This is a Trip Report from the Upper Class cabin
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DREAM SUITE/NO SLEEP
or,
MR. MDVIPOND REACTS TO ACCUSATIONS THAT HIS LAST TR WASN'T MEAN ENOUGH ABOUT HULL, AND PUTS MATTERS RIGHT
If you made it through parts one and two - well done you! If not, well, I won't hold it against you. It's here if you really want to read it.
So, to recap: our Orlando/New York jaunt had turned into a longer-than-expected stay in Orlando, followed by - not a three day break in Manhattan as we'd originally planned - but a rather unexpected trip to Washington DC. All thanks, of course, to 'Superstorm Sandy', which had caused so much damage, destruction and desolation to the streets of NYC that people watching the TV footage back in Hull thought it was the local news.
Cancelled US domestic flights left us stranded in Florida, and although our VS flight back from New York to the UK actually made it out a few days later (I know, bloody typical!) our inability to get up to the Big Apple meant that we weren't on it.
As nice as our extended stay in the Land of Disney was, we were ready to move on and find a way of getting home, hopefully sometime before Christmas. Disney World is fun - oodles of fun - but its endless parades of smiling faces, trashy food and 'have a magical day' attitude start to wear a bit thin when you're meant to be staying in a suite at the Setai Fifth Avenue, swilling Martinis, eating fine food and generally doing stuff that grown-ups do.
Our extra time at Disney reminded me of the story of one poor soul whose experience was so distressing he actually took the great mouse-eared corporation to court. He was a disabled guy who'd gone on the 'It's A Small World Ride' (god knows why) and it had broken down when he was half way around. He was stuck there amidst those smiley, singing, evil puppets for over half an hour! Now, if you've never been on this ride, half an hour probably doesn't sound like that big a deal. But those who've endured this condensed-milk sickly-sweet, mindlessly repetitious 'attraction' will agree that each minute that poor man experienced trapped in there must have felt like an eternity in a Dantesque hell, surrounded by an impish hoard of waving marionettes singing that god-damn awful song over, and over, and over again...
Apparently, matters weren't helped by the fact that the gentleman in question suffered from anxiety and panic attacks, and also needed to urinate. Anyway, he was awarded 8 grand by the court, which we can only hope went someway towards the therapy he's still undergoing to get the 'It's a small world after all, it's a small world after all, it's a small world after all' song out of his head. Actually, I hear his therapist has recommend that he visit Hull for a weekend break, just so he can see how bad things really could be.
But I digress. Our extra three days in Disney culminated in us contacting VS to see how we could get home without having to visit a freshly storm-lashed disaster zone. And their answer was - yes, you guessed it - Washington DC. Sadly, they couldn't get all of us back to the UK on the same date, so whilst my parents (who were accompanying us on this trip as part of mum's 70th birthday celebrations) only had one night in DC before heading home, we had four days to fill before we could follow in their wake.
Which, I don't mind telling you, was absolutely fine with us! We'd spoken at length with our delightful insurance broker, who'd assured us that all expenses incurred would be covered by our policy. All, that is, except alcohol. I'm not sure whether this is an exclusion on all such policies, or if my reputation proceeds me somewhat and it's just specific to me. Either way, other than booze, the trip was on the insurance company, so it only seemed fair that we do it justice.
The Hay Adams Hotel: Quite nice.
We were staying (poor beleaguered readers of my previous TR will recall) at the rather spanking Hay Adams Hotel, just across the road from the White House. Our room was a lovely little junior suite which - though lacking a White House view - did look across to the rooftop where the presenters from the BBC sit when they're doing something about US politics. The view of the White House is behind them. As this was the week before the Presidential Election, media activity was rife, and there was usually a production crew and presenter camped out up there. Whether the daily vista of me in a plush bath robe with an unfortunate habit of unexpectedly falling open put them off or not is hard to say - we couldn't pick up BBC News - but if anyone saw a blush rise to the cheeks of that sassy bird who reports from Washington sometimes then please, do let me know…
I have to say, Washington is a cracking city. Yes, it was a little disappointing that we'd not made it to New York, but we've been five or six times over the past 20 years, so it wasn't like we were missing the trip of a lifetime. And DC is probably somewhere we'd never have got around to if it hadn't been for Sandy.
