This is a Trip Report from the Upper Class cabin
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What a place! The friendliness of the people, the outstanding food, the cleanliness and modernism of Hong Kong Island, the bustle of Kowloon, the atmosphere and (truly awful) smells of Mong Kok. And the Four Seasons! The Family mdvipond have been privileged enough to stay in some pretty fancy hotels over the years, but this one took the fortune cookie. Forget the crusty old Peninsula with its high teas if you ever get the chance to go to Hong Kong please take my advice and stay at the Four Seasons, you wont regret it. There are more superlatives in my blog if youre that way inclined...
Anyway, whether we liked it or not, it was time for leg two of our honeymoon, and off we were to Sydney. Wed overcome our earlier problems with online check-in (whereby wed been moved to seats further apart in the interests of keeping us together see my last trip report) by checking ourselves in as two groups the-now Mrs. mdvipond and jr. first, then me. This meant that we got the 6A, 6D, 7D configuration that we wanted and we were a family of happy bunnies.
Wed been hugely impressed by the Four Seasons limo service on arrival, so booked it once again to take us back to the airport. It was picking us up around half 2, so we had a wander around the shopping mall attached to the hotel to (a) find a few gifts and, perhaps more pressingly, (b) find some nappies for mdvipond jr. I know, most children of her age should, I guess, be potty trained, but being the selfish parents we undoubtedly are wed delayed things a little to make our month long trip a little easier to handle (remember potting training doesnt always equal potty trained and the prospect of trailing around Oz or getting on and off flights with a damp and unhappy toddler did not appeal to us).
Anyway, the problem of the moment was actually finding the damn things. Supermarkets? Well youd think so wouldnt you? But once we found someone in the supermarket who spoke English they told us to try the pharmacy instead. And guess what they told us at the pharmacy? Yeah, youre way ahead of me... So, wondering whether Hong Kong children are terribly well potty trained or if they just use tea-towels or old newspapers or something, we returned to the Four Seasons, explained our plight and, of course, the Four Seasons being the Four Seasons, a pack of nappies, for jr.s age and size, in pink, magically appeared. To be fair, I wouldnt have been surprised if they had her name sewn in the back.
We had time for a glass of Veuve and some terribly dainty finger sarnies in the executive lounge before we were told our limo was ready for the off. Our luggage was loaded into the car even before we got there, and we were once again supplied with chilled towels and mineral water by the driver before being transported effortlessly to the airport. Now, whilst wed had the super meet-off-the-plane, buggy-ride service on arrival at Hong Kong, we didnt think this level of service would apply to departing guests. We were wrong. The doors of the limo opened to reveal our new best friends for the next half hour Kenzo and Hiro. In immaculate, matching black suits they introduced themselves and explained in no uncertain terms that their one and only aim in life was to ensure our smooth check-in and onward progression through the airport.
Once again, there was no chance of us actually touching our own luggage; Kenzo skillfully loaded the unruly hang-glider onto a trolley in a manner so fluid and agile that there was something positively Tai Chi about it. They led us into the airport and across to Upper Class check-in where Hiro politely asked for our tickets and passports before presenting them to the check-in agent with a few words in Cantonese which, I think, meant something along the lines of dont mess with these people, buddy; they're with me.
Kenzo even took the time out to amuse mdvipond jr. by letting her play with his iPhone (is he mad?!) before we were called over to answer the standard security questions whilst Kenzo and Hiro loaded our luggage onto the conveyor. Passing us our boarding passes and Clubhouse invites, they then escorted us to security where Kenzo regrettably informed us, We must leave you here, but wish you a safe and happy flight. So soon?! Why cant every check-in experience be like this? Why?? And more importantly, where can I get my hands on my own Kenzo and Hiro for home? Ive always wanted my own valet (or two). Now that Ive had a taste for this level of service, how on earth am I supposed to go without it?
Theres no fast-track security at Hong Kong, so we found ourselves in a sizable but fast moving queue for security. Not that we had to queue long; maybe it was because we had jr. in tow (or perhaps Hiro had had a word?), but the staff were kind enough to direct us to the Crew channel and we were through in no time. Not without a little drama, however, as the staff (quite rightly) had to dispossess jr. of her latest acquisition a Four Seasons teddy bear who we'd named Hong Kong Teddy to put through the X-Ray. Well, youd have thought they were trying to chop her right arm off she was that upset, and I swear there were tears in the eyes of some onlookers when jr. and bear were emotionally reunited at the other side of security.
