Airlines suspend plans to charge fees for wearing hats in coach

In a move seen as an attempt to calm the anger of airline passengers who are growing increasingly resentful about what some see as the out-of-hand increase in add-on fees, most of the major airlines announced today that they have set aside plans to charge a fee for hats worn in coach class.

The fee would have been $25 per hat and an additional $25 for any emblazoned with the slogan “Party like its 1776.”

The only holdout among the airlines was Southwest, which maintained that it will go ahead with plans to charge the $25, but only for cowboy hats, with an extra $25 added on flights between Dallas and Houston.

The add-on fee would not have applied to first class passengers or to the cockpit crew.

This post originally appeared on the wall of  the now inactive facebook group “We are wearing a hat in our facebook photo, or admire people who do.”

TSA secrets the flying public doesn’t want you to know

Not since the days when the postal service mattered to anybody has a group of federal workers (Congress excepted) taken so much abuse as the agents of the TSA.

That the TSA performs a necessary function is clear. Their vigilance, study after study has shown, has resulted in airline passengers bringing aboard far fewer knives, handguns, and explosive devices than they used to.

Yet the abuse of TSA agents has become so pervasive it has been estimated that comedians such as Jay Leno (“Have you heard the TSA’s new slogan? ‘We handle more junk than eBay.'”) David Letterman (“TSA says they are going to crack down on the invasive pat-downs. In fact, one agent was transferred to another parish.”) and Conan O’Brien (“ I don’t mind being patted down by airport security, but I don’t like it when the guy says, ‘Now you do me.'”) would be hard pressed to get through their monologues without some reference to the alleged humiliation faced daily by the flying public.

Of course some of the abuse is well-deserved.  There’s no evidence to show that grandmothers in wheelchairs are more likely to commit terrorist acts than any other group. And what kind of person takes a stuffed animal away from a four-year-old boy, even if the animal does turn out to contain gun parts?

But try putting yourself in the shoes of a TSA agent. (Admittedly, not as easily done, at most security checkpoints, as TSA agents putting themselves in yours.) The fact is that the two things the flying public finds most outrageous about the airport security experience – pat downs and body scans – are the two things that make it most difficult for TSA agents to come to work each day (that and most of them don’t earn enough to own a car).

“Everybody says airport security is a system built on fear,” TSA spokesperson Daniel Butts said, “But what they don’t say is that the biggest fears are those faced by the TSA agents themselves. To understand why, you just need to look at most people making their way through an airport terminal, picture them naked, and then imagine having to run your hand up the inside of their thighs. It’s not exactly a Ken and Barbie world out there.”

Considering the stress that results, it is a wonder, Butts said, that the TSA team holds up as well as they have. “Sure, there have been cases of verbal abuse, theft, drug trafficking, and dealing in child pornography, but at least nobody’s gone postal.”

When can you say you’ve been to a country?

One of the more difficult questions for a traveler to answer can be whether they have been to a country. Can they count it if they pass through on a train or visit on a cruise ship without ever disembarking? Must they go through the entry formalities, such as having their passport stamped, or at least, in the case of arriving by air, leave the security area? Do they have to have been there a certain length of time, overnight, say, or, more commonly, as long as whoever is asking the question?

Have I, for instance, been to Yap, a Micronesian island group in the far western Pacific where my plane touched down just long enough for me to stretch my legs on the tarmac while I waited to continue a flight from Guam to Palau?

I would argue that I have, though I was not there long enough even to see  examples of the one thing Yap is known for — the coin-shaped stone money, some of it as big around as truck tires, that has prevented the Yapanese from developing the concept of pocket change.

I base my claim on the interaction I had with an old Yapanese woman who sat next to me on the flight from Guam. She was not friendly at first, fearing, I suspect, that I might be offended by the overflowing baggy in which she spat the betel nut juice that was dripping blood red, vampire style,  from the corners of her mouth. But when I offered her the airsick bag from the back of my seat, her bag having gone missing, possibly as a result of use by a betel nut chewer on an earlier leg of the flight, the practice being fairly common in that part of the Pacific, she warmed considerably, and we passed the flight in pleasant conversation, despite her dribbling. And by the end of the flight I had an invitation to her daughter’s wedding, an invitation I had to decline because the airlines are so unreasonable about letting you change your mind about itineraries in mid journey.