Cheer up Tizer. It'll be shut this time next year
So, we visited the Smithsonian Air & Space Museum (saw an Apollo command module, a V2 rocket and a Minuteman nuke!) and the US Capitol (got asked questions by some Amish teenagers who seemed to think I was an expert of US politics). We also walked up to the Lincoln Monument, on a gloriously sunny Fall day, which felt very historical and American and a bit like being in various movies.
Tizer's highlight of our Washington DC break, however, had to be our visit to the Tyson's Corner Center in McClean, Virginia, a shopping mall half the size of Wales. (Have you noticed, incidentally, that the standard units for the measurement of the square footage or mileage of something seem to be football pitch, followed by Wales, followed by Belgium. 'An area of rainforest the size of Belgium is being lost each week', we're told. Be a lot easier to lose Belgium, I imagine. Or Hull).
This place was colossal and, hardly surprisingly, full of shops. And why, I hear you ask, was I foolish enough to let the ladies in my life hijack me and take me to this hellish shopping Mecca? Well, in the run up to our trip - in fact, for quite a few months - we'd been promising Tizer that we'd take her to the American Girl doll shop in New York. They're truly awful, but she'd been saving hard in all that time, and had managed to get together enough money to buy one of her very own overpriced plastic monstrosities when we hit NYC (we're talking the best part of $100!). Well, of course, that didn't happen and whilst she'd taken the whole missing-out-on-New-York thing relatively well, she was pretty crestfallen at not being able to get her doll.
So, a quick search of the internet revealed - partially to my dismay - that there was an American Girl store at the Tyson's Corner mega-mall, a half hour or so out of DC. A $50 taxi ride deposited us right outside the garish pink portals of the biggest doll emporium you have ever seen in your life. It was on three levels, had it's own restaurant (where you could dine with your doll, of course), a hair salon (for your doll) and a hospital (you've guessed it, for dolly). The rest of the store was given over to dolls, doll's clothes, doll's pets, doll's hair products and more dolls. Row after row of beady little eyes staring out at you from beneath various hued, synthetic hair fringes.
Be afraid. Be very afraid.
Historical dolls in lace dresses, sporty dolls in singlet and shorts, 70s dolls with beads and a kaftan, native American dolls, African-American dolls, cheerleading dolls, ice-skating dolls, dolls in pyjamas, dolls in swimsuits, dolls in 'leisurewear'. They even - get this - had spectacles in case your doll was short-sighted, braces for if your doll had wonky teeth and (my personal favourite) a 'seeing-eye' dog in case - god forbid - your doll happened to be blind!
Dolls with braces. Just plain wrong.
Tizer, to her credit, managed to choose her doll inside of about an hour and a half (enough time for my thoughts to drift to that poor, bedraggled individual trapped on the 'Small World' ride). In the true and timeless fashion of any woman out shopping, she actually ended up plumping for the doll that she originally chose when we first walked into the shop. I don't know how you girls do it, but please believe me, you do all do it.
Her doll of choice was called Emily. Her back story? (That's right, every doll has to have a back story). It's 1940, and war rages across Europe. Emily, a young English girl, visits her friend Molly in the States to escape the Blitz in London. Sterling stuff; I was just a little disappointed that she didn't come with her own gas mask.
The rest of our afternoon was spent tramping around the seemingly endless arcades of this behemoth of a mall. A fellow V-Flyer (who shall remain nameless) had asked us to pick him up some of his favourite cologne whilst we were Stateside. He favours a rather macho scent called 'Fierce', from Abercrombie & Fitch. That's right. 'Fierce': For the man who really ought to try a lot harder. For the hidden animal within. Turn your inner guinea pig into a raging tiger. I'm not sure, but I think this stuff 'roars' when you take the top off.
