invaluable part of my vacation, and in many cases, the only authentic experience I have with the local culture. Especially when you're staying at a resort.

One last thing. It makes a big difference if you have a professional looking camera, as opposed to a $150 point and shoot. If you look like a photographer, they are more likely to feel flattered. If you pull a camera out of our back pocket and want to take their picture, it's like you're saying, "Look honey, it's one of them, take my picture with him."

Sean yucking it up with the cop writing him the ticket.

Being a photographer can come in handy though. We got pulled over in this speed trap and the camera helped lighten the mood. He ended up getting a ticket for not wearing a seatbelt. Good deal.

Ritz Carlton Rose Hall | Montego Bay, Jamaica

It's official. My wife, Jane and I are headed to Jamaica next Wednesday. To be honest Jamaica is not my favorite place, but I've had some good times there.

The first time we went, we went to an all-inclusive. I thought, what the hell, let's see what all the fuss is about.

I hated it.

The day we were to leave, we packed, got the shuttle to the little airport in Ocho Rios, and waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, they told us there was a big weather system moving across the island and the plane couldn't make it. They would put us in a cab. It didn't look promising that we would make the flight.

But not because the taxi driver wasn't intent on us doing so. He drove like a bat out of hell. Jane was nauseous and I had white knuckles the whole ride. It was raining and we were flying around blind curves the whole way. I wasn't sure if we'd make the flight or not, but I was pretty sure we were going to die.

We finally made it to the airport, and the only hope I had was that the flight had been delayed. It hadn't. I walked back to the taxi, where Jane was waiting with the driver. I got back in the cab, informed them that we'd missed our flight, and then I asked the driver the one thing I know to ask when I'm stranded somewhere.

"Is there a Ritz Carlton near here?"

In fact, there was. Less than 10 minutes back the way we'd come.

"Take us there."

We pulled up and I told the driver, and Jane, to wait. I wanted to make sure there was an available room, and also to make sure it wouldn't be $1500/night.

The hotel was everything I expect a Ritz to be, and nothing like the place where we'd just spent a week. I approached the desk, wet, frazzled, and irritated. The woman informed me that there were rooms available, and the rate was reasonable.

I went back to the cab, thanked the driver, grabbed Jane and our luggage, and entered the hotel. Since the airline had said it would take care of the taxi, I didn't feel compelled to pay anything. And I didn't.

We checked in and found our room. We all but flopped on the bed and sighed. After a bit, we went to dinner and had the first good meal we'd had in a week. We slept in 400 count sheets in blissfully chilly air. The next morning, we had breakfast, then lounged by the pool.

Meanwhile, the evening before, I'd called the airline to change our flight. They informed me, that because of the class of airfare we had, the earliest they could get us a flight, was Thursday. This was Sunday. I was expected back to work the next day. I told them I thought this was bullshit. This is when I found out that USAir Vacations has nothing to do with USAir, the airline. In the end, it cost me an additional $1200 to get home. The entire vacation probably only cost $3000.

A few years ago, we went back to Jamaica. It was wonderful. We were on the other side of the island in Negril at a wonderful place called The Rock House. It's actually the perfect mix of island culture and resort atmosphere. We had a good time and would definitely recommend it. But it's no Ritz.

So, we're going back to Jamaica, Mon.

Jane and I haven't gotten away anywhere this year. We usually do, but for some reason we just didn't. Business was a bit down. We had a wedding to pay for. Life.

Finally, I decided, we just needed to get away. Yesterday, I decided we needed just do it. I started looking online and realized I could pay for the airfare with miles, and the hotel with AMEX points.

So, we're flying First Class, direct from Philly to Montego Bay. It's only about a 3 1/2 hour flight. We're staying in an Ocean View room at the Rose Hall Ritz Carlton, which is only about ten minutes from the airport. And we'll be gone for seven days.

Julia is taking us to the airport and picking us up, so I don't have to worry about that, and Julia's friend Amanda is housesitting for us, so we don't have to worry about the animals.

