Delta Air Lines Economy Review CAK - SJO

Verdict: 7/10

Delta and I have a bipolar relationship. Sometimes it goes well. Sometimes it ends at 3 AM in a small Central American country. Such is the nature of any relationship, really. I last flew Delta economy on December 26th, from Akron to San Jose, Costa Rica.

The early morning check-in went well enough. I was flying without checked-bags, and thus managed to avoid the horrendous line at the counter. I went to the security line and waited. And waited. (This was prior to my approval for PreCheck) After a rough 45 minutes in line I made it the ticket verification stage, and passed onwards to the next line. After being thoroughly patted-down by one of three agents on duty, I made my way to the gate about 50 yards away.

Lounges are a foreign concept at that airport; so don’t even bother wondering about them. Besides, the cheap seats are more fun, right? Discomfort builds character as some used to say. I sat down and waited for the sun to rise and the pilots to arrive.

After staring out a dark window and examining the cracks in the ceiling, boarding began. All us zombies shuffled our way onboard with little conflict and settled into our backbreaking seats for the flight to Detroit. Yes, I typed that correctly. Detroit. The takeoff was bumpy, as the plane was a small regional jet. I slept a little and awoke to our bumpy descent into Detroit half an hour later.

After a nerve-wracking tiny-plane landing, I made my out into the Detroit Terminal to wait out my three hour sentence in Motor City. Looking for something to do, I did what any other highly logical person would do. I rode the terminal train back and forth multiple times. It was a flashback from my childhood, when the train was still painted in Northwe(or)st livery.

The train in Detroit is a very convenient way to kill time.

I finally got bored after 15 minutes and went to look for food. I had heard tell of a McDonald’s that made a mean McBiscuit 15 or so gates down from the Pandora. I followed my nose and was cruelly led to a Cinnabon. So much for that sense. This time, I followed the signs and found it. The line was long, so I settled in to a new review of the Etihad Residence from everyone’s favorite travel blogger. The opulence on that plane was astounding. Too bad Delta can't deliver a product like that.

After wandering around for a few more hours, I finally boarded my plane to JFK. I know, right, still not heading that far south like I should be. The flight was uneventful. Drinks and Biscotti cookies were served without much fanfare. The landing was good, and all were happy to be safely out of Detroit.

Leaving purgatory behind.

JFK doesn't have the same kind of convenience to kill time on the train, so I just took it over to the terminal where my final flight would be. I wandered around for an hour or so, before settling into the waiting area. The seats were hard and uncomfortable, but that is to be expected in waiting areas. After a few hours staring at my computer, I decided to go get food. A knock-off Shake Shack was directly behind me, so I went for that. It was passable. I talked to a few people around about Christmas and how it went for them, until the boarding for my flight was almost completed.

I had an aisle seat in normal coach, about two-thirds of the way back in the plane. The entertainment screen had sufficient options, so I started watching a subpar Adam Sandler comedy. Highbrow no, but I was tired. Don't judge me. We waited. And waited. Finally, the pilot got on the intercom and told us that the co-pilot hadn't shown up and that they were waiting for a new one who was totally on his way right now. We waited some more, and then were ordered to disembark in order to keep the clock from hitting three hours of wait time. Back out in the terminal we milled around some more. Delta bought us pizza as a bribe not to tweet mean things about how their pilots don't even show up to fly.

A few hours after our scheduled takeoff time, we finally boarded the plane. Boarding went quickly, as did the taxi. We took off for Costa Rica soon after. The seat was new, a bit on the smaller side of life, though. Legroom was practically non existent. There was enough overhead bin space for all. Drink and snack service went smoothly. I received my third round of Biscotti cookies that day. The cabin was darkened for the next few hours. The lights came back on as customs forms were distributed. 

The landing was smooth. The deplaning process was slow. The families on board had problems with strollers and overhead bins. After about 20 minutes I made it off, and headed towards customs only three and a half hours after I expected. I made it through and exited into the tropical night where my girlfriend was waiting.

Conclusion: The Delta flight routing was curious. Why fly north, then east, to go southwest. A routing through Atlanta would likely have made more sense. Despite the delays, Delta staff were polite, they bought the whole flight pizza, and the pilot was upbeat throughout the whole ordeal. The seats are small in economy, but that is to be expected. I hope I never have to see another Biscotti again. Delta's economy product is solid, and perfectly bearable for shorter flights.

Random roadside view between San Jose and Playa Jaco.

Near the lighthouse in Puntarenas at sunset.