Oh, to hell with it: it's Northern Henry. Northern Henry's manly he-musk of choice is 'Fierce', and he made me go to a huge shopping mall to buy it for him! There; I've said it. That's a weight off my shoulders, I can tell you…
Anyway, back in DC, it was our last night, so we dined at The Hamilton (great lobster pasta, wood panelling, English maitre d'). It has to be said, dining options abound in Washington. Of note are the Lafayette in the Hay Adams Hotel (Dover Sole, finished at table with lemon caper sauce. Heaven), and Old Ebbitt Grill (cracking crab cakes and cocktails). All very, very enjoyable and all complements of our lovely insurance company.
But the time for us to go home - and the time also for this TR to actually turn to the small matter of air travel- loomed, and after a lovely lunch at the best sandwich shop your courageous correspondent has ever been in (Potbelly, I think it was called, and they served a mean meatball sarnie) we bade a fond farewell to the Hay Adams and took our cab over to IAD.
And what a nice, easy, clean airport it is. Lots of a walking though. Once we'd checked-in (a breeze) and picked up a shiny invite to the Clubhouse, we realised we had quite some ground to cover. Security (also a breeze) was followed by another hike, followed by a ride on the 'AeroTrain', which turned out to be a train to the gates, rather than a flying train. Or a train made out of bubbly chocolate.
Then it's still quite a hike to the Clubhouse which, thankfully and conveniently, just so happens to be opposite the gate. It'd been ages since we'd had the chance to visit a real, overseas Clubhouse (probably Hong Kong back in '07, I think). And it's a very nice one too. Bijou, sure, but the staff were lovely and very quickly offered us drinks and nibbly things. We grabbed a table overlooking the tarmac, sipped our gin and tonics (apple juice for Tizer) and reflected on what had been a pretty eventful couple of weeks. It could have worked out an awful lot worse than it had and - to be quite frank - I'd loved it. Two extra days in Disney, four lovely days in DC, and all at the expense of the insurance company. Sure, we'd missed out on NYC, but I'm confident in saying we'll be back there before long.
But more important matters were at hand: I was in a Clubhouse, and there were pens to steal. It's a strange compulsion that creeps over me whenever I see those shiny Virgin pens. I have to have them… I will have them. One has to be surreptitious about it though. There's not point just going from desk-to-desk nicking the pens off each one. My approach is more akin to Raffles, the gentleman thief. Act casual, whistle nonchalantly, liberate each pen with a deft sweep of the wrist.
I think I got four or five of them this time. And some pencils. And a Post-it note pad. And an eraser. I know; I have a problem…
During my kleptomanic spree Mrs V had been decent enough to order another G&T, but had also discovered that the flight was delayed for an hour. And the problem when you're in a small (but perfectly formed) Clubhouse is that once you've carried out a one-man stationery crime wave, there's not an awful lot else to do. Tizer sat at one of the desks to do some drawing (I had to lend her a pen), and the dear lady wife and I read and sipped gin.
Tizer in the Clubhouse. Watch out - don't let her nick that pen!
The hour passed pleasantly enough, and the flight was duly called. With the gate situated slap-bang across from the gate, it was barely a stroll to priority boarding and thence onto the plane.
I should have mentioned this earlier, perhaps, but we'd been aware since re-booking our flight from IAD that we were going to be 'treated' to the new Dream Suites in UC. Let's say I was curious, rather than excited at the prospect. First impressions weren't too bad as we boarded: Quite glitzy, and the bar looked fun.
Attempted panoramic pic of the A330 UC cabin
But then we got to our suites, 7 & 8G and 7K, tucked behind the bar. Now, either Disney's Dining Plan and the fine food in DC had had a hugely detrimental effect on my girth, or these new suites were tiny. And what on earth had happened to the ottoman?! I'm pretty sure there was a time when you could actually sit on it!
It was Upper Class, Jim, but not as we know it. It was if someone had taken a perfectly nice UC cabin, and then shrunk it by 30%. The smaller body of the plane was very much apparent, the aisles were economy-style narrow and everyone seemed pretty much on top of one another. I felt myself suddenly pining for the airy spaces of the LGW UC cabin. Sure, it was a little less shiny, but compared to the A330 it was a wide-open vista with room enough for migrating herds of wildebeest!