I'm seriously thinking about just leaving the hotel number in case of emergency and locking my phone in the safe the whole time.

Wish us luck. Check back and I'll post how it's going.

Dusseldorf, Germany

Sausage Chef at Carlsplatz

USAIR Flight#700

On our way to Dusseldorf, Germany. Bill and I are sitting in Envoy Class which, I have to say, beats the hell out of Coach. We were getting on the plane and I started to go right after I entered and Bill said, “Left. Left.” Whew. Coach sucks.

This isn’t even nearly as nice as the Business Class of either British Airways or Virgin Atlantic, which is what we usually fly when we travel to Europe. Both of those airlines offer flat bed seats. Actually, USAir is in the process of upgrading their international Airbuses to accommodate a updated Envoy class that includes flat-bed suites.

Germany

Both Bill and I have been to Germany two other times. Both to Dusseldorf for the same client. Now we have an opportunity to work with a completely different client in Germany and where are we headed? Dusseldorf.

Despite two trips there, I have never really seen anything of the town itself in the daylight. We’ve seen a little nightlife, in Old Town, and were even there for Carnival. But I couldn’t tell you much about the town other than I’ve been to a couple of pubs, a few restaurants, and some malls.

Malls Of The World

What does it say about the glamour of my travel life that I’ve been to malls in countries all over the world? Not much. Sad. Sad, I say. I’ve been to Dubai for instance, and other than the five malls I visited, the hotel I stayed in, and a handful of restaurants, I can’t tell you much about the city, let alone the country. I ate pizza like four times while I was there. The other restaurant I ate in was Italian!!

So, Back To Germany

Our flight took off from Philadelphia at 4:15pm. The flight takes about 8 hours to get to Frankfurt, then we have a three hour layover before our final 50 minute flight to Dusseldorf. We land in Dusseldorf around 9am.

We’ll get our bags and go straight to the hotel, then we’re meeting a German ad agency guy we’re partnering with on this project for lunch. After lunch, we don’t have any other plans. Possible dinner with an old client.

But the best thing is that Monday is a free day. That’s right. Nothing to do in Germany on Monday. I brought my camera, so Bill and I are going to wander the city and hopefully see some cool shit.

Tuesday, we have a presentation at 11am. We’ll get there by 10am and set up the room. Should be done by 1 or 2pm. Will probably have drinks at least with the client, maybe dinner.

Wednesday, we fly back home.

Flying

There are times when I don’t mind flying. Right now, for instance, I’m listening to music like, looking out the window, doing a little writing, etc… I haven’t even bothered with the OnDemand video system from the plane, or started watching any of the DVDs I brought with me. I am drinking, however, which certainly helps.

SUNDAY

Dusseldorf, Germany

We landed, went to the hotel, put our bags in our room and walked out the door. After trying, and failing, to negotiate the subway system, we caught a cab to Old Town.

Me Enjoying A Hefeweizen In Old Town, Dusseldorf

Altstadt "Old Town"

Altstadt, or Old Town in English, is the touristy part of town. Nearly all of it was destroyed by bombing attacks during World War II, but they painstakingly rebuilt most of it from original plans. It's a lot of pedestrian-only cobblestone streets filled with bars, restaurants and retail shops. It's known as the longest bar in Germany because there are over 300 bars and nightclubs there. During Carnival, it's sheer chaos, which is funny because normally you don't really see Germans cutting loose.

Andreas Melters

This is Andreas Melters. Andreas owns a German advertising agency in Dusseldorf. We had previously worked with him on another project and had reconnected with him to help us with our pitch.

He showed up on a Dutch bicycle looking like something out of an Italian movie. Very suave. His wife, Nicole, is blond and beautiful, as you would expect. We had dinner with them later that evening and they were both charming as could be.

Bill Rubino

This is Bill. He's the COO and a Partner at the advertising agency where I am also a Partner.

To say we travel a lot together is an understatement. It seems like we spend more time together than we do with our families.

That said, we do travel well together, which means we both drink a lot, share a common sense of humor and overall know how to travel with efficiency.

