Phew

Next to actual bare feet or flip-flops, this is the worst thing you want to see in your seatmate for a transcontinental flight.

I had to turn up the air flow.

 

 

Still around

There were apparently a lot of people trying to get out of Arizona on Monday; the line of planes taxiing for takeoff was really long. But as we finally got to the runway and were powering up, I noticed this hybrid blast from the past:

What do you think it means when American Airlines can’t even be bothered to repaint the tail logo?

Also—how old is this aircraft? TWA ceased operations in December 2001.

 

Old world hospitality

I mentioned a couple of weeks ago that I was going to have a word with Amex when I got home about my accommodation in Dubrovnik. It’s the one time in years and years of using their travel service that the delta was so huge between what was promised in their listing and the booking confirmation and what I actually experienced.

Not to put too fine a point upon it, the whole thing pissed me off.

So last Wednesday I gave them a ringy-dingy, because I’d worked up a narrative with photos documenting my issues and I wanted an email address to send it to. Turns out Amex doesn’t do emails. It took me a while to get to the right place (which is Vendor Disputes, if you’re asking). Before I got there, I was on the line with Amex Travel for some time, as the agent listened to my story and then tried to contact Dubrovnik Old Town Apartments. She had no more luck than I did while I was there, so she connected me with Larry in Vendor Disputes. He also took down the broad strokes of my complaint and outlined the process (they investigate, get the vendor’s input, make a decision). What I wanted was a refund of the money I paid Dubrovnik Old Town Apartments.

Late Wednesday I received a couple of emails from Amex, which seem to indicate that they’ve accepted my complaint and that Amex Travel credited my account with the money.

Well, I’m feeling a bit like Sheriff Obie, sitting in the courtroom with his eight-by-ten color glossy pictures with circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one explaining what each one is, and watching the judge come in with his seeing-eye dog. (Children—if you do not get the reference, go here.) I had all my corroborating evidence lined up and Amex didn’t even want it. So I’m going to share it with you. Viz:

Based largely on the description on the Amex Travel site, I booked a stay at Dubrovnik Old Town Apartments, 24-27 October. It’s described as a bed & breakfast, with photos depicting sunny, open accommodations.

This is the description of their cleaning practices:

This is the description of accessibility:

And here’s how my room was described in the booking confirmation—note “ground floor”:

I knew it was not a hotel, but I expected it to be a professional operation; it was listed on the Amex site. However, the property address itself, 12 Zamanjina ul, is a vestibule. It is unstaffed. When you arrive there, you’re expected to call the manager, who called himself “Ante”, so he can sort you out. (Although I do not know how I was supposed to know that, since it’s not mentioned on their site, on the AMEX site or in my booking confirmation.) Aside from the first contact, he was completely unresponsive.

The “ground floor” room I was given was at the top of these 14 stairs:

I would not characterize that as “ground floor”. Moreover, these stairs were, in turn, located next to the metal chair in this photograph; meaning—up scores of steps (without banister) from actual “ground” level.

That would not be part of my definition of “accessible”.

However, my major issue with the room was the bathroom, and specifically the shower, which had black mold on multiple surfaces:

Moreover, the bath rug had clearly not been vacuumed or even shaken out:

(Which I get: you'd have to haul a vacuum cleaner up and down those stairs to clean this.)

I contacted Ante about this and got exactly zero response:

Given the delta between what I expected (based on the Amex listing) and what I received, I’d like you to refund the money I paid for my stay there.

According to Amex's latest email, I got the credit, although Ante has until January to respond. I just wish they'd remove the provider from their listings.

 

 

 

Our Lady

While in Paris I did go to see Notre Dame. I didn’t do it last year because honestly the videos of it engulfed in flames in 2019 were so horrifying that I just couldn’t. I could see it encased in scaffolding on my taxi ride to my hotel and just left it at that.

They’re working like crazy to get it fully restored in time for the Olympics next year. You can’t go inside, but they’ve got panels along the side documenting their efforts. It must feel amazing to be among the craftspeople repairing and recreating the structure and ornaments that have stood there for nearly a millennium.

Here’s what I could see.

I love the gargoyles.

 

 

You won't find everything...

I gave you a report on Galeries Lafayette, the iconic department store in Paris. But I also went this time to la Samaritaine, which with Galeries, le Bon Marché and au Printemps, formed the apex quartet of consumerism in the city. I vaguely recall buying a cotton top at au Printemps on a trip there in the 90s, and I made a pass through le Bon Marché in 2018, because it was between my hotel and le musée de l’Armée. But I couldn’t recall having been to la Samaritaine, so this time I went there.