Disclaimer: Delta was in no way involved in this review. I was not compensated for my time, flight, or emotional distress in any way.

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United Express Economy Review: LGA - CLE

Verdict: 8/10

LaGuardia. Arrayed out before in the setting sun, it looked precisely as it did during the Summer of Love. That image was of course, in true New York fashion, ruined by the traffic jam between the highway exit and the central terminal. After 35 minutes going up the ramp, I finally made it into the terminal and checked in. The check-in kiosks were post-modern invaders in the Kingdom of Fiorello. It went quickly, although I had to transfer four pounds out of my checked bag into my carry-on. The United attendants were polite, an unexpected bonus.

I walked past the lounge entrance without a second thought of the subdued glamour that surely awaits the anointed inside. I passed through security without problems, PreCheck once again did its job. The TSA agents didn't give me too much faith in the process, though. I found my gate as was pleasantly surprised by the waiting area. The seats were new. No tears. Oh! How the gods had smiled upon my day.

The first half hour passed slowly. I thought about all the free drinks and food the titans of industry were enjoying in the lounge before remembering that I fly coach. I then thought about all the great drinks available at Hudson News for only $5 before an argument between two roommates broke me out of my daydream. I'm not quite sure what the full argument was about, but somebody was assuming that someone else slept with someone they weren't supposed to. Just riveting stuff.

The new kiosks and pillars are a curious juxtaposition.

The airplane was an Embraer ERJ 145 in the one-by-two seat configuration. For economy. First and business class do not exist on this configuration. It is a fine example of the legendary Brazilian regional jet industry.

To occupy myself further, I looked through the United app. It seems to function passably well. It will even tell you where your plane is coming from, and where it currently is. In most of my experiences with airlines, this would usually tell me that my plane was circling somewhere over Little Rock, but this time was different. My plane was already in New York. What a pleasant surprise.

I went back to staring at the strange Communist era shiny pillars in the terminal until boarding started.

The flight was overbooked, and they began with a solid offer of $300 and a hotel night, with a replacement flight at 5:59 AM the next morning. People were excited until they heard about the ungodly takeoff time. It took a while, but they drew one taker. Boarding finally began shortly thereafter. I boarded in Group 2, a perk afforded me by the mildly usable Chase Explorer card. Free baggage comes with the card too. Snacks not included.

The seats have substantially more padding than Spirit. I think United needs to run a shop like Procrustes to make people fit into the seats. I think I could stand to lose about four inches in height in order to fit comfortably.

Very spacious, right?

Takeoff was only around 20 minutes late. Who cares though, I don’t have anywhere to be. It’s not like I have a connection. The sunset over the New York skyline was truly something to behold.

Sunset

Snacks and drinks came about 15 minutes into the flight. “Zesty Ranch Snack Mix” is a little ambiguous. I felt it to be a bit like the Holy Roman Empire. They were not zesty, ranchy, nor very mixed. Oh well. At least the Diet Coke washed it down after a round of profuse coughing.

The cough inducing Zesty Ranch Snack Mix

The rest of the flight went smoothly. The landing was average, and deplaning was civil. I got my gate checked bag back and got my suitcase from the baggage claim.

Conclusion: Overall, this flight was a pleasant surprise. The staff was polite, the flight was fairly smooth, it wasn't delayed substantially, the bump bribe was substantial, (Most Delta flights were delayed today due to computer outages), the snacks were half-edible and I ended up where I wanted to go. What more can one ask for in a domestic coach flight?

Approach into Cleveland

Disclaimer: United was in no way involved in this review. I was not compensated for my time, flight, or emotional distress in any way.

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Spirit Airlines Coach Review: OAK - CLE

Verdict: 1.9/10

Spirit Airlines. A name so soothing and sweet that if one had no prior knowledge about it, one might assume that it was a fine experience in the sky. Alas, it is not possible for one to be so tragically, terrifically, terribly, undoubtedly, horribly wrong.

My first, and last Spirit experience was a roundtrip flight from Oakland to Cleveland. The destinations should be omens to the flight experience. Oh. I didn't mention, it was an early morning flight through Las Vegas. I booked the ticket through Priceline, refused to pay for luggage, or a carry-on. Come on guys. $35 for a carry-on? That's just criminal. I packed my "personal item" as much as I could and left.