MONDAY

Monday morning, well barely morning (I slept ridiculously late), Bill was working on our presentation, plus another for a different client back in the states, so I went off on my own. Nicole, Andreas' wife, had told me to go to a famous outdoor market in town.


Carlsplatz
At the edge of Old Town is the Carlsplatz market. Actually, it probably just means market so calling it the Carlsplatz market would the equivalent of calling it the Market Market. It's an outdoor market where you can buy sausages, fish, produce, mustard and flowers. They also have quite a few hot food vendors and many of the locals eat lunch here, either standing up at high tops, sitting and enjoying a beer, or even just standing and eating. This is Germany's version of fast food.

Carlsplatz

Dusseldorf Butcher

Meat Counter

Necessities

So, there were a few things I was told I needed to find while on my Old Town excursion.  One was mustard and the other was a traditional Dusseldorf drink called Killepitsch.

Now every German I talked to disagreed with the statement I'm about to make, but trust me, to anyone else in the world, it tastes like Jägermeister. I'm sure they can tell there difference, but if I put a shot of rum, gin, vodka and then I gave you either Jager or Killepitsch, you'd say it was Jager either way. 

The bar where it was invented has been there since 1858, but the story goes that two Germans were in an air raid shelter during "the last war" and one vowed that if they didn't get killed (Kille) that he was going to make the greatest drink his friend had ever tried (pitsch).

That's what they told us anyhow.

Killepitsch

The Original Killepitsch Bar

TUESDAY

Our meeting was on Tuesday morning and morning came pretty early. Oh, what did we do the rest of the day on Monday? Well, we did what Bill and I always do when we're abroad. We find an Irish pub.

A Proper Pint

Irish Pubs

So here's the thing about Irish Pubs. I tell you because even an English bartender at one of the pubs asked me why, if I was in Germany, why I didn't find a German pub? And the answer is, we do. But we don't have as much fun.

Let me explain.

One of the great things about Irish Pubs is that you can go anywhere in the world, at least any major city in the world, and find an Irish Pub. Bill and I have yet to be skunked and we've traveled all over the globe and over most of North America.

The second is you can always find English speakers. I'm not talking about Americans. I don't want to travel thousands of miles and end up talking to some asshole from New Jersey. But it helps if you can communicate, and if you go to an Irish Pub, you are more likely than not, to find people who speak English.

The third thing is, Irish Pubs are almost always friendly. People go there because they want to drink and shoot the shit. I've met more cool people and had more great conversations in Irish Pubs all over the world.

The final, and maybe less important, is that they serve what Bill and I drink. Namely, Scotch for him and Hard Cider for me.

We had our meeting on Tuesday and we thought it went pretty well. We ended up in a different Irish pub that evening and it ended up being the best pub we'd been all three times we'd been to Germany.

Just so you don't think we are cultural chauvinists, we did spend some time in a German bar the night on Monday night. The music was American nightclub, the girls were cute, and there was a pole on the bar where patrons could pole-dance.

This is what we got.

I swear it wasn't a gay bar.

The Mad Russian vs. The Dept of Homeland Security

Me and my Beard in Prague.

A few years ago, I was in Prague as a keynote speaker for a conference on branding Experiential Destinations. One of our associate creative directors, Kyle, was with me and he bought his father an old Russian Navy hat. I think it was for an admiral or something. I would often forget I even had the beard, or at least how it made me look. I tried the hat on in the store and the guy working there was quite tickled.

When we got to a bar, I had Kyle put it on so I could take his picture. He insisted on taking a few of me. There's not that many pictures of me in the world to begin with, because I'm usually the one taking the pictures. But these I like.

When I returned to the States, I cleared customs in Philadelphia. Or at least that's where I tried to clear customs.

I had been getting harassed by the US Department of Homeland Security with more frequency than my lifestyle or occupation would seem to dictate. I would get asked if I had worked with any NGO's. Or if I'd been in the military. When they learned that I was in advertising, I was asked if I worked on the Harley Davidson account. I'm not shitting you.