Originally built in 1869 as a dress shop, the store expanded physically as it expanded its merchandise. Eventually, you could buy anything from ladies clothing to lawnmowers there (rather like Sears, as I think of it), lending truth to its slogan “On trouve tout à la Samaritaine” (you can find everything at the Samaritaine). It was decidedly more downmarket from the likes of Galeries or Bon Marché, which was evident from a display of 60s and 70s commercials they had.

(Actress looks more like Princess Margaret, but still pretty good.)

(The part I saw in the store starts at 0:44.)

The store declined throughout the latter part of the 20^th Century, and closed in 2005. It was eventually acquired by Bernard Arnault and a part of his LVMH conglomerate; Arnault poured seven years and nearly $900M into renovations before it reopened a little over two years ago. This time round, it is definitely not a middle-class mecca, and you will not find a whiff of a lawnmower anywhere near it. It struck me as a Galeries Lafayette manqué, just with fewer floors and less space, but pretty much the same merch. Viz:

It does have beautiful Art Nouveau touches from its origins, and the glass roof ensures it’s flooded with light, even on an overcast day.

But—as with GL—it’s not clear to me who would actually buy there, outside of certain categories of foreign tourists, into none of which I fall.

 

 

Espace chiens

Some (first world) problems are universal.

Such was my thought when I came across this dog-poop bag in the Sixth Arrondissement (a very upscale district) of Paris:

It takes a unique personality to go to the trouble of bagging your dog’s excrement—thus fulfilling the letter of the law—but then leaving it on the street. Especially when there are plenty of trash bins all around.

I see it all the time in the People’s Republic of Reston.

But then there was this:

Interestingly, I never saw either bags or crap on the streets of either Dubrovnik or Sarajevo.

 

 

Lights underground

Even though le Métro tried to kill me, I don’t hold a grudge.

This was the first time I’d ever experienced a subterranean mass transit system (when I first visited in 1979), and I’ve always really loved it. (I’m from LA; I am fascinated by railed mass transit that actually works, and I will ride anything calling itself a subway, metro or light rail just to be able to say I did. There was a tram line in Istanbul that ran maybe a couple of kilometers; I rode it just because.)

So here’s a clip from Odéon station, where things were colorful:

 

La vie parisienne

A few miscellaneous shots around Paris.

This e-bike owner is serious about theft prevention:

And I guess these couples think they’re serious about each other:

(Seriously—get a life, people.)

I’ve noticed that taggers are active all over Europe; this one was kind of impressive for being a mobile target:

(Although in Sarajevo it was the rare tram car that was not grafitti’d.)

I wasn’t sure whether this was an art installation or the morning after a very special night; I suspect the former:

This tree looked like it was in jungle camouflage:

And here’s something you might recognize:

 

Gratitude Monday: all of it

Another Gratitude Monday on the road. And I’m really grateful that I took this trip. Which I probably wouldn’t have done except for the credit from Air France.

I’m grateful that the snotty Swiss deflected me from their poker-up-ass country and over to the Balkans and to Sarajevo in particular.

I’m grateful that my replacement knees have handled thousands of steps a day through streets ancient and modern, including a squillion stone stairs in Dubrovnik.

Even though I’ve had to be patted down at every airport I’ve gone through, those knees are da bomb. I’m going to save a bundle on NSAIDs.

And I’m grateful, once again, for Paris.

 

 

No good deed

Yeah, okay—this happened:

I was on a jam-packed Métro car Friday, standing near the door. At the Cité station an old guy with a cane was trying to make his way from the back to the door and the doors-closing alarm sounded. It wasn’t my station, but I stepped off, while still holding on to a rail to make way. If I thought at all, I was thinking I could block the door until he got out (and I did wonder what was up with no one making room for him to move).

On the DC Metro system, the doors stop closing if they encounter an obstacle.

On the Paris Métro, they don’t.

Interestingly, my forearm puffed up like a snake that swallowed a fat rabbit within seconds. I mean, the train hadn’t pulled out of the station before it ballooned. There was no pain, and nothing felt broken (although I acknowledge that I’ve called this kind of thing wrong before), so I proceeded to the musée du Luxembourg to see the exhibition on Gertrude Stein and Pablo Picasso.

It did occur to me that I might want to ice it, so when I got back to the hotel, the food and beverage service manager gave me a pack of ice (pneumatically sealed plastic bag) and I spent a couple of hours balancing it on my arm.

It does seem to have helped; here’s how I looked yesterday:

Let me emphasize: no pain, and everything is working. I’m already supporting an entire orthopedic practice; I really don’t want to have to start all over again.

Oh—the old guy got off at the next stop, and his son—who’d also tried to hold the door for him—reunited with him.

All’s well.

(Except—hotel housekeeping: I’m sorry about the blood on the bedding.)

And if you see this sign in the Métro, pay attention: