Part 1/2: Prologue
Part 1: New York LaGuardia (LGA) to Washington National on US Airways
Part 2: Washington Dulles (IAD) to Frankfurt (FRA) on United
Part 3: FRA – Vienna (VIE) – Skopje (SKP) on Austrian
Part 4: Arrival in Skopje, and Day 1 in Skopje
Part 5: Day 2 in Skopje
Part 6: A bit more Skopje
Part 7: Daytrip to Pristina, Kosovo
Part 8: SKP – Zagreb (ZAG) – VIE on Croatian Airlines
Part 9: VIE – Erbil, Iraq (EBL) on Austrian
Part 10: Erbil, Iraq
Part 11: EBL – VIE on Austrian
Part 12: Hilton Vienna Stadtpark
Part 13: VIE – Zurich (ZRH) – JFK on Swiss International Air Lines
* * * * * * * * * *
Part 8:
Back at the hotel, the guy at the front desk/bar rather glumly informed me that there were no available rooms for that particular evening, but they had rooms available at the Hotel Vila Ani, a few minutes away by car. He appeared sincerely apologetic, and as if he had let me down, though, it really wasn’t that big of a deal. It was my own stupidity and lack of foresight and planning that had caused me to fail to make a reservation in advance. He called the other hotel to let them know that I would be arriving, and after hanging up, said that they would be happy to pay for my cab. Unnecessary, again, because I was mostly responsible for the mixup, but nonetheless very kind. Simply, a very nice and authentically kind gesture from the hotel staff. On that regard, excuse my editorial meandering away from the main topic, but I must say that these types of experiences are why I often prefer smaller, independently-run hotels. Yeah, tiny hotels may not have points, an executive lounge, highest tier check in lines for your personal ego boost, and there may only be planks for a stairs (as there was in my “apartment”) but, by golly, do they provide authenticity, sincerity, and real care for the customers. The tireless work of the staff at the Hotel Ani to try to find me a room for the night, and then even paying for my cab to the other hotel shows a true care for their guests – even, yes, when it was my fault I didn’t book in advance. I wasn’t a high-status member in the elite program or paying three grand a night – I was a scrub visitor with a lack of foresight.
I must say, I roll my eyes a bit whenever someone recounts an apparent extra bit of customer service at a large, sterile chain hotel, erroneously interpreting that extra service as an apparently authentic experience. No, that’s patently false. That’s someone behaving nicely towards you because your high-status in the guest rewards program dictates that they act kindly towards you, which, in my opinion, equates to a delusionally false authentic experience, couched in the name of customer service, and simply being a sycophant towards your top tier elite members in the program. It exists only to buoy and inflate the egos of people who have finagled top-tier hotel status and are mesmerized by a scripted set of platitudes, obsequiousness, and find their egos similarly inflated by a sort of master-servant relationship of the hotel employees – which attitude, I must say, was what made my time at the Lufthansa First Class Terminal rather uncomfortable, the employees acting as if they were trammeled in some sort of indentured servitude in the 12th century. Take a chance – go out to experience real kindness, authenticity, and altruism towards guests, of people who demonstrate excellent customer service towards any sort of customer, and don’t partition and parcel their service levels based on some status embossed on a card. Break out of your square-inch sized comfort zone. Take a chance, sack up, man up, and enjoy some real human interaction – not one inscribed in a manual written by corporate headquarters. Those who believe that kind of sterility and sniveling obsequiousness is authentic, are, frankly, ignorant of reality, and, sadly, missing out on real human interaction in the name of false experience. Your stay is about as authentic as a cake made from a box – sure, it’s still a cake, but it sucks, is of poor quality, and beneath the artificial flavors, thickeners, and moisteners, though it tastes real, and looks good, it’s still a shitty cake, made with imposter ingredients. I call utter bullshit. Think outside the rote cliches of travel, for once.
