With corporate budgets steadily decreasing over the past several years, business travel seems to have become more of a personal opportunity, in some senses, than an actual business requirement. So, when the opportunity arose for me to travel to Europe on business, I seized it. It was a quick trip to three different countries, but I was positive that I could hack the brutal toll of the compressed travel schedule. I was to fly to the UK, then on to the Netherlands, Germany, and finally home over the course of six days.
Like I said, “compressed”.
Having never travelled internationally before, let alone overseas by myself, I was a bit skeptical at first. In speaking with my co-workers abroad though, I was assured that everything would be taken care of prior to my arrival. I would have a driver meet me at the airport and an early check-in at my hotel immediately upon arrival. Theoretically, the first leg of my trip to the UK would be as easy as Shepherd’s pie.
I will admit that deep down, getting off of the plane at 6 am that morning, I felt a sense of empowerment. Yes, I would finally get to be one of “those guys”. One of those executive-types that gets off of the plane and has their own personal driver standing by, holding a sign with their name on it. I imagined strolling through Border Security and having a sharply dressed driver greet me, take my bags, and carelessly whisk me off to my hotel just outside of London.
But alas, there would be no driver waiting there for me as I walked through “Arrivals”. My thunder consequently stolen, I sulked in a corner and waited patiently for my ride to arrive. After nearly 45 minutes of waiting not-so-patiently, as well as several aggravated phone calls placed to our local office which had not yet opened at that hour, I made the executive decision to hail a black cab.
Greeted by what locals described as “traditional British weather”, I stood in the cold rain for another 45 minutes trying to find a cab that would actually take me out to my hotel. Problem was, however, that my hotel was on the other side of London. From what I was made to understand, in no uncertain terms, was that the fare was “a solid hour one-way in the morning rush” and that “no one in their right mind would take me all the way out there”. One cabbie even suggested that I take a cab downtown and try and catch another from there in order to get to where I needed to be.
This begged a few questions. First, what stop would I request in downtown London? Not being that internationally-renowned world traveler, my basic knowledge of the greater London metropolitan area was essentially confined to punch lines that I had memorized from National Lampoon’s “European Vacation”.
“Look kids. Big Ben, Parliament.”
Second, with exhaustion kicking down my front door, I couldn’t really envision any enticing motivations for standing on some random street corner in the rain, with all of my luggage in tow, and trying to hail yet another cab.
After some begging, pleading, and the promise of a fat tip, I finally convinced someone not obviously in their right frame of mind to cart my tired American carcass all the way to my hotel. So much for that “whisking me off to my hotel” garbage…
Yes indeed, this trip was off to a glorious start! However, relieved to have that fiasco behind me, I remained positive that things couldn’t possibly get any worse. Right?
As my cab swerved vicariously through the narrow streets London at break-neck speeds, I tirelessly fired off a barrage of pointed emails to my European counterparts on my Blackberry. I had been awake close to 24 hours at that point and was thoroughly spent, but my mind was sharp with the fury and frustration of mismanaged priorities.
Finally, after a truly hour-long ride, we arrived at my hotel. Taking a second from my email carpet-bombing campaign, I paid the cabbie a king’s ransom and started towards my hotel for some much needed rest. Stumbling groggily towards the lobby, I reached for my Blackberry one last time to check for any apologetic responses from our local office. My Blackberry, the only device in my possession that had any kind of international service back to the US, was not there.
In a moment of sheer terror, my mind swirled back to life. Bloody hell! I must have left it sitting next to me on the seat after I had paid the fare!
I ran back out to the road to where the cab had dropped me off, but it too was gone. Vanished back into the murky fog of that traditionally British Tuesday morning. And with it, my Blackberry. My only connection to home. Gone. Cheerio, old boy!
I had been overseas for a mere three hours and my trip had already gone the way of the Titanic. And yet the band played on…
As the panic, frustration, and exhaustion trifecta came to a bubbling head, I subsequently snapped. It was later reported via the BBC that the British Geological Survey detected a large tremor somewhere near Kingston upon Thames. That tremor was my head exploding. I won’t go into detail about the snarling grunts and growls that I performed into the echoing nothingness of the fog that morning, but it could have easily been mistaken for a remake of John Landis’ “An American Werewolf in London”.
After desperately imploring the hotel concierge to assist this stupid American in his futile search for his Blackberry, I was essentially told that airport black cabs were virtually untraceable. Hundreds of cab companies make up the airport’s black cab network. In short, it was forever lost in the Heathrow Matrix.
“I didn’t say it would be easy, Neo. I just said that it would be the truth.”
After several incoherent, and rather expensive, phone calls were placed from my hotel room in an attempt to explain my misfortune, I managed to lie down in order to attempt some semblance of sleep. I was about an hour into my tortured slumber when I was on the receiving end of one final insult-to-injury moment. The fire alarm went off and we had to evacuate the building.
Luckily, it was only a drill and the hotel staff light-heartedly apologized. However, it was at that point that I found myself fresh out of emotion and understanding for the day. Standing stone-faced and speechless in the rain-soaked parking lot, I imagined that I would have made an excellent sentry for the Queen’s Palace Guard.
The gods finally took pity on me though, and things eventually made a turn for the better. Again, if it wasn’t for “dumb luck”, I wouldn’t have any luck at all. The cabbie happened to spot my phone several hours later, remembered me, and was nice enough to return it to me at my hotel. After handing over yet another king’s ransom as reward for his timely discovery, I was re-connected with the world. Though working on only one hour of sleep and several Honey Dew ales by that point, I was back in business.
In all honesty though, the rest of the trip went brilliantly. I remained unscathed through the Netherlands and had only a few “stupid American” moments in Germany. Fortunately, they were nowhere near the epic calamities that I had experienced in the UK though.
There was that one episode, when I realized three quarters of the way through my lunch that all Germans eat their pizza with forks and knives instead of with their filthy, savage hands. There was also that continuous humiliation of being ridiculed everywhere that I went for having the surname Kraft and not speaking a word of German. At least no words that I could repeat in public…and certainly not to any German Border Security officers.
Although the beginning of this trip strangely resembled the start of the Mayan apocalypse, this stupid American wound up thoroughly enjoying the sights and cultures of Europe, even if it was only for six days. I’m left wondering the over/under odds on the number of international incidents that I could achieve on a return trip. Next time though, I’m bringing my own bloody driver.
