Flying United

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The day finally came. The day that we were set free from the barren, demoralizing, waste land that is Arlington Heights. Finally I could re-focus on something that both Emily and I had been looking forward to for over two months...moving to Brussels, Belgium.

We were ecstatic to find that our paperwork had been processed and shipped out to us this past Friday, which means that we were on the evening flight out on Monday after we received our passports and visas. The only problem now was to get our suitcases fully packed and ready to go. As always, we overpacked so that we have four giant suitcases around 70lbs each, while we each have a loaded backpack and a separate carryon. My carryon bag contains some heavy articles and my camera bag. The next step was getting through the worst part about traveling...the airport.

As you may know United Airlines has merged with Continental to become the United States’ largest airline, which means they can now screw over their passengers with the slightest of ease. And, since Chicago's O’Hare airport is the hub for United we havefirst hand experience of how half-assed they really are now.

Upon entering the United terminal at O’Hare Emily said “let’s just go right here,” which was the international “economy” check-in. As surprising as this might be, Emily’s company changed their policy two years ago about business travel. Since this particular flight wasn’t over 10 hrs (including any layovers), Emily had to fly Coach, which she hasn’t had to do on any long flight yet. Welcome to International Cattle Class sweetheart. But, since Emily had Gold status with United we could check in with the Business and First Class line...but it was about 75 meters down and we were toting all that luggage, thus her idea to check in “right here.” Fortunately there was no line and we got up the electronic counter that was “manned” by a middle-aged women giving us the stank-eye all the way up to the counter. You could tell she was hoping that wouldn’t ask for help...but we wanted to ask a few questions; mainly because United F*cking Airlines changed their upgrade policy all of a sudden. It used to be that, if a seat in Business Class was available, you could use 15,000 miles to upgrade to business, but NOW, it’s 20,000 miles AND $500. Really? $500? That was indeed confirmed by the lady trying to help us; therefore, no upgrade for us.

Trying to get checked in required this lady to continually punch buttons for more than 5 minutes, apparently trying to locate Bin Laden, but who knows really. After getting Emily checked she then proceeded with a 10 minute button clicking escapade designed to find Gadaffi as well. Before we know it we get to the point of checking our huge bags. We put the heaviest on the scale and it’s a whopping 74lbs. The lady begins to tell us that the bag will costs $400 because it’s over 70lbs and that if we can get it to 70lbs by moving things around it will only cost $200. We move some stuff around and all of our bags are now between 65lbs and 70.5lbs. They begin to charge us $800...$200 for every bag over 50lbs (Another policy United changed for International flights about a year or so ago) Well, that is, until Emily points out that she’s a Gold member, which the check in lady could have easily noticed on her ticket, or the fact that Emily presented her Gold card upon check-in. I guess that would only have worked if the lady had actually picked it up and looked at it, but that still presumes literacy would have been part of the equation. Eventually they realized that, along with Gold status, Emily gets to check three bags of 70lbs or less without paying a fee.

Now one bag is left and is assigned to me, a mere “Silver” status member, which basically means I get to carry around a useless card and get free upgrades to “economy plus.” Therefore, she checks my bag, I pay $200, and she doesn’t put the “priority baggage” sticker on my bag. This is what happens next. I say “why didn’t you put a priority sticker on my bag” “because you aren’t a Gold member and you’re not flying business.” I reply “I understand, but why would you put them on my wife’s three bags and not mine?” “you’re not a Gold member.” Again I say, “I know, but you do realize that her bags will come out with all the other priority bags and we’ll both still have to wait on that one bag? So really you shouldn’t have put a sticker on any of them, which would make make the eventual endless wait on baggage in a foreign airport at least somewhat amusing when a bag actually makes it to our destination, as opposed to us standing there in discontent waiting on one single bag that should have come out with the rest?” Of course all I got was the ghetto Stank-Eye as if she shouldn’t be told how to do her job. Was I being an ass? Probably, but I have to admit that I WAS making a valid point...something that could have been adverted with a little “customer service.” But, I forgot, United did away with that policy a long time ago as well.

