Oh the Joys of Travel

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I hear the alarm go off from a very deep sleep. I was dreaming that our bathroom at home had a floor made out of sand. It had been undermined by ants, and the toilet was leaning over at 45 degrees. I was telling Issy that I'd fix it myself, but she said I needed to get a real man. I'm sure this has some hidden meaning, and if so I think I might prefer that it stayed that way.

The alarm seems to be a lot louder than usual, and it also feels very early. After a few minutes I realise that it's not ours, but rather the hotel fire alarm. We both spring out of bed and try to find some clothes that we can put on quickly. Issy puts on some real clothes while I put on the hotel dressing gown. I can't see and I can't find my glasses, so Issy heads out into the corridor while I try to find my contact lenses. The alarm stops and she says that other guests are now wandering back to their rooms. We need to get up in an hour. Issy says that we should just get up now, but we're tired so we both go back to bed. A few minutes later the fire alarm goes off again briefly and then stops. This is getting a bit confusing. I try to ring reception, but they don't answer. Issy says that we should get up. She says the reception staff mightn't be answering our calls because they've fled into the street to escape the flames. We can't see any smoke, and everyone seems to be happily getting in and out of the lifts, which I don't think you're supposed to do if the building's alight. I'm keen to stop wandering the halls in the hotel dressing gown, so we head back to the room assuming it's a false alarm. I hope it's a false alarm.

We decide to catch the Underground to the airport. It's rush hour. The steep steps down into the station are packed with commuters and our suitcases haven't got any lighter. A few people very kindly stop and ask me if I need any help; I lie and tell them that I'm fine. Issy asks an official whether there'll be enough room for us to get into the train with our luggage. He says we'll be fine, but suggests that we get on the front carriage as this is likely to be sightly less packed. The first train that arrives is so packed that most people here can't get on, including us. I start to worry that we'll miss our flight. I tell Issy that I think we should get a taxi, but lose some enthusiasm for this plan when she reminds me of the several flights of stairs I'd need to carry the bags up to get back to the street. We manage to squeeze into the few square centimetres of spare space in the front carriage of the next train. In about ten more stations we need to get off and change to another line. We hear an announcement warning that some stations on this line are longer than others, and at some of the shorter ones the doors in the front carriage won't be opening. This is not good. If the station we need to change at is a short one, our only way out will be to barge our way through the packed carriage with our 100 kilograms of luggage, to get to an open door. I don't think this would be possible. I start to consider what our options might be if we miss our flight. Fortunately the station we need to get off at is of the longer variety, so disaster averted, well for now at least.

Our flight is from Heathrow Terminal 4, but the next train that arrives is only going to Terminals 1, 2, 3 and 5. Why do I start to get the feeling that the world is not on our side today. The gaps in the barrier across the exit from the station to the airport are too narrow for our bags to fit through, so we have to lift them over the top. I wonder what sort of airport train station has barriers to make it difficult for you to bring in your luggage.

We first need to fly to Paris and then transfer to a flight to Mauritius. We tried to check in on-line at the hotel. The process was very long and had lots of questions, including your nationality, passport number, email address and the name of your mother's first dog. Just as it was about to finish we got a message to say that an error had occurred and it couldn't be completed. An official tells us that we need to check in at a self service kiosk before we can drop our bags off. We answer all these same questions again, and again, as we're about to finish, we get a message to say that we can't continue.

The check-in queue is very long and only a few of the desks are open. We reach the front to be told that one of our bags is over the weight limit. I tell the officious female behind the counter that our ticket says that we're allowed one piece of baggage each and it doesn't say anything about a weight limit. Tickets for previous flights on the trip have all specified either that we're allowed one piece of baggage each, or a weight limit, and our bags haven't been overweight anywhere else. They might feel like they've got a lot heavier since we left home, but they haven't. The officious female responds that it's our responsibility to check weight limits with the airline. I say that the weight limit has been printed on the tickets for most of the other airlines, so we haven't had to do this. I ask her why Air France doesn't print this on its tickets. She repeats that it's our responsibility to check weight limits with the airline. I ask her why Air France has a lower weight limit than all the other airlines. Like a broken record, she repeats again that it's our responsibility to check weight limits with the airline. A rock gives more varied responses. She tells me that we have two options. We can either pay 70 Pounds, about $150, for the extra weight, or we can put some of the checked luggage in our hand luggage. I tell her that we don't have any room in our hand luggage. She says we can go and buy another bag, but if we do this we'll need to go back to the start of the queue. If we do this we'll miss our flight, so we've clearly got no option other than to pay. I have an almost irresistible urge to hit someone. Officious lady spends a long time trying to process the payment before telling me that her terminal isn't working and that I'll need to queue up somewhere else to pay. I'm not being very calm. I think Issy can tell that I am about to hit someone. It seems we're being asked to pay $150 to have the equivalent of a few tubs of margarine carried in a plane for a few hours, but it could have flown for free if we'd had room for it in our hand luggage. I don't think this makes any sense. I'm clearly in the wrong business. I vent by sending an email to our travel agent asking her to find out what she has to do to get this refunded. I feel slightly calmer, but only slightly. I still very much want to hit someone.

We arrive in Paris and I'm still not happy. I don't think Issy's too pleased that I'm still in a bad mood. She says that she's in seat 10G on our flight to Mauritius and asks me what seat I'm in. I jokingly tell her 43A, and she says "good". I'm really in 10H, but I think that maybe I should swap with the person in 43A for my own safety.

The flight's just a tad under a mind numbing 12 hours. Issy says that it seems a lot more uncomfortable and claustrophobic than the long flights at the start of the trip. The entertainment system's very ordinary. The screen's tiny, and there's very little to chose from. There's also no rewind function, so if you miss the beginning of a movie you need to wait two hours for it to start again. Issy gets very hot, and there's no gadget to blow cold air onto her. On the basis of today's experiences, hell will freeze over before we ever travel with Air France again.

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