Of course, if you like staying at chain hotels because of consistently cushy beds, a shower with water pressure, and having stairs that aren’t just plywood planks with exposed corners, that’s a-okay. Hey, I stayed in the Hilton in Vienna (read about it in an upcoming section), because I decided I wanted a fucking shower with fucking water pressure, and didn’t want to have to flip a separate switch to heat water for the bathroom (yes, one of the faults of the Hotel Ani). Stay at a chain if you need consistent amenities. It’s when people start treating the canned, trite lines fed to you by the concierge as a real travel experience that worries me.
But, I digress.
Anyway, I jumped in a cab, who sped through the streets of Skopje, still wet with that morning’s rain. He turned of a main road, and charged up a steep hill, that seemed more in a residential neighborhood. They weren’t kidding that the hotel was a bit farther from downtown. We wound our way up the streets, passing houses and small stores. At one point, the driver, who didn’t say much to me during our trip, seemed to be completely lost. After pulling into a random driveway, and asking for directions, he turned the car around, drove back down the hill, and turned into the hotel. Yeah, it was way far away from the main streets.
I rang the bell, passed through the gate, and was greeted by a balding man wearing jeans and a FedEx t-shirt (?). He greeted me very warmly, but then soon snapped into a kind of passive paranoia, where he wanted me to make sure I surrendered my passport until I paid. Fine, but, sadly, they didn’t take cards. We then launched a, literally, fifteen minute conversation where we planned out the details of payment, when I would first see the room, when I would head back down the hill to obtain money from an ATM, and how we would work on the current exchange rate between Euros and Macedonian Denar, complete with him producing a comically-sized calculator and punching in a few figures. I’m not joking – it was planned with the precision of a military invasion. At the end, he determined that I should view the room, with my luggage. After viewing said room, I should jettison luggage, at which time, I should proceed down the stairs, taking the stairs no more than one at a time, and inform him if said room was acceptable for my accommodation standards. Then, in due time, I would proceed out of said hotel, down said road, towards the city center, where I would then access an automatic teller machine, that would permit me to remove funds from my previously-wired bank account. Then, I would trudge up said hill, return to the premises, at which time I would pay the rate, in accordance to the previously decided exchange rate, as determined by FedEx man’s comically large calculator. At that time, I would exchange the currency, a receipt would potentially be issued, depending on my preference at that time, and I could then return to my room for the agreed-upon duration of time. I signed the contract, he signed, we had it witnessed by an international body of magistrates, notarized, sealed, and buried in the ground. (See, I can write like a lawyer – I don’t need a fancy Stanford Law education like my brother, Sam 
).
I headed up to the room, which, I must say was a bit nicer than the room at the Hotel Ani – the fixtures seemed a bit newer, but, I was a bit peeved by the more uptight staff, I must say. I dropped off my bag, and headed downstairs, figuring I should just finish payment. I also asked him if he could telephone a taxi company for me, from a business card I had in my pocket. The friends I had met the night before, who were dumfounded and quite pissed at my 25-Euro taxi debacle, had asked a taxi driver on the way to the discotheque for his card, and informed me that the rate to the airport should be about 800 Denar, or 13 bucks.