Her daughter, who had seen much of the world, having traveled even as far afield as Hawaii, was back home in Yap now, making final preparations for the wedding. But there was a problem, the woman told me. All the daughter’s traveling had put the notion in her head that she should not have a traditional wedding. And the woman, as mothers often are in these situations, was upset about it.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I told her, waving off an offer to try some of the betel nut myself.

The sticking point, it seemed, was that in a traditional wedding on Yap the bride would be topless, as the woman is in the photo accompanying this story, which also features, you may have noticed, the stone money. That the photo is an authentic depiction of traditional life on Yap can be assumed from the fact that it is a closeup of an official Yap postage stamp. The bride-to-be, however, wanted no part of tradition.

I was disappointed that I would miss the wedding, especially after, as we deplaned, the old woman pointed out her daughter to me, a lovely-looking girl waving to us from the other side of a chain-link fence at the edge of the tarmac. The experience did help define for me, however, when you can say you have visited a country.

You have been to a country when you were there long enough to come back with a story.

I’ll just have the chicken

Not long ago, I had an epiphany that arrived with wings. It began with a meal at La Hacienda, a Mexican restaurant at the Fairmont Princess, in Scottsdale, Arizona, where my waiter was not forthcoming with a suggestion for chicken.

Chicken was certainly well represented on La Hacienda’s menu, which is a collaboration between the restaurant’s chef de cuisine, Forest Hamrick, who grew up within a few miles of the Mexican border, and Mexico City native Richard Sandoval, whose interpretation of modern Mexican fare (now expanded to a more encompassing Latin fare) has carried his group of more than 25 restaurants as far afield as Qatar and Dubai.

There were chicken tamales wrapped in banana leaves. And chicken enchiladas divorciadas, so named because of the necessary division between the green and red sauces. And a pan roasted chicken breast version of mole poblano, a Mexican standard he hesitates to call purely traditional only because he doesn’t know how widespread is the practice, employed by Sandoval’s grandmother, from whom he got his recipe, of thickening the mole sauce with crushed animal crackers.

But after the waiter praised my wife and mother-in-law for ordering the lobster tacos and crab enchiladas, the waiter seemed to struggle, even if ever so slightly, with appending “excellent choice,” to my selection, the mole poblano.

It has always been that way, in Istanbul, in Sydney, in a Greek restaurant in New York City. No matter what the culture, I can’t recall a waiter ever recommending chicken from a menu whose aim was to present some version of that culture’s haute cuisine.

“That’s because nobody ever goes to a restaurant to order chicken,” Hamrick told me when they talked after the meal. “It’s on the menu for when the less adventurous people look at everything else and say, ‘I’ll just have the chicken.”

Sandoval, who I met several weeks later at another of his restaurants, Pampano, in New York, agreed. “People always perceive chicken as the inexpensive, safe choice,” he said.

Yet even if chicken is for the less adventurous eater, which I might take issue with, considering myself as risk-taking at table as anyone, having not so long ago made my way, without grimace, through a handful of squirming white grubs I’d uncovered with a whack of my machete in a South American rainforest, La Hacienda’s mole poblano was as good as any I’d had. The accompanying plantains and cilantro rice were a modernizing touch, and the dish’s best-known ingredient, chocolate, was there in just enough measure to have a sweetening effect on the many other, spicy, flavors, but not so evident that you could use it as selling point for a finicky five year old or someone with the culinary inhibitions of one.

And that’s when my epiphany, my moment of insight, came to me.

While featured dishes may tempt a chef to act as if he (or she) is angling for his own television show, chicken allows you to discover how they cook when they are being themselves. You learn something about what’s in their soul, and in the soul of the culture their cuisine represents.

From Hamrick, for instance, you might discover that his soul, when it comes to poultry, is somewhere other than where you might expect it to be. As befits a close to the earth, close to the bone culture that has traditionally found it necessary to use every part of everything that might conceivably go into the oven or pot (cow tongue might come immediately to mind), his favorite part of the chicken is the tail.

“People, including my wife, who is Mexican, think I’m crazy, but after you roast chickens the tails are still left on them, and they’ve got that little bit of cartilage, and fat, that you can deep fry like you would pork, and make tacos out of them. And they are awesome.”

I promised he would try some on his next visit.

And from Sandoval? You might learn that the perceived shortcomings of chicken are what he thinks make it work so well with Mexican dishes.

