There was a major crisis at
LAX, and the man causing it was going nowhere fast.
Virgin Atlantic, which has a spectacular lounge at
Heathrow for Upper Class passengers travelling to LA, has always had to make do
with Air New Zealand’s less than spectacular offering when travelling LA to
London.
It is, however, managed by the wonderful manager
Thierry, who beats everyone else hands down when it comes to airline customer
care. It’s not his fault that ANZ catering has heard of nothing other than
butternut squash soup, nor that their idea of a salad looks like the staple
diet of an anorexic rabbit; he looks after the people – often making valuable
introductions and forming friendships between passengers that, in my case,
certainly, have continued for years.
But inferior as the ANZ lounge is to Virgin’s (quite
why Virgin does not have one at LAX has never been fully explained to me), it
is still the best of a bad bunch. So, imagine my surprise when, last week, I
looked down at my Welcome card and saw that the “new” venue for Virgin
passengers is now Air France.
The man in front of me was having none of it. He
demanded to speak with Virgin. He demanded to speak with ANZ. They, alas, were
having none of him. So I snuck up the stairs, went to the ANZ lounge, told them
of my immense distress at this tragic turn of events, and hey presto, I was
suddenly sitting all nice and cosy before another bowl of butternut squash
soup. For all I know, Mr Angry is still at the check-in desk, shouting for Sir
Richard himself.
It was harder to come back to the UK this time, as I
confess to being very LA Loved Up. Having lived in Beverly Hills and Santa
Monica – the former like the Rigor Mortis Saloon before the Grim reaper calls
your name; the latter, beautiful sunsets but might as well be Wales for all of
its proximity to any action – I decided to move. To West Hollywood. And I love
it.
I am The Only Straight in the Village. Well, pretty
much so, and I feel incredibly safe. It’s a lot more lively at night, and
several UK friends are within walking distance of my rather gorgeous apartment,
which is not only a darn sight more upmarket than my Beverly Hills one
(honestly – someone should really give those landlords a lesson in the meaning
of “high spec”) but a darn sight cheaper.
So, it was hard to leave it, although obviously, I am
pleased to be seeing friends and family. My first stop was Denise Welch’s
wedding in Portugal (I was almost The Only Straight in the Wedding, too); after
Cardiff and London, I am off to Marbella to interview Eva Longoria – and I am
literally palpitating with excitement over that. I might invite her round for
tea when we are both back in LA, although I suspect Danish pastries are not
high on her list of afternoon treats.
And so to the UK weather. Dear Lord. Are the Brits
ever satisfied? The last few times I’ve returned home, they banged on endlessly
about how long the winter was, how cold they were, how they would never see sun
again. And now, here they are in the middle of a heat-wave, and it’s oh dear,
will this awful sunshine never end, blah blah blah.
And now there’s a whole new breed, who love the sun,
but don’t like people who don’t; so while one group moans about the weather,
the other people are moaning about the people moaning about the weather: the
Second Degree Moaners.
So far, I’ve spent just half an hour in the pub garden
with them, as I am sitting indoors catching up on all the US TV I crave when I
leave LA.
I’ve had to change my flight to fit in my interview
with Eva (it’s a tough job, but someone’s got to do it) and at least I’ll have
the Virgin lounge on this leg of the journey on my way back. This time, though,
it’s a one-way ticket. That Air France lounge will just have to wait.
Come on,
Sir Richard, get building! Your passengers need you.
More than that, they need
your lounges.
No comments:
Post a Comment