I headed down the hill, not looking forward to the long walk into the city center. Truthfully, I just wanted to curl up for a bit, see if I could find some English-speaking TV, and head to bed early before my 6am flight. Luckily, I found an ATM just about half a mile down the hill, and pulled some money. I am meticulous, at the end of trips, about pulling the correct amount of money, not wanting to have too much before departing. Normally, I would just exchange any leftover currency at the airport, but, lately, I seem to be visiting countries that would rather have American currency in, and not have it leave the country. They’re all to happy to have their currency leave with the passenger, and always pretend that their currency exchange stand is closed when I try to change money back into American dollars – which, explains why I have a stack of leftover Uzbek currency the thickness of War and Peace. I only pulled enough money for the hotel and the cab to the airport, which, left me with only enough coins, scraped together from my pockets to buy a bag of pretzels for dinner. Screw it, I thought. I’ll eat the pretzels and a leftover energy bar. No sense in pulling too much currency just to grab a more substantial dinner, and risk not being able to exchange it back to USD. I walked back up the hill, paid for my room (mentally grumbling at the fact that they guy was charging me a higher exchange rate for Denar to Euros). He commented on my bag of pretzels, as well. I also asked if he knew how to turn on the air conditioner, because it was a bit stuffy and hot in the room, and I couldn’t find the remote control. The man was apologetic, and said he didn’t make the rules – that it was the wife of the owner that made the rules at this hotel – and that he would have to charge me five Euros for the privilege of using the air conditioner. Uh, wow – five euros? For some air? I declined, with a look of horror on my face. I would just open the window. At the other hotel, I was allowed to use the air conditioner to my content. I wonder if their differing views on ancillary revenue and extra fees for the air conditioning caused marital problems for Ani and his wife. FedEx man then called for a taxi, told me to be in front of the gate at 4.15am, and bid me farewell, and that he would see me next year (?). I headed upstairs, watched a bit of TV (including a show on airline crashes that featured reenactments with macabre, chilling screams from the passengers), and went to sleep.
The next morning, I awoke, quickly packed, and headed outside a bit early, pleased to find the taxi waiting. To demonstrate my worldliness, I used my best Macedonian to confirm that it was indeed a taxi for the airport (as in – I simply inquired “Aerodrome?” [pronounced ayroh-drome]), to which the driver uttered a simple “Da.” We sped towards the airport in the blackness, the driver only asking at one point if he could play music from his cellphone. Fine with me. The freeways were mostly empty, our taxi only occasionally passing a truck. I was intrigued by the frequent signs for Athens, and in the haze of the early morning, let my travel-romantic mind wander, wondering what it would be like simply to head to Athens that early morning.
We pulled up to the terminal building, back where I had begun, just three days ago. I paid the 800 Denar fair, and left the taxi, and Skopje, feeling triumphant, and managing to escape a taxi ride back to the airport, without being screwed. Not a bad way to finish – escaping with a cheaper taxi ride, a bag of pretzels, and not having to pay five fucking Euros for an air conditioner.
I entered the terminal, and headed to the check in counter. The small terminal was bustling at 5.00am, and the line for Croatian Airlines check-in to Zagreb was long, and moved sluggishly. When I finally arrived at the front, I snapped down my passport, proclaimed I had no bags to check, and was checked in in 30 seconds. I proudly left the line with world record for check in, that morning. The agent, too, had managed to check me in all the way to Erbil, Iraq.
Entrance to the departures hall.
BUstling airport in the early morning.
Zagreb check-in, with line that stretched all the way to Zagreb.
Croatia Airlines 367
September 9, 2009
SKP – ZAG
Departure: 6.10am
Arrival: 7.25
Equipment: Airbus A320
Seat: 22A
Class: Economy
Okay, first, let’s not panic people. Breathe with me – in and out, in and out, in and out. Yes, this flight was in Economy. Oh no! When I had booked this trip, I had purposefully selected the routing to Vienna via Zagreb instead of the Skopje – Vienna nonstop because, A, I had wanted to transit Zagreb to say I had been to Croatia (I don’t want to get into a big debate here, but, yes, being physically in a country, even in an airport, means you have been there), and B, wanted to fly Croatia Airlines. I didn’t foresee a time when I would fly Croatia Airlines again, mostly, because when I book my Star Alliance trips, I don’t usually rabidly ask the agent, “Oh, is Croatia Airlines available on that route?” At the time of booking, SKP – ZAG was only available in Economy, and frankly, I forgot to change it call and ask if any biz class availability has opened. Many FlyerTalkers can’t bear to undergo a one-hour-fifteen minute flight in Economy, and would dismiss such draconian treatment as insult and a blow their psyches, so, folks, as painful as it may be, I’m taking one for the team. Don’t worry. Though one hour and fifteen minutes is reallllly long flight, somehow, I will get through it. Don’t panic.
