Our return flight from Prague brought us to Zurich Airport for the third and mercifully final time in two months. We had originally planned to spend a couple of days in Zurich with Vik’s Stanford friend Franco and his family, but we ended up missing each other after a date change was compelled by our African safari operator. Without Franco’s local guidance, we were left to our own devices in the Swiss hub, a circumstance which ended up yielding mixed results.
After collecting our bags promptly before noon, we made our way expectantly to the ticketing desk for SAS (the only airline in Zurich with the facilities to issue United tickets). Having being previously assured by United that the reissuing of our stolen around-the-world tickets would be a mere formality, we were a bit dubious. To our credit, we left ourselves several extra hours just in case we encountered any obstacles.
With that being said, nothing could have prepared us for the ordeal we were about to endure. As we strode up to the SAS desk, we were immediately cast aside as an annoyance by the aloof, raven-haired woman situated behind the desk ostensibly employed to assist customers. The situation quickly went from bad to worse when our case was referred to one squeaky-pitched Rene Burger, who quickly acquitted himself as the most obnoxious and insufferable Rene of all time (easily eclipsing Rene Auberjonois, “Clayton” of Benson fame).
Rene’s contemptuous nature had clearly been honed with years of practice. He first refused to reissue tickets without first seeing the originals. When we pointed out the rather obvious fact that the tickets were not in our possession (and thus required replacement), he demanded to see a police report. In the next fifteen minutes, we labored to explain that we had been through all of this on the phone with United already and simply needed the tickets reissued. Rene proceeded to imperiously pull up our reservation record, confer with some nameless European contacts on the phone and finally declare that he would not ticket us because he considered our reservation to be “fishy.” When we would not relent, he decided that he could only issue a ticket taking us directly to Tanzania and then directly back to the U..S. (truncating our itinerary of stops in South Africa, Senegal and Portugal).
Shocked and more than just a bit dismayed, we were compelled to pull out our computer to place a VOIP call United’s woeful customer service back in the U.S. (and at 6 a.m. local time). Minutes soon dragged on into eternity. When we finally engaged a helpful service manager some time later, Rene was eavesdropping on our conversation. Things soon went from bad to worse. When Vik relayed to the disbelieving United rep that an SAS employee was refusing to help us, Rene started yelling. He threatened to call the police and have Vik prosecuted for slander. As if on cue, the call with United disconnected.
With the afternoon hours quickly evaporating and our hopes of completing the around-the-world journey evaporating, Kaberi suggested that we employ a division of labor. She remained before Rene to concurrently stroke his ego and plead our case while Vik disappeared to an adjacent terminal to reconnect with United. Over the next two hours, Kaberi managed to attract the attention of Zurich Airport’s lone United employee to intercede on our behalf. Meanwhile, Vik learned from United that several legs of our journey were in hidden fields that SAS could not see. The lackadaisical United rep suggested that we make our way to Frankfurt (some 200 miles away) to have our reservation reticketed.
After another hour had elapsed, fate had taken a friendly turn in our direction. Someone in SAS’ back office had managed to pull up our full travel record. Instead of apologizing to us for his mistake, Rene proceeded to lecture us for not having better documentation. After paying a reissuing fee and an additional (and unwarranted) change fee for good measure, Rene finally printed out our tickets. As he flashed us an oily smile, it took all of our collective willpower not to punch him in the face. Instead, we thanked him politely and walked away.
With our paper tickets now securely in our hands, we resolved to make the most of or afternoon in Zurich. Using the city’s impressive and comprehensive public transportation system, we made our way by train and then bus to our hotel in the city center. After briefly settling into our tiny-but-expensive hotel room (for which we paid a premium not to have air conditioning, a decent television or a waterproof shower door), we forlornly headed to the Zurich waterfront via city tram. Rousing our spirits, Kaberi led us on a walking tour of the town beginning from the magnificent lakefront. As we made our way along the river, we encountered the Fraumunster church housing the famed Chagall stained glass choir windows and St. Peter's Church boasting the largest clock face in Europe.
In the evening, we ventured fifteen minutes from the hotel past Zurich’s red light district to a lively street bursting with nightlife. On the recommendation of one of the hotel’s front desk staffmembers, we stopped at Yosef for an open-air dinner of tapas-sized epicurean delights. As we toasted, we realized to our surprise that we had managed to end the day on a pleasant note after a remarkably-miserable start. We also hoped that we had fulfilled our quota of dealings with smallminded and meanspirited European airline employees.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
A Swiss Miss
Our return flight from Prague brought us to Zurich Airport for the third and mercifully final time in two months. We had originally planned to spend a couple of days in Zurich with Vik’s Stanford friend Franco and his family, but we ended up missing each other after a date change was compelled by our African safari operator. Without Franco’s local guidance, we were left to our own devices in the Swiss hub, a circumstance which ended up yielding mixed results.
