This is a Trip Report from the Upper Class cabin
Ground Staff
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Gentle Readers:
I humbly submit to you my trip report for the ex-USA leg of my recent visit to Europe.
Arriving at SFO from SEA via AS (if acronyms were sex, I'd be a trollop) my travel partner, whom I shall refer to here as Ginger Breadstick (or GB) -- he is 6'5', rail thin, red-haired and white enough to be seen from space -- and I entered the beautiful international terminal and were immediately struck by the enlivening frisson that is the polyglot comings and goings of a major air travel facility.
Given that it was too early to check in, we spent an edifying 45 minutes studying the history of the development and construction of SFO at the exquisitely curated San Francisco Airports Museum (just next to the CH entry -- don't miss it!).
We then moved on to peruse the nearby vitrines of silver objects from the collection of Margot Grant Walsh, on loan from the Portland (OR) Art Museum. As a collector myself, Walsh must be congratulated for her ability to amass a catholic group of various silversmiths' styles and traditions whilst simultaneously deploying an unerring eye for quality and workmanship. Like the best art exhibits, this one refired my own interest in the field and I suspect I shall be buying some silver soon!
After salivating over various hotties in other airlines' check-in queues (though sadly we saw none apparently destined for premium cabins -- did handsome and rich die out with me?), came the noon hour and, though 30 minutes before the scheduled opening of the check in desk, GB and I noticed that a passel of red-accoutered staff had gathered at the economy end of the check-in area.
'Let's confirm with them that they open at 12:30pm. Hold your nose, Breadstick, and avoid touching anything in that general vicinity -- if you do, I have anti-bacterial wipes...'
The Ginger Breadstick and I overcame our inbred class trepidations -- after all, Caesar should be a beast without a heart/If he should stay at home today for fear -- entered the area marked 'Economy,' approached the check-in desk and inquired as to their hours of operation. Imagine our surprise when we learned that -- even though the electronic signage above every check-in station said 'Closed' -- something called 'early bird' check-in was in effect and they could take care of us right then and there. Result!
The check-in clerk was absolutely fabulous ('Bubble!') and when we expressed our joy at seeing Virgin America metal on the tarmac, she informed us that the craft would have interactive seatback video from which you could order your meals in all classes and have them delivered when you want. [:0]
As incredulous as this seems -- staff will surely be driven to distraction? -- it was an interesting tidbit, and I pass it along to you as one staff's opinion and no effort to state an ex cathedra fact. We mentioned to the staffperson that it sounded a logistical challenge but agreed it was an interesting approach and she replied that most pax would find the entire Virgin America experience 'lovely.' (Cultural note to self: Brits now say 'lovely' instead of 'brilliant.' Pay for a packet of seaweed-miso crisps at Pret? The cashier will tell you doing so is 'lovely.' Present your HEX ticket to the conductor for stamping? That's 'lovely.' So is buying a scratch card on easyJet. As is offering a tenner at the till for 50% off M&S kecks. Trying on clothes at Vivienne Westwood in Conduit Street? Everything you try on is 'lovely.' You have no reservation at Bluebird on Saturday night and cannot be seated, nonetheless, upon thanking the maitre d' for considering the option at any rate, he says -- wait for it -- 'lovely.' And so on. Lovely.)
By this time, it was almost opening hour for the CH, so we changed dollars into pounds (this experience now transmogrified from previously painless to today being equivalent to putting a favourite item of clothing into the dryer and pulling it out to find it shrunk to the size of a doll's kit) and found our way to the much-honoured chamber.
We were first in. I had to ask for Revivals passes (they are rarely offered to me unbidden) and we were not offered a tour (although I would have refused it). GB and I sat in facing Arne Jacobsen 'Egg' chairs and requested Champagne. Minutes later, the waitress delivered both glasses onto my lap, pant leg, Paul Smith jacket, VS boarding pass, travel journal and -- lovely girl! -- she still had enough left over to provide the carpet with its own substantial, fermented ablution.
Mass mayhem ensues. GJ controls his anger but makes it clear he is very unhappy. Staff start flying around in full-on poulet sans tete mode. GB looks at me in horror, knowing that at any minute the CH, and, indeed, the surrounding five mile area, could be sucked up into a seething, fiery mushroom cloud of unfettered rage at incompetence, especially that which directly impacts the delicate threads of natural fiber that comprise my wardrobe.