I got to Oakland using the BART around midnight, because the BART likes to close early on weekdays. I went through security, was patted down very thoroughly and went into the terminal thinking that I could spend my five-and-a-half hours until the flight in peace. But little did I know that the terminal closed around 1. No one had thought to mention this to me as I passed security. But oh well. Upon being thrown out by the janitor, I settled in to wait out the night in the luxury lounge known as the arrivals meeting area. It even had chairs in it. Glorious. Four hours, and three and a half episodes of The Man in the High Castle later, (Boingo didn't throw me out after 30 minutes for some reason), I got up to go back through security. I was thoroughly patted down again, but this time, the agents were not so nice about it.

Finally into the terminal, I made my way to the gate. It was surprisingly full considering that security had only been open for ten minutes. That was only a sign of the horrors to come. We boarded, slowly, called by our assigned group numbers to crowd into the cabin. I would show you a picture I took of the cabin, but I couldn't get my arms up because the people behind me were pushing so hard. It looked like a long expanse of blue holding cells, the exceptions being the "big seats up front". All looked enviously at those city-slickers who could afford the up-charge for such prominence on this fine airline.

I found my seat at the far back of the plane. Thankfully, it was a window seat. I wriggled around, trying every possible position to see if any one of modest comfort existed. I gave up and concluded that there are none. I looked at the tray table, usually a wide expanse of plastic and was flummoxed. It was metallic, and looked suspiciously like the new iPad Mini.

Not funny, I know.

We waited for boarding to finish. It finally did, but only after 30 minutes. Takeoff was a bit bumpy, but otherwise fine. After coming to cruising altitude, the stewardesses emerged. And began to sell. They started off with food. "Does anyone want some gourmet Spirit chicken fingers?" Umm. No. That sounds horrible. Drinks too. All overpriced. After they finished that up, the credit card sell began. 15,000 points if only you write your information down on this card, regardless if you get approved. It went on and on. Never before had I wanted to sign up for a card less. Sleep was my priority, but credit was theirs. I, and all the other passengers lost that battle as we descended into Las Vegas.

The next leg was almost precisely the same. Shoving, pushing, light punching to board. Cramming into a seat that I think they stole out of a race-car. Actually, on second thought, I think Spirit bought all the seconds from a failed run of Recaro race seats. The stewardesses again sold and sold, a few retirees went for the points offer. Everyone else stared into the back of the seat in front of them, wondering where the padding was, and what had they done to deserve this. Eventually, we got to Cleveland, but we weren't Believelanders anymore. The flight had sucked out all of our spirits, and left a cold, sad, begrudging longing for United in our hearts.

The flight back to Oakland began with an evening flight from Cleveland back to Las Vegas. The people going to Vegas were much merrier than those returning, most likely because they still had their money. I made some conversation from my cramped seat, and settled in for the ride. Soon after, some drama began to unfold. Eager for some kind of entertainment, the whole plane looked to the front, near the bathroom. A man, quite intoxicated, was trying to get past a stewardess to use the restroom. She then yelled at him, saying something about a pilot needing to use the restroom, and that passengers were not permitted to congregate at the front of the cabin. 

He came back to his seat across the aisle from me, grumbling. He tried again about twenty minutes later. He was told the same thing and was ordered back to his seat. This time he tried the aft restroom, but it was now out-of-order. (It hadn't been at the start of the flight) Somewhere over the Mississippi he began to get enraged and started yelling at the flight crew that he would "piss in this seat" if they didn't let him up front. Naturally, this didn't go well, and they prevented him from using the bathroom during the entire flight. As we were landing, we heard the head stewardess call the McCarran police, reporting an unruly passenger. At the gate, no one was allowed to disembark until the police took said drunk man off the plane. After that, everyone pushed and shoved to get out. I saw the drunk standing happily next to the gate to meet his friends when I exited. It turns out the police were on his side of the argument. The lesson one should take away is this: If you want to be first off a Spirit flight into Vegas, just try to use the bathroom as often and angrily as possible. 

After all this, I was less than excited to continue on to Oakland, but I had to. I found my seat, but it was occupied by large shopping bags. I politely asked the woman sitting in the middle seat, and she did so, albeit, angrily. I sat down into the plastic bucket of seat, and waited for takeoff. Another woman sat down in the aisle seat. They began to complain about the seat and were talking about ways to change. Suddenly, the woman in the middle seat began shouting to the stewardess that she was having a panic attack. "I need an aisle seat!" she yelled. They suggested she swap with her friend, but then her friend said that she too would have an emotional breakdown if she had the misfortune of sitting there. I suspect that they wanted more room for their bags of liquor than any actual malady. The attendants told them no, politely. But they continued to yell for a seat change. Eventually, after the taxi had begun, they changed seats without permission and laid down across two entire rows. The flight attendants came back and told them to put their seat belts on or we couldn't take off. 

