I forgot to sum up my Club experience. Here goes... There are at least two types of people there. The first? Elitist. Of course, because it's for the people who can afford such a thing. A lot of those people spend a few hundred a year per person to belong to something they probably only use on their yearly vacation. And those are the snobs, the ones who looked at me like I didn't belong. The ones who made my new BFF feel miserable. But they aren't the only ones who belong to these clubs. The other side is the professional crowd, the ones who either own their own businesses or have a job that pays for the membership. This is a wonderful perk for people like my stepmom who travel a lot for work and I'm glad places like this exist for them. They were the ones who sat quietly enjoying the solitude (or, in many cases, continuing work) and were polite to everyone. If it had just been the first group, I don't think I would have stayed. Escape the miserable crowd downstairs just to put up with a miserable crowd upstairs? No way. But it was a fine mix, no one bothered me and with the kind of travel plan I had, it was absolutely worth it.
On to the plane to Frankfurt. This time I got a window seat, which was great, and a nice couple next to me. A retired fire chief and his wife, a retired sheriff. They didn't talk about their careers, though. They told me about the trip they had planned. They were on their way to meet friends in Toulouse and be shown around the French countryside. They were cheery and excited and very kind to me. The good news is that I could watch movies I'd never seen on the screen in front of me. The bad news is that I, yet again, did not get much sleep. The seats were even smaller than on the plane from SFO to PHL. Uneffingbelievable. I was so uncomfortable that I couldn't sleep, even though I was exhausted.
So we arrive in Frankfurt, Germany, and we're deboarded on the tarmac...and it's 40 degrees out. Yeah, some people weren't so happy, but according to a German passenger ahead of us, the airport is just not big enough for all the traffic it gets (and this place is huge!). He said it was normal and that was good enough for me, plus I thought it was nice that he stood up for the airport when all the...well, Americans...were bitching. Besides, there were buses on the tarmac waiting for all 200 or so of us and I got on the first one thanks to my fabulous co-travelers (the nice retired couple from Florida). From the bus we walked only a few yards to the terminal, then we had to figure out where the heck to go to get our connections and I only had 58 minutes. I went through a passport line, where the woman was cold, then finally found customs, where all five, FIVE dammit, people were mean to me and only meaner when they realized I'd left a half full water bottle in my bag, which I then had to go back and throw away then bring all my stuff through customs again. And the bottle was a reusable one that I've had forever, but I was in such a hurry to get to my gate that they told me just to throw it away. Did I say they told me? They sneered it at me. And this was my 23rd hour of travel with almost no sleep, so I decided that the German people hate me with the exception of two Germans: the guy on the flight before who told us about the tarmac unloading and this guy...
I made it to my gate in plenty of time, then sat there trying to figure out what the hell the guy at the desk was saying in his announcement...which was in English. I was baffled and I'm sure I looked like a stupid American, standing there with my ticket and my passport and looking (and smelling, I'm sure) just terrible. When we finally boarded the little Lufthansa plane, I was relieved to find awesomely comfortable seats with plenty of leg room and the nicest German ever (Dan, you don't count right now and neither do any of your friends, just shush). The Lufthansa flight attendant at the back of the plane helped me find a place for my bag and I almost cried, I loved him so much just then. And every time he brought something to us, I thanked him as if he'd saved my life. In reality, he just saved me from briefly disliking an entire country because of six people (don't forget the cold fish at the passport counter, even Philadelphians like me, dammit).
It was a short flight to Malpensa Airport in Milano and suddenly I was in Italy. And I wanted to either cry or fall asleep on the nearest clean surface. Instead, I started worrying about how to find which luggage carousel was mine. And let me say, we could learn something about this from the Italians. I can never figure out which carousel is mine at American airports. I worry myself into knots looking for people I might recognize from my flight and hoping they are smart enough to figure it out. At Malpensa, I deboarded the plane, walked a short distance to a sign that told me exactly where I would find my luggage and got the damn bags, all within fifteen minutes. Thank you, Italia. You kinda rock.
But before I got my bags, I went to check out the Italian version of airport restrooms. And here is what I've decided: I hate their customs people, HATE HATE HATE them, but the Germans still win the award for Best Toilet Paper in an Airport Restroom. Thick, sturdy stuff. Not necessarily soft, but who cares? The Americans have the thinnest paper possible, you're better off using a paper towel. The Italians have what looks and feels like recycled sandpaper.
The Germans also win the airplane snack award. I had myself a tasty little half-sandwich on the flight to Malpensa and though I have no idea what the hell was in it, it was more satisfying than anything I'd eaten within the past two days. I love you again, Germany. Dan will be so pleased.
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