Tuesday, June 22, 2010

An overly long rumination on DF's voyage from the US, with critical commentary on domestic airlines

I write to thee from Munich, dear readers, where I alighted about twelve hours ago after what may have been the most painless coach-class international flight of my no-longer-so-brief life. Here are some points of possible salience:

DF flew Lufthansa from LA, direct to Munich overnight. The flight experience reminded me how horrible domestic US airlines have become. I’m dimly aware of this on all my US flights, of course, but this most recent flight made the contrast depressingly clear.

The reason is that this eleven-hour red-eye flight was, to my considerable surprise, not a horrific affair, but actually pretty decent. The seats were leathery and leaned back enough to be comfortable. They also had headrests that could be adjusted to facilitate sleeping without having one’s head fall into the aisle and be bonked by passing food carts. Lufthansa gave out blankets, pillows, and earphones all for free, and there were personalized in-flight entertainment screens (also free). I meant to watch the “Golden Girls” pilot (by which I mean that I wanted to see the first episode of the classic TV show via in-flight entertainment, not that I intended to scope out the female septuagenarian pilot of the plane), but fell asleep before I had the chance.

There’s more! The waitresses were cute and friendly, the food was hot and pretty tasty, and while I didn’t partake of it, there was ample booze on tap (and it is an artifact of my awful US flight experiences that I feel obligated to stress that all of these services were free). I even got a damned hot towel, and for a moment I felt like I was getting something akin to customer service. It felt very foreign, but basically good.

I remember a day when US airlines were more like this. Hell, when I was a kid I used to refer to air travel as a “plane ride” as though it were Space Mountain, and even remember looking forward to the experience. Now I dread it like an invasive and uncomfortable medical procedure—it’s something that I can handle but really prefer to avoid. This is, I think, because for whatever reason (financial arrears, I suspect), US airlines have cut amenities so starkly that flying is about as glamorous and elegant as taking the bus. You get on, you get stoic, you get off. I have a first-class-flying friend who says that even the elite cabins aren’t so great; they’re just less sucky than the hideous cattle-call environs of coach class.

Point being: the flight, thanks to my low expectations and Lufthansa’s really decent services, was totally fine. I got some work done, slept for a really really long time, and woke up when we were somewhere over the Norwegian Sea with only a couple hours to go. Passport control and customs were a breeze (I got a few weird questions from the German passport guy about what I was doing here—I called it “work” and he got antsy, then I explained that I’m not getting paid, and he thought I was lying, then I referred to myself as an “akademischer gast” and this seemed to fix the situation).

Travel to my hotel was also pretty efficient. I’m staying at the Westin Munich, near Arabellapark, and I literally have no idea where that is. I do know, though, that the Munich flughaven is nowhere near anything, and that a cab ride to the hotel would have cost in the neighborhood of 100 euro (!).

No worries, though—years of travel experience and perhaps some of the old Portuguese navigation instinct in my DNA kicked in, and I figured out how to use public transport to get here. The people at the hotel had suggested that I just get the S-bahn to Oestbahnhof, and then take a cab, but that’s for the weak. After the trip on the S8 from the flughaven through what appeared to be vast rural stretches of farmland, I changed to the U4 at Karlsplatz, took it to its terminus at Arabellapark, and lugged my not unheavy bag a few short blocks to this very nice and fancy hotel (only complaint: internet is not free and actually very very expensive—this is especially galling in a place that ain’t cheap to begin with—it all probably cashes out to the same in the end, but having to pay for internet makes me feel nickel-and-dimed).

I did some more work, and then adjourned to what appears to be the only restaurant in the vicinity, a Bavarian-themed joint in the basement. The food was very delicious, if scandalously unhealthy. I had some kind of meat pfanne with beef, veal, a cream sauce, many kartoffeln—basically a fatty caloriefest. The Denmark-Cameroon game was on, so that provided a welcome diversion, especially since it turned out to be (uncharacteristically for this WC so far) a lively and entertaining match. The setting was weird, though—it was sort of like a modern, fancified simulacrum of a Bavarian biergarten, with almost a Rainforest CafĂ©-sort of vibe (but not juvenile).

Shortly afterward, around 10pm, delicious fatigue set in. This was surprising to me, since I’d had a strange day schedule-wise: flew all night, served breakfast on the plane, and then moments later touching down to find that it’s early evening. But being tired exactly at bedtime sounded great … except that I then woke up four hours later. I think the old body was looking for a nap, rather than a full night’s sleep. So what does one do at 2.30am when you’re wide awake? Well, if you can’t beat jet lag, join it. I got up, made some tea, and did some work. I’m now waiting out the time til the breakfast place downstairs open, with the intention of parlaying the post-fruehstuck food coma into a brief nap before breaking camp and meeting up with the conference folks over at the Max-Planck Institute.