They did so, but only with scowls. We took off, and they immediately went back to laying down across the rows. Oh, what manners up here in paradise. I spent the rest of the flight ignoring the numerous sales pitches and listening to music. 

Conclusion: After landing and the pushing and shoving of disembarking, I made my way back on the BART. Spirit's product is truly revolutionary. People pay to be miserable. The seats are terrible, the service is terrible, the pricing really isn't all that cheap after the myriad fees, and the flight attendants just try to sell you more stuff for the whole flight. And so, after this experience, perhaps only exceeded in their terror and misery by an Air Koryo flight, I have to wonder. Is Spirit really the worst airline, or does it merely bring out the worst in us?

Disclaimer: Spirit Airlines was in no way involved in this review. I was not compensated for my time, flight, or emotional distress in any way.

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Heverley Bills: Part I

Back-seat drivers are the worst. They give commentary, advice, directions, restaurant preferences, speed observations, wrong directions, editorial remarks, conflicting directions, and sometimes, can't even decide which direction right actually is. And for some odd reason, they get angry when you get lost on top of a large hill and find yourself on a road that dead-ends onto the edge of a cliff.

Now, I must admit that I made the different wrong turns at the same intersection three times. But seriously, Beverley Hills traffic is messed up. Now, I know what some of you are thinking, "You went to Beverley Hills?! That's not continental or exotic! Lame attempt at travel blogging." Yeah, whatever cynical travel elitist. I was curious, and I lived in California for the last year. I had never been to Los Angeles before. So, why not?

But back to the story. Well, back up a bit, I like non-linear story telling. It keeps you on your toes.

It started back in November or December, I forget when exactly. I, and two other guys from my college bought tickets to the David Gilmour Rattle That Lock concert at the Hollywood Bowl in April. I promptly forgot about it for a few months until suddenly, without warning, the concert was three weeks away.

I had three weeks to figure out a way to get down to LA for the concert and make it back up without going broke. My girlfriend was in town then as well. So, I rounded up two of my friends. Two of them, plus my girlfriend and I made four. We looked through all the possible modes of transportation that could get us down there. Planes were way too expensive. We were unlucky and didn't tie into any of the periodic specials that airlines run for the SFO-LAX route. We looked at buses, but they were ungodly expensive. They were almost $120 per person because we started making plans so late. For some reason, Amtrak was even more unreasonable and took an ungodly amount of time to get to LA.

We naturally started looking at renting a car after all of our public transport options turned out to be too expensive. One fact continued to give us problem after problem. Although every one of us is an adult, no-one will rent us a car. 20 was the lowest we could find, and that company seemed a bit sketchy. The rest of the mainstream spectrum was between 21... and 25. In San Francisco, there are a good number of 24 year olds who can afford Porsches. Yet they aren't allowed to rent a Prius C. Because that totally makes sense.

Anyways, as our frustration at the mind-boggling duality of age-related laws in America (Opportunity to be forced to fight, can sign contracts, get married, but can't drink or rent a car) increased steadily, we were forced to consider one the worst possible options, price-wise. Zipcar. But then in a deus ex machina level of fortune, I received an offer from Zipcar that I could get 40% off of a five day rental. We booked a Zipcar. A Subaru Impreza, in fact. (No, not the WRX, the "Sport" model is what we had.) The Impreza is a five seat car, and we only had four people. We couldn't convince our other friend to go with us, so we did what any reasonable adolescents would do. We posted in our college Facebook group asking if anyone wanted to come to LA. One person did reply, so naturally she was our first choice.

On the appointed day, one of the two aforementioned friends and I set out on our arduous journey to pick up the car. Five minutes later we arrived at the Fairmont parking garage. Set amongst the Mercedes SLS', Porsche 911's, and even a Ferrari La Ferrari was our little Subi. A nice white little blip of proletarian underpowered steel, in a sea of import carbon fiber bourgeoisie. We scanned into the car, and set out. We made it 200 feet to the corner of Powell and California, where all we would have had to do was make a left turn and drive for between 20 and 800 feet (Location is a secret.. Shh...) to get to the dorm, but alas, there was a no left turn sign. Being the constantly lawful and limit following drivers that we are, we took the right turn onto California. And promptly found it impossible to turn around. 20 minutes later, after much googling, polite cursing, and questioning the intelligence of San Francisco planning department, we made it back. We angled in in front of the door as best we could on the hill, and packed everything and everyone in to the back of the Subaru. For some mysterious reason, the car felt much more sluggish after that. The rear suspension also appeared to be about two inches lower. That's mass for you, I guess. We made our way out of the city.