After collecting our bags promptly before noon, we made our way expectantly to the ticketing desk for SAS (the only airline in Zurich with the facilities to issue United tickets). Having being previously assured by United that the reissuing of our stolen around-the-world tickets would be a mere formality, we were a bit dubious. To our credit, we left ourselves several extra hours just in case we encountered any obstacles.
With that being said, nothing could have prepared us for the ordeal we were about to endure. As we strode up to the SAS desk, we were immediately cast aside as an annoyance by the aloof, raven-haired woman situated behind the desk ostensibly employed to assist customers. The situation quickly went from bad to worse when our case was referred to one squeaky-pitched Rene Burger, who quickly acquitted himself as the most obnoxious and insufferable Rene of all time (easily eclipsing Rene Auberjonois, “Clayton” of Benson fame).
Rene’s contemptuous nature had clearly been honed with years of practice. He first refused to reissue tickets without first seeing the originals. When we pointed out the rather obvious fact that the tickets were not in our possession (and thus required replacement), he demanded to see a police report. In the next fifteen minutes, we labored to explain that we had been through all of this on the phone with United already and simply needed the tickets reissued. Rene proceeded to imperiously pull up our reservation record, confer with some nameless European contacts on the phone and finally declare that he would not ticket us because he considered our reservation to be “fishy.” When we would not relent, he decided that he could only issue a ticket taking us directly to Tanzania and then directly back to the U..S. (truncating our itinerary of stops in South Africa, Senegal and Portugal).
Shocked and more than just a bit dismayed, we were compelled to pull out our computer to place a VOIP call United’s woeful customer service back in the U.S. (and at 6 a.m. local time). Minutes soon dragged on into eternity. When we finally engaged a helpful service manager some time later, Rene was eavesdropping on our conversation. Things soon went from bad to worse. When Vik relayed to the disbelieving United rep that an SAS employee was refusing to help us, Rene started yelling. He threatened to call the police and have Vik prosecuted for slander. As if on cue, the call with United disconnected.
With the afternoon hours quickly evaporating and our hopes of completing the around-the-world journey evaporating, Kaberi suggested that we employ a division of labor. She remained before Rene to concurrently stroke his ego and plead our case while Vik disappeared to an adjacent terminal to reconnect with United. Over the next two hours, Kaberi managed to attract the attention of Zurich Airport’s lone United employee to intercede on our behalf. Meanwhile, Vik learned from United that several legs of our journey were in hidden fields that SAS could not see. The lackadaisical United rep suggested that we make our way to Frankfurt (some 200 miles away) to have our reservation reticketed.
After another hour had elapsed, fate had taken a friendly turn in our direction. Someone in SAS’ back office had managed to pull up our full travel record. Instead of apologizing to us for his mistake, Rene proceeded to lecture us for not having better documentation. After paying a reissuing fee and an additional (and unwarranted) change fee for good measure, Rene finally printed out our tickets. As he flashed us an oily smile, it took all of our collective willpower not to punch him in the face. Instead, we thanked him politely and walked away.
With our paper tickets now securely in our hands, we resolved to make the most of or afternoon in Zurich. Using the city’s impressive and comprehensive public transportation system, we made our way by train and then bus to our hotel in the city center. After briefly settling into our tiny-but-expensive hotel room (for which we paid a premium not to have air conditioning, a decent television or a waterproof shower door), we forlornly headed to the Zurich waterfront via city tram. Rousing our spirits, Kaberi led us on a walking tour of the town beginning from the magnificent lakefront. As we made our way along the river, we encountered the Fraumunster church housing the famed Chagall stained glass choir windows and St. Peter's Church boasting the largest clock face in Europe.
In the evening, we ventured fifteen minutes from the hotel past Zurich’s red light district to a lively street bursting with nightlife. On the recommendation of one of the hotel’s front desk staffmembers, we stopped at Yosef for an open-air dinner of tapas-sized epicurean delights. As we toasted, we realized to our surprise that we had managed to end the day on a pleasant note after a remarkably-miserable start. We also hoped that we had fulfilled our quota of dealings with smallminded and meanspirited European airline employees.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Prague-ressive
After passage on three different airplanes – from Oslo to London to Zurich and finally to Prague – we arrived in the Czech Republic in the early evening running on mere fumes. We had made our way to the doorstep of eastern Europe to meet up with Kaberi’s Carletonbuddy, Kottom. Our last visit to Prague four years prior for Kottom’s wedding remained a sufficiently-intoxicated blur in our memories that we both made our way out of baggage claims with more than tangential concern for our kidneys.As we entered the arrivals hall, we found Kottom, his wife Petra and their two-year old daughter Ema waiting to welcome us to Prague, although, truth be told, Ema was more captivated by her ice cream cone than by the two weary strangers standing before her. The five of us proceeded to catch a bus and then a subway train into town with Kottom and Petra fearlessly wielding Ema’s stroller on escalators and crowded walkways. After navigating several of Prague’s cobblestoned lanes to drop off our luggage at our downtown apartment rental, we ventured to the nearby Therapy, a folksy local restaurant that supported recovering addicts.