Boarding pass, printed on the cool Alexander the Great stock.
I headed through security, mostly notable because behind me in line was a family with a baby, who had not only a mullet, but a rat tail, and stripes shaved into the side of the mullet. I’m no expert on Freudian psychology, but, wow – that kid is going to have some serious issues to uncover with his psychoanalyst in his formative years. I have literally never seen a worse haircut – on anyone. I’m so sorry that poor, young kid was robbed of his dignity at such an early age, and couldn’t do a thing about it. They need to beef up social services in Macedonia and remove children from homes of parents who force that type of haircut on their progeny.
Heading through security.
After security, all passengers kind of herd together in one waiting area. The airport, I realized, is teeeeeny. There are only two gates, two shops in the waiting area, and the waiting area itself is just a bit too small to accommodate waiting passengers. The congestion worsens when passengers try to line up by the gate doors for their flights, causing security and seated, waiting passengers to contend with a veritable conga line of passengers snaking through the waiting area. I milled about the gate, waiting for boarding to begin, as the scheduled boarding time passed. I saw we had an airplane, waiting on the tarmac, a good sign, and saw employees walking back and forth between our gate and the airplane, which signaled that, at least, something was happening in the preparations for our flight. Though it would be my fault for taking the more convoluted routing, I certainly didn’t want to jeopardize missing my Austrian Airlines connection in Vienna for Erbil, Iraq, knowing the next flight wouldn’t depart until the next day.
Crowded waiting area.
The other gate - for the departure to Belgrade.
Our ship, awaiting boarding.
At about 15 minutes following scheduling boarding time, an employee made a quick announcement, and the usual European boarding scrum commenced, with that slow, mass action, push of people towards the boarding door, like water emptying from a hole in a bucket. I walked across the still-dark apron, climbed that back airstairs, and plunked myself in my seat. Though I don’t remember much from this flight, almost immediately putting my headphones around my ears and trying to go to sleep, the flight attendants seemed unfriendly and militant, and a pre-recorded set of announcements about where to place our baggage and where to find our seat numbers blared from the speakers, adding the impersonal air. Hmmm, I thought, perhaps a bit prematurely – militant, cold flight attendants? Excessive numbers of announcements that bordered on condescension? Gee, Croatia Airlines really seems like the United Airlines of Europe! Boarding proceeded very quickly, and soon we were rotating off Macedonian soil.
Economy class section. I always like crossed-seatbelts - it's my prissy little enjoyment of flying. Even United crosses seatbelts sometimes!
I quickly passed out, and awoke to a long, long, long announcement – we’re talking about 15 to 20 minutes, from the cockpit, in Croatian. Now, because I had heard nothing from the flight deck prior to takeoff, I only used it as evidence to add to the “United Airlines of Europe” pronouncement, but as soon as the Croatian ceased, the captain launched into another 15 minute speech, in English, about the details of the day’s flight, the aircraft, the weather, and the routing. It was a sensational announcement – one of the best I have ever heard – hearkening back to the days of yore when pilots pointed out geographical features and fun facts. Our captain even made sure to mention we were using a different runway, that morning, in our approach to Zagreb, because winds switched the normal south-directed arrivals to the north. What a guy. I take back some of the things I said about you, Croatia Airlines.
We soon began our descent, followed by a beautiful, picturesque approach into Zagreb in the strong morning light. Zagreb look beautiful from the air – plenty of green plains and red-roofed houses. I made a mental note to make sure to return for a more extended visit. We landed, made a quick taxi, and parked at a remote stand – sort of a misnomer for an airport this small, and bussed to the terminal to make the transfer for my flight to Vienna.