Tizer in the 'Dream Suite'. Has she grown, or have the suites shrunk? Bit of both, apparently...
The actual seat was comfortable enough, I guess, though there was certainly less privacy than in the old suites. Fewer places to put things as well. The cheery, but slightly nervous FSM came around the cabin introducing himself and a pleasant FA was also on hand to dole out champers.
We were quickly in the air, IFE was booted up, G&Ts were served and dinner orders taken. All very efficient, though the crew seemed either a) new to the A330, b) struggling with the layout and the narrowness of the aisles or - and this is where my vote lies - c) both of the above. They seemed like strangers on their own plane, and the size constraints clearly made their job harder than it had to be. Don't get me wrong: I like to see two lithe FAs pressing their bodies against each other as much as the next man (possibly more), but it does lack the sense of space and grace that you normally associate with an UC cabin.
I settled down to a movie: 'Ted', the story of a young boy's teddy bear that magically comes to life. Trust me, it's not what you think. 'Family Guy's Seth McFarlane is involved, so it's crude, rude and very funny. This reviewer gives it… 5 stars!
Dinner arrived. Something with a prawn on top of it followed by something beefy, I think. It was pleasant enough as I recall, and there was a pretty good red wine doing the rounds. The crew continued bravely to carry bowls of soup, plates of hot food and drinks up and down the cramped aisle, but it all looked pretty awkward and they were clearly 'standing on each other's heads', as my gran used to say.
Tizer snacked, changed into her PJs and settled down to bed. In her 7 years she's seen her fare share of flying, and knows the routine by now. I finished dinner with some cheese and port, and decided to stretch my legs. Sticking my head into the Premium cabin, it looked cramped to say the least. The narrow body of the plane is really apparent, especially compared to the 747, and it does feel much more like something you'd fly to Europe rather than go trans-Atlantic in.
I decided not squeeze myself all the way back to Economy, and headed instead for the one part of the updated cabin experience I really had been looking forward to: the new swish and spangly Upper Class bar. Which was barely visible under crates of mineral water and piles of miscellaneous paperwork! I caught the eye of the slightly harassed FSM, who asked me what I'd like to drink, but told me he'd have to bring it to my suite. Great. One of the few nice looking 'improvements' in the new cabin, and it wasn't even functional.
Despondent, I returned to my seat and - true to his word - the FSM duly brought me a nice glass of wine. I decided to watch a couple of 'Family Guys' before bedding down. Most of the lights in the cabin had been dimmed, all but, that is, the ones running down the centre of the cabin, one of which was directly above me. I flicked at all the switches I could find that looked like they might control a light - careful to avoid any labelled 'Wings Fall Off' - but to no avail.
With the rest of the cabin in nicely subdued lighting, I felt like I was sat in the 'Mastermind' chair (specialist subject: the falling standards of Virgin Upper Class, 1999-2012). I now took to standing on my seat to see if there was a switch next to the light itself. There wasn't, but a pleasant FA came over to help or, perhaps, to find out why there was a crazy guy stood on his seat tampering with the plane's electrics.
"I'm not sure these turn off independently," she said, clambering onto my seat and trying in vain to turn the blazing spotlight off. "We're quite new to these planes, so we're still finding out where things are." Really? Well, here's hoping the pilot has got the swing of things a little quicker than you, I thought.
Then the FSM came over and had a try, followed by a long conversation with the FA as to where the switch might be. They went off in search of the switch and, after some time, all the lights along the centre row went out. Thank goodness for that. Surely, it wouldn't kill to have an independent switch for each one would it?
Another glass of wine and it was time to bed down. I flipped my seat to bed mode, but it certainly wasn't the relatively smooth operation that I was used to with the old suites. I finally man-handled it into something close to a horizontal position, but it wouldn't 'click' into place and go completely flat. I pushed, teased and coaxed the damn thing, but it clearly wasn't going to happen. The same pleasant FA who helped me with the light came to my assistance, and jumped - arse first - onto my recalcitrant suite. It clicked obediently into place.