Quite a trek to the Clubhouse, which is dreadfully tiring without Kenzo or Hiro to carry one's carry-on. We had to catch a train for crying out loud! But it was all typically Hong Kong swift and clean and courteous and we finally took the lift up to the Clubhouse, which is compact and bijou, as they say in estate agents' parlance. We hung our jackets in the cloakroom, settled into the little square of seats near the bar and were soon sipping on mojito, champagne and Bapple Jooce! respectively.
The-now Mrs. mdvipond and I had a club sandwich each, and for the want of something to do we both took our turn in the smoking room a couple of gates away. If anyone is ever unsure as to whether or not they want to stop smoking, fly to Hong Kong at your very first opportunity, find Gate 61 (or thereabouts) and go for a fag in their smoking facility. God its grim little more than a lean-to next to a toilet block, it took me back to my days behind the greenhouses at school when I first took up my dirty habit (and were still talking smoking here people, so get your minds out of the gutter). Thick with acrid smoke and inhabited by chain-smoking, sallow faced Triad gang members, you certainly dont feel the need to linger. Anyway, more fool us for going in there, I do wonder sometimes why we bother...
Back in the Clubhouse we had a brief chin-wag with the Senior Ponds over iChat on the Mac (which, incidentally, worked a treat throughout our trip and was a great way to be able to see and talk to the family back home). After that, the zombies began to arrive; in dribs and drabs, with their palid faces, drawn expressions and strange, uneven gait it was like witnessing the opening scene of Night Of The Living Dead. Then we realised that these were the transfer passengers from the incoming LHR flight who would be sharing the plane onto SYD with us, poor souls. Is this how we could expect to look on our return trip? God help us all...
Soon enough we and the Living Dead were invited to board, so we picked up our bags and sauntered down to the gate. Priority boarding in place, we were settling into our seats in no time. Looking around the cabin, there really is a stark and noticeable difference between the connecting passengers and those of us boarding afresh at Hong Kong. From us a cheery smile to the crew, a yes please to the offer of champagne, a quizzical perusal of the menu and entertainment guide. From the zombies, a furrowed brow, a pleading request for more water, please! and a frenzied rush to don sleep suits and return to the coffin (or in this case suite) from whence they came.
mdvipond jr. was strapped into her seat and propped up with pillows once more, I gratefully accepted a glass of champagne, and all was well with the world. I half caught a conversation between the beauty therapist and the passenger next to me saying that theyd heard the weather in Sydney was rather cool for the time of year. Shame, I thought, but at least wed had the good foresight to bring jackets with us...
Our jackets...
Oh lordy, our jackets were still hanging in the Clubhouse! Damn that second mojito and my poor addled brain! I quickly got the attention of a member of crew, hurriedly explained the situation (Oh no!, she cried, which didnt really help), but then told us not to worry, the doors werent closed yet and all they had to do was take our names and then send someone to the Clubhouse and...
Cabin crew doors to automatic. Sh;t. The crew member looked at me with an expression of helplessness and yes, Im sure it was there pity. Im so sorry, she said, theres nothing we can do now. Marvellous. Bloody marvellous. Here was I decked in jeans and a short sleeved shirt and for all I knew it was snowing in Sydney! The-now Mrs. mdvipond was, youll be unsurprised to hear, considerably less melodramatic than I and soon after take-off (on-time, uneventful), was in discussion with the FSM as to how to get our jackets back. She was, actually, suitably concerned and most helpful, taking all our details and promising to a pass them onto the service manager in Sydney who would do their best to liase with Hong Kong Clubhouse and get our jackets sent over on another flight.
I was still terribly distraught and matters weren't helped by the fact that my order for a revitalising Tanqueray 10 and tonic with a slice of lime came back as a Bombay Saphire with a sliver of lemon. 'God, why do you hate me so?' I quietly intoned to myself. Dinner orders were taken and I plumped for soup followed by steak with a spicy noodle salad.
Still fretting over the loss of my jacket I'd been left devoid of my usual (over)competitive streak and felt unable to indulge in a customary game of Triv, so watched another Simpsons episode. I munched on a couple of lumps of garlic bread until my soup appeared. I can't, for the life of me, remember what kind of soup it was, but I'm aware that it was - as ever - warm and gloopy.