We could not have chosen a better venue for catching up together. One of its most charming features was a children’s playroom in the back, offering infallible proof that the Czechs have figured out that having children does not preclude enjoying nights out on the town. Furthermore, the restaurant’s motto of “Have a drink, save a life” made us only too willing to oblige accordingly. Suffice it to say that three rounds more than paved the way for a night of spirited conversation. With the time seemingly flying by, we soon discovered to our surprise that midnight beckoned. With Ema asleep in her stroller after much time spent in the playroom, the four of us finally called it a night.
The next morning, Kottom (who had taken the day off on our behalf) and Ema picked us up at our apartment for breakfast. After dropping off several weeks of accumulated dirty clothes at a nearby mall dry cleaner (a decision only slightly less financially irresponsible than the oversight of the Big Dig) and subsequently finding a currency exchange center to procure dollars for future visa-on-arrival transactions, we wandered over to Bohemian Bagel, a popular brunch spot teeming with American accents. It started us off on a day of eating and drinking as we walked and talked our way around town, refreshing ourselves at local joint Pricny Rez for a couple of rounds and then meeting up with Petra for a late lunch at Jama before we caught the trolley back to their new condo.
After a full day of walking, we were all thrilled to spend a weeknight just relaxing at home. Kottom and Vik took the dog for a walk and picked up pizza while Kaberi, Petra and Ema hung out at home. Over authentic Italian thin crust and wine, we watched Shrek (Ema’s favorite movie) and chilled out. As midnight approached, we bade our friends farewell and returned downtown. Although our 36 hours in Prague didn’t give us nearly enough time as we would have preferred, we were glad to have had the chance to reconnect with old friends.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Fjordmongering
From London, we made our way through copious amounts of cloud cover to the northernmost destination that either of us had ever set foot upon. Touching down in Oslo, we quickly realized that Norway would be a marked contrast to our primarily-sundrenched travels to date. Our arrival was greeted by stern, overcast skies and temperatures at least an order of magnitude lower than we had experienced in recent weeks.Our first impressions, based on Oslo Airport’s ubiquitous pale wooden tones, clean lines and friendly Asian-origin immigrations officer, invoked recollections of the U.S. Pacific Northwest. Once we emerged from the airport, however, we gained a more traditional perception of the country. We found ourselves surrounded by a host of tall, mostly-fit blonde men and women with backpacks and tow-head kids in tow (Norwegians are ranked second in the world for average height, but alas, the popular notion that everyone there looks like a model is a tad overblown).
As we waited for the train bringing us to the center of town, we were forced to unearth our long-forgotten North Face fleeces and rainjackets from the bottom of our bags. Upon arriving at Oslo’s National Theater stop a half an hour later, we quickly surveyed the ominous skies above before embarking upon a fifteen minute walk to our hotel. Ten minutes later, we were bombarded by a cold and unyielding downpour. Arriving at our hotel drenched and shivering, we had been thoroughly deterred from any imminent notions of emigrating to Scandinavia.
As we holed up in our room waiting for our shoes, socks and pants to dry out, we finalized our weeklong Norway itinerary, opting to spend the considerable majority of our stay surveying the country’s long western coastline. A few hours later, the clouds receded and we ventured into town to buy some reading material for our five consecutive nights on the Hurtigruten, a modern take on a Norwegian steamship. Our brief excursion quickly acquainted us with the strength of the Norwegian currency, the kroner.
Swimming in oil revenues (Norway is the world’s third largest oil exporter after Saudi Arabia and Russia and boasts over $280 billion in its national coffers), the entire country is essentially priced like a movie theater. Kaberi’s book purchasing was sadly limited to a mere $25 paperback copy of A Thousand Splendid Suns. Only imagining at what an Oslo restaurant meal would cost, we forlornly returned to our hotel to partake in the complementary “light supper” of soup and salad offered.