Seeing plenty of action and no attendant result, I knew I had to take control of the situation. Thus, I switched into Monty mode and began issuing orders at a pace and clarity worthy of the old field marshall himself.
'Soda water, stat! Towels -- no, not these napkins, they leave lint -- stat! More Champagne as you have guaranteed I shall need it, stat!' And so on. Soon, sodden with Schweppe's and the best French grape juice, I settled down and took a breath. 'It's OK,' said GB, bless him. 'Yes, I suppose it is,' I replied. 'It's all lovely.'
Still I could not resist the opportunity to inform the CH manager (a lovely lady, it must be said), that I was a V-Flyer member...and that the jacket just baptised by her staff was to be worn at a dinner with no less than Their Graces The Honourable The Lord Richard of Mannion, The Honourable The Lady Sarah of Mannion, Decker, Mrs Decker, Fozzyo and Wolves 27.
Now I must report the power of the spoken word. A specific spoken word.
For you see, the second the duo-syllabic poem that is 'Mannion' left my lips, this poor woman's face froze as firmly as the Ross Ice Shelf and then cracked into a million little pieces. 'You...know...Richard.........Mannion?' She stammered, horrified.
'Oh, yes, my good woman. Quite.'
Well, immediately business cards were presented, promises to pay for the dry cleaning were generously made, emergency messages to Revivals were fired off requesting all human assistance in cleaning said jacket...it was delicious.
From now on, I have decided, anytime I get something close to poor service on VS, I shall merely look the offender square in the eye and deliver the verbal H-bomb: 'Mannion.' I recommend it to you all.
Best to come, however, was the production of upper deck boarding passes for GB and myself after earlier being told nothing was available. Soon thereafter, though, the restored-to-peaceful environs of the CH were besmirched by the belligerent croakings of an unfortunately-dressed man (very What Not to Wear 'before') whose hair resembled that of any member of Status Quo, circa 1986, complaining that he'd somehow been moved from his chosen upper deck seats. GB and I elected to remain silent. Had he been better dressed and coiffed, we might have taken pity and gone back down to our original seats. Standards, however, must be maintained and this man cannot be allowed to have an easy life.
We enjoyed tasty and hot culinary sustenance in the CH -- not to mention hotness of another sort in the form of a certain Bulgarian fellow pax -- but we saw G-VHOT 'Tubular Belle' taxi to the stand and soon enough it was time to board; this was accomplished with no fuss nor complications, although VS were running about 30 minutes late.
GB, upon his first view of the UCS, was pleasantly gobsmacked, practically bouncing up and down on the cushions and pressing all the buttons as if it were a James Bond Corgi toy car. This reminded me of that day, so many legs ago, when I first encountered the UCS and had a similar reaction of joy and delight. Now, supplanting the wonder of the new is the equally rewarding sense that one is returning to the company of a dear and comforting friend.
Unfortunately, this friend (5K) was looking like he'd shown up for work after an all-night party binge: grungy drop-down drink table; garbage in the magazine pocket; biro marks on the left-hand wall; and, drips of some indeterminate red substance down the white right-hand wall (however, given that it was a brand-approved color, it looked somehow less offensive). GB's own 4K was, OTOH, reasonably spotless.
The usual drinks orders and IFBT visit for treatment requests ensued. (Flash ahead to later in the flight: thanks to a wonderfully generous V-Flyer, I was able to surprise GB with a priority treatment card and thus he was chosen among the first to receive a treatment which he rated as exquisite).
No personal greetings were provided by the FSM ('A.C.'). We were wheels up at 5:03pm and V:Port was switched on at 5:20pm after a smooth climb out. We were a half-hour late, due to 'an ill pax, who had to have their baggage offloaded.' Lovely.
Next, around 5:27pm, the IFBT returned with her basket of snooze pack enhancements. I elected for the Cowshed lip balm which went right down the bin after one application as it tasted horrible. To paraphrase Sir Philip Sidney, this was, indeed, the balm of woe.