Nice approach into Zagreb in the morning sun. (Should I insert the requisite stilted and over-dramatic FlyerTalker lamentation, here, about "how sitting in Economy class, I saw a view of the wing I hadn't seen in a long time - the back of it!" Sheeeeesh).
Touccccchddddown!
Our air flying machine, as viewed from the back, when boarding the bus to the terminal. Zagreb's airport is so small, I don't see why we couldn't have just walked to the terminal - it was, literally, a 20 second busride to the terminal building from the airplane.
At the terminal, I joined the long line of people making a transfer, and proceeded through, oh, why the hell not, another security check! I need to total the number of security checks I underwent on this trip, but this particular check, was resplendently pleasant – no belt removal, no shoe removal, and no laptop removal! It was, I am pleased to say, downright civilized. After security, I joined the group awaiting the flight to Vienna, as we walked back and forth between two gates, based on conflicting information from the monitors, announcements, and the signs at the gates as to from which gate our flight would depart. Eventually, of course, a gate agent appeared, and began boarding the flight from the alternate gate, and the entire queue had to shuffle over to the new gate, and join the boarding fray.
Our flight may, or may not, depart from this gate.
Waiting area, full of confused souls.
Gates.
Boarding began, and all passengers climbed aboard a bus for the, this time, 30 second drive to the airplane.
Croatia Airlines 440
September 9, 2009
ZAG – VIE
Departure: 8.10am
Arrival: 9.05am
Equipment: Bombardier Q-400 (Dash Eight)
Seat: 1A
Class: Euro Biznass
I was very excited to fly on a Dash-8. Yes, while they are the lament of most frequent flyers whose histrionic bones can’t support their frame on anything less than a 747, I think the Dash is simply a super fun airplane. I love the huge, growling props on each wing, and the almost Gothic-type landing gear that folds into the wings with huge flourish and accompanying noise. I really enjoy flying a diversity of aircraft, and really don’t mind, or care, that the seats are smaller on this type of airplane, or legroom is somewhat constricted. Travel for travel’s sake – enjoy the act of being transported somewhere, regardless of the type of airplane, car, motorcycle, or elephant for your journey. When people mope about the size of their airplane, it really makes me wonder if they actually enjoy the idea of travel, and their destination, or their intended destination is just an unfortunate side effect of their trip, and truthfully, it’s all about simply experiencing a luxurious seat purchased with frequent flyer miles for bragging rights, and the actual destination simply becomes something to check off from a list. Since when did the destination become secondary ? Why not enjoy the mode of transport as much as the destination? That, folks, is real travel.
But, I digress . . .
Boarding the Dash for Vienna.
Horrible picture of my seat.
As boarding completed, I turned around, and found I was the only passenger in business class – all of the others were uniformed Croatia airlines employees, or “nonrevs.” Filling the front cabin with employees? Wow, Croatia Airlines really is the United Airlines of Europe!
With a few announcements and a safety demonstration, the two huge props on either wing grumbled to life, and after a quick taxi, spun to full force, and lifted us off the ground for the short flight to Vienna.
The cabin crew served a quick meal following takeoff of honey turkey, ricotta, bread, and fruit. Healthful (except for the nitrates in the turkey, I’m guessing), and light. From only eating pretzels and an energy bar the night before, and nothing that morning, I was quite hungry, and ate it all. None too shabby on such a short flight. In the United States, we would’ve heard a smug announcement from the flight attendants filled with fortressesed, stodgy language saying, “Due to the short duration of this flight, there will be no beverage service,” as they hung out in the galley, gossiping, working a crossword puzzle, or reading US Weekly as the passengers sat wondering just what they had paid for.
Quick meal.
The fight passed quickly, over the morninglit countryside, and soon began its descent into Vienna. We touched down, on time, and rolled to a remote stand, where passengers disembarked, funneled into buses, and rode to the terminal.
I readied to make my transfer. Iraq was only one flight away.