The final question Emily asked upon our departure of “Check-in Hell” was...”Can I access the Red Carpet Lounge with my Gold card even though we’re not flying Business Class.” And, of course, the reply was a few seconds of what appreared to be thought, but was really a faux pause for making up an answer..”Sorry, no, you can’t”

We immediately proceeded to the “express check-in line”...because Em has status and right before we walk in I notice that my mileage number isn’t on my ticket. That’s the fault of American Express, which Em’s company uses to book our tickets. But, that’s not a problem because it takes, literally, ten seconds for someone to fix. I walk back to the check in counter and found a young lady chatting with her friend. “Excuse me, I don’t have my mileage plus number on my ticket.” I handed her my card. “Can you please put it on my ticket.” After I said that I got the biggest stank eye, as if a friend with a bad gambling problem had just asked you for $500 right before the final four...for “bills.” (Sorry to inconvenience you from gossiping with your friends about “yo babby daddy,” I wouldn’t want you to lift a finger to help or anything.) Regardless, she took the 10 seconds out of her busy life to print out another ticket with 9 numbers on it.

As we walked through security and had our bags ripped apart by the TSA agent who saw a “black mass” in our bag; which is always true, because Em packs two square boxes of MBA prep flash cards, and that’s what they look like on the screen. Therefore, they took everything out of our carry-on, and began swabbing everything: our bags, Emily’s cards, our DVD’s, my hands, and Sancho’s ass. Yeah, they took my poor dog out of my camera bag and swabbed his ass, just in case he was packing explosives up there. After regaining his dignity, Sancho was back in his bag and we re-packed our bag, because this retard couldn’t do it, we eventually laughed at the whole situation, because,...what else can you do?

As soon as that was over I looked at Emily and told her that the moron that checked us in was wrong about the Red Carpet Lounge, and that, as a Gold Card member flying Economy, you can access the lounge on an international flight. The other perk of her status is that she get’s to bring a guest...Me. It’s happened before, after Em’s company made me start flying with the luggage that she can get into the lounge on her Business Class ticket, but since she was only “Silver” at the time...I had to stand outside and beg for change.

The lounge was the same...overly crowded so that you have to fight for a seat, but we had some time to look for apartments in Belgium and make some phone calls to the family. All was normal, even the boarding, which was flawless. The rest of the shenanigans that was our flight began after take-off.

After entering the plane we realized this 6ft 1 female was sitting in both of our seats. She was a basketball player, because I could tell by the huge ear phones she had on, plus the USA Basketball sweats and headband, as if she was prepping for a game. I’m assuming she didn’t think she could fit in one seat and felt the need to stretch out between two. As soon as we arrived she “realized” she was in the wrong seat, she got up and moved to the two seats in front of us. Why? Because we were sitting in the Emergency Exit Row, as was the row in front of us. So she was just floating around trying to find a bigger “leg room” seat. Granted we were all in “Economy Plus,” which means we have a few extra inches of leg room to begin with, but I’m just assuming that as a 6ft 1 “basketball” player she felt she needed “extra” room. I’m the same height, I could tell because we were the same height when she stood up...but the funny part is that I’ve never felt the urge to sprawl out or wander to different seats because I couldn’t fit. Uncomfortable, sure, in regular Economy, but this wasn’t the case, but maybe it was because I didn’t have giant headphones on to alter my geospatial awareness.

Before we lifted off the gay fight attendant chatted with Emily and I and he was a real pleasure to talk to: very funny, witty, and made us feel as though we were wanted aboard. After Emily had told him about her now having to fly coach instead of Business, because all of her company’s money is going to “Executive Bonuses” and the rest is used to put us in housing where we sleep on the floor, he felt sorry for us and brought us a cup of Champagne from “Business Class.” Yeah, they get Champagne in Business and “First Class.” I’m also wondering if, by me talking about this man’s kindness, that he’ll get reprimanded, I’m a little concerned; however, because we all know that you can act like a total bitch with United and not get fired, but I’m not sure it goes the other way.

Regardless...six hours into an eight hour flight and I’m pissed because I can’t sleep, which isn’t surprising. The seats are ridiculously uncomfortable. The worst part is that we’re in Economy Plus...extra leg room...add to that the leg room from sitting in an Emergency Exit and I can stretch out my legs as far as I want, but that’s doesn’t make any difference if your seat only reclines three freaking inches. All the leg room you want, but you still have to sleep upright like a homeless guy under an overpass. Needless to say, Em and I slept for about 20 minutes each, and we were lucky to get that, so after a few movies, which all suck because they’re on a 3 inch screen and we have to use headphones that cut out in one ear periodically every time something important happens. Perhaps this is why that Amazonian basketball lady wears headphones?......doubt it.