Between courses, I got stuck into Ratatouille (the film rather than the over-cooked mulch of miscellaneous veg that usually masquerade as the dish of the same name). Very original, very funny film. You've just got to love those Pixar guys, haven't you? The steak finally made an entrance and - strictly as an airline steak you understand - it was really rather good. The chili noodle salad was nice too, but I think I'd expected it to be warm. It made a pleasant accompaniment all the same. I opted for my usual choice of wine in these circumstance - red and wet (sorry, I can seldom remember which wine I have on these flights; maybe I should try drinking less of it). All in all, pretty darn fine grub.
With no room for cheese or desert I had another glass or two of wine whilst the amazing rat-chef and his extended family successfully cooked a homely meal to warm the heart of the mean and cold-hearted restaurant critic. The credits rolled and, as the rest of my family appeared to be in the land of nod, I changed into my PJs and quickly fell into a fitful slumber, plagued by dreams of a very satisfied Clubhouse waiter arriving home from work and impressing his friends and family with his new Ted Baker jacket...
I reckon I got a good 5 hours kip, and woke relatively refreshed with little more than an hour or so to landing at SYD. Both the-now Mrs mdvipond and jr. were already awake and snacking on breakfasty things. I managed a coffee and a pastry before the cabin was swiftly cleared ready for landing. One thing that surprised me was that regulations from the Oz authorities mean that the crew have to spray insecticide throughout the plane prior to landing. Now, considering that Australia clearly has more than its fair share of bugs, spiders and creepy-crawlies which could kill you in the blink of an eye, it does leave one wondering why on earth scares them so that we may have brought over from the UK with us. A particularly malevolent daddy-longlegs? A woodlouse with a grudge?
We came into land and quickly disembarked ahead of the straining masses in Economy, but then had to wait 20 minutes at the gate for the appearance of the elusive unruly hang-glider which had clearly been playing a game of hide-and-seek with the baggage handlers. By this time most of the plane had emptied and we found ourselves at the back of the queue for immigration, which grated just a tad. Fortunately we were once again picked out (thanks to jr. Im guessing) and told we could go through the Australian Nationals channel, which had almost no queue at all.
Our baggage was out pretty sharpish by this point, and I was suddenly aware of a customs officer lingering at my elbow enquiring as to whether these were my bags. No, but they looked like such nice cases I was strangely drawn to them, I thankfully didnt quip. Can you walk this way, please sir?, he asked and, once again resisting some kind of line about only if my boxer shorts were two sizes too small, we skipped another huge queue and went straight into the customs hall. He then made a beeline for one of our three cases, asked again if wed packed it ourselves then proceeded to empty it whilst another, considerably more burly customs officer stood, hands on hips, beside us.
With no real explanation proffered by either officer, the-now Mrs mdvipond enquired as to whether they were looking for baby milk, as we had packed a couple of cartons and the Aussies are sensitive about these things. No, we were told, not baby milk. Drugs. Apparently the sniffer dog had gone doolally when its ultra-sensitive hooter had got near our case, and, apparently, Fido (or whatever) was very seldom wrong. I felt the hot, blind, panicky guilt of a man who knows hes entirely innocent, but has seen far too many documentaries about drug-smugglers to feel particularly good about the way things were turning out. I could almost here the snap of latex against flesh as Burly Customs Officer donned a rubber glove.
Thankfully, customs were satisfied that our case contained nothing more offensive than my taste in shirts, rather than several kilos of Colombias most notorious export. Not before emptying the entire contents and detaching the lining, mind you, although they were good enough to re-pack for us.
A nice chap with a sign displaying our name met us at arrivals and, whilst he was clearly no Kenzo nor Hiro, he drove us through a rather cool and damp Sydney to the Intercontinental. Really nice hotel, by the way; dont know why it doesnt rate better of TripAdvisor.
We were reunited with our jackets two days later, incidentally. A couple of phone calls to Virgin in Sydney and they arrived at the hotel via courier, at a cost of about 20 quid to us, so pretty good service, all things considered.
Youll also be glad to hear that the weather in Sydney improved considerably shortly after our arrival, so even without my jacket I managed to stave off the worst effects of hypothermia or frostbite.