The clock's inexorable click to 5:32pm brought a glass of Bastide St. Vincent 2006 vin de pays de Vaucluse and the realization that the IFE contained Barbara Windsor's 'Who Do You Think You Are?' episode. Given that I eat and go right to sleep ex-USA, this was perfect -- 30 minutes of my favourite Carry On star, a nibble of food and then off to sleepy-time.
Alas, I was denied my first choice of meal (steak) and had the remarkably unremarkable chicken with spinach and 'blistered tomatoes,' although what caused those blisters was not explained -- perhaps they should be more careful about who they kiss.
I joined GB at his seat for dinner and he thought that was an absolutely cracking aspect of the UCS and I must admit it's one of my favourite aspects of the UCS design, as well.
After one bite of the hockey puck made of brown Crayons that was the chocolate pudding, I passed on consuming the rest, took my leave of GB, and lay down to sleep. Thank god Ms. Windsor was there to take my mind off any memory of the boringly presented and culinarily retarded comestibles.
One Ambien and 6 hours later, I awoke to a bacon bap (or, rather, a ball of bread with a slice of pork product), a cup of tea, and the realization that we were over Her Britannic Majesty's United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, where visible out our windows was an ever-unfolding panoply of little plots of farmland, country piles, and no doubt scores of modern day Elizabeths and Darcys scurrying about among them.
By 10:25am we were over the city, affording GB (reasonably well-rested though mightily displeased by how hot the cabin had become overnight) his first view of the greatest city in the world, including the sparkling glory that is our lovely new Wembley.
We landed bang on time at 10:35am, and were leaving the plane by 10:45am. Fast Track customs lived up to its name, as did priority baggage delivery (GB's bag was #3 on the carousel -- cheeky beginner! -- and GJ's #22).
Soon we were in the confines of Revivals where no one knew anything about my needing my jacket attended to, but I'd gotten over it anyway given that the Schweppe's had done its job of cleaning and removing any odor of day-old plonk. The showers featured my beloved Cowshed Bullocks body wash (I bought some at the Conran Shop later that day) and were spotlessly clean as usual. One must offer respect where respect is due -- the cleaning staff at Revivals are top drawer. The wait staff, on the other hand, must have been painting their nails during the 'Sense of Urgency' module of their training as we sat, unattended, though one of only four guests in the dining area. Only after my feigning a seizure on the floor -- including gutteral utterances and the flinging of pages from the Daily Mail -- were we provided with suitable attention.
After a cuppa each, GB and I made our way to HEX and were on our 100 miles-per-hour way into London where car bombs, attacks on GLA, a sunny week in Positano, a cracking Dali exhibit at Tate Modern, and a wonderful Gordon Ramsay dinner with Their (lovely) Graces, Decker, the impossibly charming and handsome duo of Wolves27 and fozzyo, and the Count Mippipopolous of V-Flyer -- Howard Long -- awaited. Alas, Mrs Decker was unable to join given her lingering Kenyan tummy bug. Get well soon, Mrs D!
My final verdicts:
Check-in -- Excellent due to friendly service, insights into future Virgin America service and consideration for early-arriving pax with the 'early bird' check-in, although if they offer the service they should post signage announcing such.
Seat -- Though incredibly comfortable, it was presented in a grungy state and is thus marked down a peg.
Food & Drink -- Sub-lovely. I have determined that the food is not produced by a caterer, rather, the FSM stops by his local M&S Simply Food, loads up his estate wagon with prepared meals, and brings them to LHR so the crew need only indifferently reheat the sodium-rich and savoury-stingy contents and flop it all out onto branded china for UCS presentation. It's absolute crap when you consider some people in the UC cabin could have put down $12,000+ for their ticket. I've had better from Pret, to be honest. I appreciate the wine selection, however. GB has flown SQ Y and said the food was better in that circumstance. This is dire.
Entertainment -- Thirty minutes of personal recollections by Barbara Windsor? Say no more...is there any way to give a better rating than 'excellent?' [y] 'Oh, you are naughty!!!'
Cabin Crew -- present and accounted for, but no visible effort to make the journey and Virgin experience anything special, to be brutally frank. They missed a lovely chance to leave me and GB with a sense that they were any different from any other airline.
I hope you have enjoyed this TR. I will post others for the return leg and my easyJet legs to/from NAP as soon as I can muster the strength [:p].
Respectfully submitted,
GJ