So this tall, chrome dome Gestapo character comes over the Kyle and I as we're getting our bags off the belt. I had my cameras with me and they were packed in a big, bright, yellow Pelican case. It's not subtle.

He came over, demanded so see our passports with not so much as a smile or a hint of courtesy. Clearly he enjoyed his job even though he'd obviously been unable to make it into the military or the police force.

I realize that this last one is a little fey, but I included it anyway. More like the Gay Russian.

He began asking us questions and while I was answering one of them, he put his hand up and asked me to step back. I hadn't moved a muscle. I thought, "What the hell does he think I'm going to do here? He's armed and is wearing body armor. I'm wearing flip flops. Not to mention that I'd have to make it past a few dozen Homeland Security guys, a few dozen Philadelphia Police officers, and about a mile of airport terminal before reaching the outside.

I was tired and irritable. We hadn't flown business class, so I'd been stuck in coach, sitting up and NOT sleeping. Not to mention that it had been like 13 hours since I'd had a cigarette. I really wasn't in the mood for this.

It took Kyle about 20 minutes. Not me. My guy took his time. He went through every single thing I had with me. Unscrewing pens. Unzipping the liner of the suitcase. Questioning me about how much money I had on me then making me write it down. Then when he found a bunch of traveler's cheques I'd had in my bag since a trip to Costa Rica the year before, he wanted to know why I hadn't told him about them.

"Dude, I don't spend this kind of time going through my own bag," I told him. "That key you found a minute ago? I didn't even know I still had that."

I also had too many cigarettes.

You can get a lot of good deals at Duty Free. Actually, that's really not true. For the four bucks off your bottle of rum, I'd rather not have to hoof it through the airport. But smokes! They are a bargain.

I was buying two cartons and the guy there convinced me that if I bought one more, I could get two free. I really didn't want to carry that much but the guy was so insistent that I take advantage of this good deal. I thought, what the hell.

What I didn't realize is that they're happy to sell you five cartons of cigarettes for you to take wherever it is you're going. Even though you probably aren't even allowed to enter the other country with that many cigarettes. And they definitely don't want you entering with more than two cartons.

I had more than two cartons.

"I bought these here!" I told him. "Like three hundred yards from here. Why do they sell a five carton box if you're not even allowed to have them?"

But the piéce de résistance was when he found a small business envelope that contained four or five miscellaneous pills. Shit. Now this was just getting ridiculous.

Six months before this, I'd been set to go to Los Angeles for two weeks to direct a photoshoot and a television commercial. The day before I was to leave, my back when out. Badly. I couldn't stand up straight. I had to take a car service to the airport, request a wheelchair, and board the aircraft first. By the way, this is not a bad way to travel. Before I left one of my wife's friends gave me a muscle relaxant (or something), which I didn't take because while I know what vodka will do to me, I don't trust pills.

After a few chiropractor visits in LA and I was good as new, but before that happened, my set designer's wife gave me a few more pills, which I didn't take.

Now not one of these pills was identical and I couldn't have told you what any of them were. But there they were. In an envelope. In my bag.

After I explained all this, a supervisor had come over to find out why I had been there for two hours. He dismissed the envelope of drugs and threw them in the trash. He dismissed the cigarettes. He said, he's fine and walked away.

By now the DICK that had been searching through my stuff saying things like, "Now sir, I'm going to open this bag. If there's anything I need to know about, now is the time to tell me."

Really? If I had oh, say a kilo of heroin in my bag, or a Burmese python, is it really going to matter if I tell him, or he finds it on his own? Well, maybe with the python.

"Look. You've got me and everything I'm traveling with. I don't have over $10,000 so whether I have two nickels or $2,000 it doesn't matter. I'm not carrying drugs, illegal contraband or lizards. You have to do your job and look through everything, then go ahead.

After we'd packed all my shit back up, he told me to have a nice Father's Day. And that's how I spent my Father's Day that year.

Thanks Patriot Act!