About an hour and a half before we land they give us some sort of breakfast...yogurt that explodes onto my shirt when I open it...like a...(I’d better not say), due to the pressure, and some banana bread...which I hate anyways...not their fault though. I got up to use the restroom, which was right in front of us, and I tucked my shirt back in, fixed my hair, and exited to see Emily sitting there with both bags of trash...a.k.a. our breakfast leftovers in her hand. I took them so she wouldn’t have to sit there holding them until they came by with the trash bag. I turned around in the direction of the front of the plane...right by the bathroom I just came out of, and I found a flight attendant at the end of the “Business Section.” I said, “Can I throw this away?” Normal question right? Hell NO, not on a United Flight!

She immediately flipped out on me, as if I had just ventured in to some high level security clearance level that immediately threatened national security. “WHAT,..NO, SOMEONE WILL....GET OUT OF HERE NOW, YOU CAN’T BE HERE!” (Verbatim, this is not a joke.) WHAT the hell just happened? She gave me another stank eye and I tucked my tail and made my way TWO (2) rows back, with my trash in hand, to sit, scolded, like the result of an Indian Caste System until I was prompted to throw my trash away. So in an effort to dispose of some trash I unintentionally let the terrorist win. Perhaps if I had a wet nap and asked if I could wash the scrotum of an executive business man in first or business class, they might, just might, let me past that fabled curtain....which I had just passed to use the bathroom a minute earlier, and give me the “status” to dispose of some trash instead of walking 15 rows back to my own “class” of trash can. I mean, if they had any idea on how much money they make off Em's company from purchasing full-fare, last minute, refundable, international, tickets, I think they'd make an exception...but seeing as how they can't get most of the meaningless tasks right...then I'm not at all surprised.

As much as Em and I love traveling...I absolutely despise flying...unless it’s on an Asian or Indian airline. They at least, for now, have a concept of what customer service is like.

Forward this to anyone who flies United...or who flies a lot, regardless of airline.

Belgium - The Land of Restrictions

As some of you know Emily and I have been trying, for about six weeks, to get our paperwork processed for long-stay visas and work permits that will allow us to move to Belgium for six months. Since Belgium is part of the EU one wouldn’t think it would be very difficult to go work for a few months, but, since we were technically going to be “living” there, in an apartment nonetheless, we had a myriad of hoops to jump through.

While I’m not going to get into all of the details and paperwork needed, just be aware, if you want to move to Belgium from anywhere outside of the EU or U.K. just be prepared for a lot of red tape. Emily and I both had to get new copies of our birth certificates, our marriage certificate, and then send them off to be apostilled. Next we had to get a medical certificate from a Doctor that was approved by the Belgium consulate, which there are only two of in Chicago. We could only get an appointment with one of the two Doctors, which happened to be in the north side of Chicago, and who happened to be Vietnamese and worked in a office just outside of Korea town. Not that it matters at all...it’s just a little weird that he’s one of the ONLY two Doctors in Chicago approved to do this. I was going to assume he was Belgian or at least European.

Next, we had to get our fingerprints taken for an FBI background check, but guess what. There are only a couple of places in the entire city of Chicago and the Suburbs that will do the fingerprints on a paper card, which is required for this check. We actually went into a police station after our medical check and asked if they could do our prints for us...NOPE. Really? A freaking police station won’t take our fingerprints. I bet if I went outside and threw a brick through a parked car’s window they’d take my fingerprints. We even called the sheriff’s departments and police stations in the suburbs to see if they’d take our prints...NOPE. That just meant another trip back downtown to get them done. Not only was that a headache but the processing of our fingerprints was going to take “anywhere from 4-13 weeks.” 4-13 weeks...really? That’s like the cable guy saying..”we’ll be there between 10am and Wednesday”...you going to be home? After this news we paid to have the fingerprints expedited. Cost...$1,000.

Once the fingerprints get processed, they’re sent to Belgium to get verified, then sent back to Chicago. We fill out Schengen Visa applications, specific for Belgium, because they’re different from all the rest of the Schengen country visas. We attach 45 passport photos, call our insurance company to get a letter verifying we have health insurance, have everything notarized, add in a DNA sample and a vile of unicorn tears, then send this shit to the Consulate in New York with $500 attached. We have our visas processed, overnighted back, and then we have to apply for a residence permit. Which we, to this point, are unsure if we do before we leave, or after we get there. But, when we do get to our apartment a police officer has to come verify that we are who we are, by having us present authentic birth certificates, our passports, and a picture of David Hasselhoff eating a cheeseburger.