"It's the only thing that seems to work," she told me with a smile, and swiftly laid out my duvet for me. Nice girl, and with one very useful arse. VS should give her a rise.
Dream Suite: perfect size for a doll.
I tucked myself into bed (the FA's duties clearly didn't extend that far) and waited for sleep to come. And waited. And waited. Problem was, it was so darned 'cosy' in the suite, with very little 'elbow room'. I have to say, it felt positively claustrophobic. Matters weren't helped, of course, by the usual 'high-summer-in-the-Gobi-Desert' setting that the cabin temperature had been set at. Cabin crew, please note: It doesn't make us sleepy. It just makes us sweaty!
I tossed. I dare say I would have turned too, had there been room for it. I sure as hell didn't sleep. In fact, as gentle bustle and breakfast smells began to indicate that we weren't too far from LHR, I realised that I'd just had my first ever VS homebound flight on which I'd not managed to sleep a wink.
And I felt wretched on it. Breakfast is generally my least favourite meal of the day anyway, but there was no way I could accept any of the offered solids, sticking instead to orange juice and a couple of double espressos.
Everything went smoothly enough from thereon in. We landed at a cold, grey Heathrow having made up most of the hour we'd been delayed. There are few things more depressing than flying from sunnier climes into a UK airport, in November, in the early hours of the morning, having had absolutely no sleep the night before. It was like a day trip to Hull.
Grey tarmac met with a grey sky. Grey ground crew watched us disembark; grey passport control officers welcomed us - without much feeling - back to Blighty and grey customs officers watched us impassively as we wheeled ourselves and our luggage into arrivals.
The Revivals staff were pleasantly upbeat, though, and I managed a bacon sarnie (which will be my last ever Virgin bacon sandwich, thanks the revelations of a certain leading V-Flyer and senior member of cabin crew who, unlike Northern Henry, really will remain nameless).
We'd booked a car to drive us back up to God's Own County, which arrived on time. It was driven by Larry, who wore winkle-pickers, a three-quarter length vintage Henley overcoat and blue spectacles. This was no chauffeur; this was a retro rock 'n' roller! He looked like the band manager that time had forgot.
We were on the road 10 minutes after leaving Revivals. Larry was quite cool actually, and dutifully spotted after quarter of an hour or so of chat that we'd rather try and get a bit of rest, so left us be. It was just a shame that Tizer wasn't able to do the same. She'd had quite a nice sleep on the plane, thank you very much, so proceeded to sing all the way up to Leicester Forest services, where upon the promise of a DVD and the threat of being grounded for the rest of her natural life seemed to keep her more-or-less quiet for the remainder of the journey back to Leeds.
And so, our Florida trip, our skirmish with Sandy, our weekend in Washington and, I'm pretty sure, the longest ever wait for a V-Flyer TR, finally all comes to an end. As for the flight, I'd love to say that I could see some positives in the new suites, but really, I can't. They're smaller, the cabin's tighter and the design seems to have been very badly thought through. Clearly, more than just an eye cast has been cast at cost-cutting measures, rather than at comfort, innovation or offering VS passengers an improved product. Shame...
'Old' UC still wins hands-down as far as this correspondent is concerned. That being said, our next flights - to BGI next month - will be in neither 'new' nor 'old' UC; they will be in Club World. That's right, we've crossed the floor of the house people! Not for good, I hope, it's just that BA came up with better dates and much keener prices for the half-term hols.
Well, they do say variety is the spice of life, and it should make for an original TR or two. And, speaking of variety, our trip to Barbados may also represent the last flights the Family mdvipond ever make as a trio. That's right: Tizer Mark II is due early next year.
The unruly hang-glider is dead; long live the unruly hang-glider!
Last edited by mdvipond on 03 Oct 2013, 17:10, edited 3 times in total.
..A truly entertaining read.
Fortunately I managed to avoid explaining to my kids why I was laughing, otherwise they would be singing that song for the rest of the day!