We awoke the next morning – Vik’s birthday, July 18 – to catch an early flight to Bodoe, a city located north of Oslo near the Arctic Circle. Ironically, Vik’s birthday wish had been a day of uninterrupted sleep, but what he received instead was a day of uninterrupted travel. After at an ungodly 5:00 a.m. wakeup call, we checked out of our hotel before local tram service commenced, leaving us to lug our bags during a hurried 15-minute walk to the train station. Once at the airport, we splurged on birthday breakfast muffins (delicious, but priced at a ludicrous $8 each), and bemoaned missing the free hotel breakfast.
After a 90-minute flight to Bodoe, we used the four hour layover before our connecting flight to fit in a neckstraining catnap or two. By 2:00 p.m., we had made our way via puddlejumper to Svolvaer, a picturesque town on the Lofoten islands located northwest of Bodoe. With four and a half hours to kill before the Hurtigruten docked in Svolvear, we headed straight for the largest grocery store in town (a Mega Coop) to stock up on foodstuffs in lieu of paying for the undoubtedly-exorbitant meals on the boat. A few hours later, we strolled along the docks before a stiff easterly wind forced us to seek shelter indoors. We soon discovered Bacalao, a friendly restaurant with creamy hot chocolate and free wireless internet access.
When we finally boarded the Hurtigruten, essentially a floating motel with an overzealous P.R. department, Vik spent the first hour choosing between two equally-unappealing available interior cabins on two different decks. After he finally chose the higher-situated of the two, we expeditiously unpacked our backpacks, transforming the cramped dresser drawers into our own personal pantry. While our inside cabin afforded us no views whatsoever, it did promote restful sleep by shielding us from the never-ending summer sunrays above the Arctic Circle. When we fell into an exhausted slumber at 9:30 p.m., the skies were as bright as they were six hours earlier.
Over the course of the next three days, we made our way south from the Arctic Circle to the southwestern port city of Bergen. In the process, we unhurriedly passed by green mountainscapes dotted with neat yellow, white and red cottages perched above craggly shorelines. Our days invariably consisted of staking an early claim to a windowside table in the ship’s observation lounge where we would read, journal and blog prolifically (at one point, even catching up to real-time with our posts). Kaberi kept her camera at her side and, when the scenery warranted, would sprint outside to snap away in the face of a consistent gust.
Highlights of the journey included a marker designating the Arctic Circle crossing point and Torghatten, a striking mountain with a 480-foot long doughnut hole in its center. For the first thirty hours of the trip, overcast skies muted the natural beauty of the landscape. When we docked at the small coastal town of Rovik, however, a full sweeping rainbow leaped out of the mist. The weather continued to improve as we made our way further south toward the fjord region. By the time we reached Bergen, the bright sunshine and mild breeze had lured us outdoors to absorb the sights from the ship’s forward lounge and attached outdoor deck. We proceeded to spend most of our time tracking the sun’s progress until it began to play hide-and-seek behind the mountains during its 11:30 p.m. descent.
Disembarking at Bergen, Norway’s second-largest city, we made our way into town to locate a bookstore selling the final Harry Potter book, which had been officially released earlier that day. After securing our $36 copy, we walked to the undistinctive fish market and then around the cobblestoned city center until it was time to reboard the ship for our two-night voyage to Trondheim, Norway’s third-largest city. For this journey, we had fortunately secured an exterior cabin for the slightly-different northward route through the fjords. The next day, at noon, we arrived at the World Heritage-designated Geiranger and Storfjorden fjords. We alternated between imbibing the magnificent fjord views and reading the Deathly Hallows furiously; by the time we had docked the next morning, we each had managed to finish the book.
During our voyage, we enjoyed the daily ritual of stopping in different ports of call as a way of breaking up the monotony of the journey. We would take in the atmosphere of a different town while fervently searching for a café serving hot coffee or the nearest grocery store. Our favorite stop was at Molde, just north of the fjords, where an annual jazz festival coincided with our visit. We enjoyed warm, freshly-grilled street food while reveling in the ambient outdoor music. We also relished our last day, which was spent in Trondheim, an atmospheric and picturesque town where we wandered under sunny skies and amidst ubiquitous St. Olaf monuments.
While we certainly could not complain about the relaxing pace of five days aboard the Hurtigruten, the atmosphere on board was a significant departure from our time on the Yangtze River in China. We sorely missed the jovial and funloving camaraderie of that voyage which stood in stark contrast to the relative absence of warmth from the unsmiling European tourists onboard with us. Nevertheless, Norway’s distinctive coastal beauty was worth seeing. After returning to Oslo, we looked forward to our onward journey to Prague, where we hoped to once again bask in the warmth of friends and abundant sunshine.
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