“Usually the protein is the star,” he says. “But with Mexican cuisine you are adding so many spices, herbs, flavors, depth, you want a protein that’s not going to steal the spotlight, but be a good supporting actor.”

It is why, he says, that mole poblano, with its thick, reddish-brown sauce of chiles and other spicy ingredients, traditionally served over chicken or turkey, is most often considered Mexico’s national dish.

“It is a dish,” he says, “in which the mole is the star, and the protein is more of a bit player.”

As for my epiphany, it gave me a plan. I have decided to pursue that often maligned bird through the cuisines of all counties and countries. My goal will be to look at regions, restaurants, and chefs based on how well, or interestingly, or unusually, they prepare chicken. It is a quest on which I vow never again to feel that I must apologize for placing my order, never again be concerned with the disdain of a waiter when I proclaim, “I’ll just have the chicken.”

It is a plan, Bob thinks, that will really fly.

Foreign phrases for when you need to confound the locals.

In his essay “Of Travel” English philosopher Francis Bacon admonished young people about to start out on the Grand Tour to learn the languages of the countries they planned to visit or risk returning home as ignorant as when they departed. It’s hard to question the wisdom of Bacon’s words, or of his decision, once having uttered them, never to travel farther afield than Paris.

Today, however, even a moderately traveled person will find Bacon’s admonition impossible to obey. Nor is it often necessary for a foreign-traveling English speaker to know another language. No matter where you travel you will almost invariably find locals who know enough English to ask how you are and if you have dollars to exchange.

Still, when you visit any foreign country you benefit from knowing at least a few words. A good choice is hello, goodbye, please, thank you, and at least one phrase that will not only prove practical but also fool locals into thinking you know more of their language than you are letting on. That way, they are less likely to make derogatory comments about you in your presence, such as “You wouldn’t believe how little he had in his wallet.” Phrases you might want to learn include these:

Ich bin nackt, weil ich nicht über meinen Zimmerschlüssel.

I am naked because I do not have my room key.

In France or Italy you wouldn’t need to know this, because nobody would care why you were in the hotel lobby naked. But the Germans are so literal they insist on tracing ever effect back to its cause.

Vorrei parlare con un manager che non è il fumo.

I’d like to speak with a manager who is not smoking.

It is possible to use this in hotels, restaurants, and shops throughout Italy, with negligible results.

¿Sabes dónde puedo comprar piezas de frenos de un autobús?

Do you know where I can buy brake parts for a bus?

If you are a veteran long-distance South American bus rider you know how useful this bit of Spanish will be, especially as you approach the Pass of Death, in Costa Rica, on the Pan American Highway.

 

Я здесь по делам, так что мне нужно будет пустой чек.

I’m here on business, so I will need a blank receipt.

If the Russians learned anything about sound fiscal management from us, it is that nothing is as valuable to the business traveler as a receipt whose amount can be filled in at the traveler’s leisure.

Bu adam bütün gece horlamaya gidiyor olsam da bu hücreye uyuyamıyorum.

I can’t sleep in this cell if that man is going to snore all night.

As many of us have grown older, this Turkish phrase is not nearly as valuable as it was in the hashish-laced days of the Midnight Express. But if you want to bring smiles to the faces of former prison guards, this should help.

Tututol ba kayo kung sumakay ako sa baul ng iyong mga taxi?

Do you mind if I ride in the trunk of your taxi?

In the Philippines, where kidnapping has a long tradition as a viable career choice, the ability for Westerners to travel from points A to B without having to pay $1.2 million makes this a useful phrase indeed.

Θα ήθελα ένα δωμάτιο που βλέπει μακριά από τις διαδηλώσεις, παρακαλώ.

I’d like a room facing away from the protests, please.

It is fascinating to watch the Greeks, especially around Athens’ Syntagma Square, deal with their social issues, but not if you need a good night’s sleep because you have to be at the airport for a 5 a.m. check in.

Sonat magis ridiculam in Latin

It sounds funnier in English.

You know how you can be in Vatican City, having an audience with the Pope, and you tell him one of your usually sure-fire chucklers, and he responds by signaling the palace guards? Sometimes, this bit of Latin is your only comeback.

 

 

Bob Payne's travel news and advice since before Columbus landed at Plymouth Rock.

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