At this point, I should probably point out, that upon deciding to get a car, we also resolved to take the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH) all the way down to Los Angeles. We had also booked two Airbnb's. One roughly halfway between SF and LA and the other in Long Beach.

Anyways, we hit Highway 1 pretty quickly and fell in behind a fairly quick Camry. The day was not all that ideal in terms of picturesque weather. Pacifica and Half Moon Bay came up fairly quickly in the light mist. We got out, took a few pictures, and whined off, the little 2.0 liter struggling to make way at speed on the turns, hills, and switchbacks of the PCH.

It was all going well until we pulled up behind a minivan. This particular minivan was not even making 10 MPH below the speed limit. After ten minutes, I started to feel my soul departing my body as I aged. "Don't let me expire of old age in a base model Subaru!" I thought frantically. About ten years later a long straight came up, thankfully divided by a broken yellow. It was clear, so I floored it. And nothing happened.

Somewhere on the PCH before Pacifica and after Half Moon Bay.

About 3 seconds later, a strange pingey growl emerged from the hood of the car, and we surged forward in a very similar fashion to a supertanker coming out of port. Eventually, we passed the Camry and took off back into the hairpins bordered by cliffs. This is when that dreaded back seat driving began. One in the back prefaced the third set of turns with a, "You know what you're doing right? Cause don't kill us." I took the turn at a reasonable speed and did not cut the apex, because I am of course, a consummate professional. The rain began to get worse as we neared Santa Cruz. It suddenly cleared as parked next to the boardwalk.

The rainy, cold, excuse for a boardwalk.

After being deeply disappointed, our day was further saddened by the drizzle that slowly turned into a downpour. Leaving Santa-let-down-Cruz behind, the road cut inland and evened out. There was possibly one wrong turn on the way out of town, but that didn't cause too much outrage from the cheap seats because the different phones were disagreeing with one another. Google Maps really needs to see a psychologist. It can't even give the same answer to one person twice, let alone three.

We roared into Monterrey at an astounding 40 MPH. The rain was gone, but the misery was replaced by traffic. And hunger. Monterrey has many signs pointing to many things. The problem was though, some in the back seat still couldn't decide where they wanted to eat. We first tried Fisherman's Wharf, but decided that the parking cost too much and there was nothing we could afford. We continued down the road, and ended up at Cannery Row. Also a place full of quality, low-cost food. Not.

Used to be sardines, now its Range Rovers. Who'd a thunk it.

Yelp did provide an alternative. A small cafe up the road with solid reviews and a classic chowder became our mess halt.

Although Monterrey was quickly left in the rear-view mirror, the smell of chowder was not. The sun started to set as we made time down the flats near the beaches. I started to see signs with pictures of giant seals on them. A series came up advising us that an elephant seal rookery was near. I turned in without too much thought. The back seat woke up on the rough entry to the parking lot and wanted to know why exactly we were stopping.

"Elephant seals," I said. "What?.." was the collective response.

Elephant Seals.

Sunset with a side of elephant seals.

We walked out, and immediately found elephant seals. And a brilliant sunset. But the elephant seals were cooler. After twenty minutes or so of elephant seal watching we decided to finally head for our overnight halt in Templeton.

After the sun sank below the horizon, fog began to roll in. Visibility went from great to almost nothing. Our phones were dying, and one charge cord was broken, another horribly inefficient. We made to an inland two-lane highway and followed a local through the rolling hills. The fog got thicker and I started following the local BMW more closely. The thing is though, that BMW was doing around 70 MPH in thick fog. Keeping up was a chore. The rain faded a little as our hypothetical turn came up. Waze announced that the turn was in 500 meters. I couldn't see any road, though. The fog was too thick. Waze by Morgan Freeman announced the turn again, I still couldn't see any intersection, only fog. Wet asphalt glimmered for a fraction of a second off to the right. There it was. I made the turn. But the back seat complained again. Tire squeal and traction control noises aren't marks of a quality turn apparently. The road darkened further as it ascended a large hill.

Eventually we found our way to our destination somewhere in the middle of the woods. Just as promised, quiet, secluded, and surprisingly cozy. The day was done. I had managed to survive the first day of the back seat drivers. Unfortunately, the worst was yet to come.

Next, we hit Los Angeles. The city of Angels, Hollywood and the Interstate system gone horribly, dreadfully, miserably wrong.

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