To compound this problem Emily has been communicating and getting things expedited through an immigration law firm which has, by the way, been giving Emily vague and unreliable information and telling her different information than what was originally presented by the Belgium company she would be working for. In order to correct this problem Emily has now been calling the Embassy to get the "official" information, because nobody seems to know what it is. Perhaps this is due to the fact that the country is split in half about all policies and they don't have a functioning government. Who knows really? Making it worse is the fact that they ONLY accept phone calls about visas between 2-5pm M-F. In the meantime, I’ve been trying to arrange an apartment that's bigger than a college dorm room, but have found that people in Belgium won’t read your e-mails completely and will respond asking questions that were clearly answered in the original. It's like they don't really care if they do business or not, unless you're ready to shell out $2000 a month in rent (average price) without looking at the place. But what I do know is that all this paperwork has cost quite a bit for both of us...glad we're not paying for it.

Maybe, just maybe, we’ll get out of the life-sucking hotel room in the suburbs sometime this year. Maybe we’ll finally get to Belgium and around the red-tape. All I can say is...the Chocolate, Waffles, and Beer better be damn good.

Meatheads

After sitting in a hotel room in the suburbs of Chicago for the greater part of a month, i’ve grown a bit tired of working out in the small, basically useless, room they call a gym. Although there are exercise limitations in this hotel, they do offer a free day pass to a local fitness center down the street; however, as you and I know, nothing is ever free. In a previous experience with the same fitness center I went down there to get me day pass only to be charged five dollars. Upon asking the manager here at the hotel I was informed that it’s a five dollar fee for a week. So today I prepared myself for some more typical gym sales person bullshit and found out that I can get a weeks pass for twelve dollars after arguing my way down from twenty five. I can’t seem to understand why everyone that works at a gym is usually a shady manipulative pice of shit douche bag trying to swindle everyone they can out of every penny they can.
To say the gym staff is the worst part about going to a gym would be a understatement. While these assholes make for a horrible initial experience...the real reason I hate going to gyms in the states are the multiple steroid pumping muscle heads walking around the gym grunting and throwing weights like an oversized toddler at pre-school after they spilled their apple juice. While I’m assuming they are pissed off, mainly due to the size of their ever shrinking testicles, grunting and throwing weights around isn’t going to change that. It’s also funny that most of these roid pimps shave their heads to hide the fact that they’re prematurely balding. But seriously guys, throwing weights down and walking away in a furry while giving the death stare at the equipment isn’t going to bring back your lost glory days of a starting linebacker on your junior varsity high school football team. Perhaps the anger is from visualizing your girlfriend laughing at you every time you take your clothes off, or maybe it’s because you can’t think of new excuses to tell her when you can’t get an erection. Also, just in case you didn’t know, wearing a fanny pack with a walkman or portable CD player in it hasn’t been cool since Clinton was in office. Again, I’m going to go out on a limb and just assume that the fact that you’re pumping your ass full of roids and supplements, and only read muscle magazines, you have yet to realize that they make things called MP3 players that can literally carry thousands of songs and are the size of your left testicle. And, what the fuck is the deal with carrying around a gallon of water? The gym is not a desert or a survival situation...there is no reason to carry around that much water. There are things called water fountains you know...you’re not working out in a back alley gym in Fallujah.
Also, so as not to be sexists I’m going to include the hard-core weightlifting females as well. Ladies...and I’m using ladies loosely. Once you’re lifting weights more often than you do cardio and you’re benching more than your body weight you can call your self a muscle head as well. You may also want to think twice about using supplements that boost your testosterone. Contrary to your thoughts, normal guys don’t find women attractive that have huge muscles, a square and masculine jaw line, and they absolutely hate it when your voice starts to drop. If you actually think that the reason men don’t ask you out is because they’re intimidated by you...you are sadly mistaken. They don’t ask you out, because they think that you might actually be a dude, and that’s not the type of surprise they want the evening to end on.
Finally, if you want to stop being a meathead, stop spending one entire day dedicated to triceps and stop spending one hour on the flat bench just to do four sets. Next thing. Stop Grunting. Stop throwing weights around. Stop walking around with a pissed off look on your face. Stop taking steroids and testosterone boosters. Stop spending four days a week in the tanning beds when it’s January and you live in the north...you just look like an illegal immigrant at that point. Stop planning your week around your workouts, and start being a productive member of society..just like I am, by telling you how to better yourselves. You’re welcome........douche bags.