Malta 2007: Day Seven - The Worst Breakfast Ever

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Malta - Day Five

The Worst Breakfast Ever

I had previously mentioned that, upon selecting Malta as our honeymoon destination, our vacation would be hanging by a thread. Yet it was not until London that the thread would finally snap. And it was all due to the most unexpected of sources: breakfast.

The early-morning wakeup call rousted us from bed at the appointed time and we began our Sunday morning as well as could be expected. We were both a little rough around the edges due to the beers enjoyed with our football, but our showers and the coffee that room service delivered was effective in getting us a little more clear-headed. So, as we began our day, we discovered ourselves packed and ready with enough time to grab a quick breakfast. And, as the Hotel Kempinski had a continental breakfast, we decided that we would have that.

But before adjourning ourselves to our breakfast, I decided I would check out with the front desk so that we would have one less step in our morning. We would then pay for our breakfast on its own, because it would save time by getting it taken care of as we finished our meal.

The Simple Beginning

At the front desk of the Hotel Kempinski, I informed the gentleman working behind the desk of the issue with the door latch. He thanked me for the information and let me know that he would let the next guests in the room know about this.

This was not the response I was looking from a worker at the Hotel Kempinski, which seemed to be a very nice place up until that point. The response I would prefer would have been, "Thank you, we'll get the fixed," or "We'll get that taken care of." Not, "We'll let the next guests know."

Upon hearing this incorrect response to a required repair to their hotel, a warning went off in my mind. It was a particularly loud warning noise that said, "Get away from these nitwits as soon as possible." This warning noise was, incidentally, coinciding with my traveler's instinct of getting where we were going as soon as possible. I tend to prefer the "hurry up and wait" method of travel, particularly when dealing with airports. But I made the mistake of going against all those instincts by going to eat breakfast.

The Breakfast

Overall, the food at the Hotel Kempinski's breakfast wasn't bad. I had a muffin that was pretty good. The smoothies were a nice touch, but it's not like they put tequila in them. And the coffee had a nice, um, coffee flavor. Furthermore, I'm sure that Chris enjoyed her bowl of Special K or whatever it was. And, as we continued with our meal, I asked for the check so that we could get it taken care of immediately. As it was not being charged to the room following our check-out, I gave them a credit card.

People Start Earning Nicknames

Chris and I continued our meal, but it seemed as though they were taking a long time about bringing our check back. In fact, at one point I saw our waitress -- let us call her Nitwit #1 -- swipe a credit card, tear off a slip of paper and walk right past us into the kitchen. I didn't know why she would do this, but it seemed to be a bad sign.

Another woman -- we shall refer to her as Nitwit #2 -- also seemed to be working on a credit card, but she would walk into the room with a handheld unit, swipe the card on the handheld, then walk back out of the room to points unknown. Whereupon she would return to the breakfast room to do the same thing all over again.

Realizing it was getting late, I walked up to Nitwit #2 and asked her for our bill. She attempted to explain to me that the card reader she was using was not letting her do that. So she did it again, just to spend another couple of minutes wasting time staring at a screen. I, personally, was willing to take her word for it and I just wanted her to swipe my card anywhere that would take it and charge it so that we could leave.

At this point, Nitwit #2 walked us up to the front desk where the desk manager -- we shall refer to him as Nitwit Desk Manager -- informed me that there was nothing he could do. So Nitwit #2 walked back into the breakfast room to swipe the card in a handheld unit that was not taking card swipes. Personally, I would have told her to, perhaps, try another card swiper or maybe use the card swiper on the register itself. But I didn't, unfortunately.

The Cracks Begin to Form

Meanwhile, my wife was attempting to get a cab for us. This is because the folks at the desk yesterday recommended that we take a cab to Victoria station rather than The Tube. They said it was faster and more convenient and we took their advice. So Chris went outside with the bellhop -- we shall refer to him as Nitwit Bellhop -- to hail a cab.

I'm still standing at the desk with Nitwit Desk Manager. Chris is outside with Nitwit Bellhop trying to hail a cab. Nitwit #2 is probably trying various swiping methods and theories to try to figure out why the card is not working. Nitwit #1, well perhaps I was a little too hard on Nitwit #1 because she was not actually doing to anything, as far as I could tell. Then again, I never saw her again after she walked into the kitchen. From this, I assume that the problems with swiping the card left her so confused that she quit.

Nitwit #2 returned to the desk to report to Nitwit Desk Manager (have I mentioned this was at the Hotel Kempinski?) that he will need to check us back in so that the charge can be added to the room and then the card can be swiped to pay for the charges on the room. Nitwit Desk Manager agreed that this was the best option and then informed us that we had, in fact, not yet checked out.

Things Get Hard to Deal With

I was beginning to get very, very frustrated. This was the very same Nitwit Desk Manager who told us we were checked out, and now he was telling us we were not checked out. Furthermore, I had to contend with the stress created by the clock that had moved well into the time when we should have left already. International flights often mandate that people arrive at least an hour early and we were now pushing that limit. With a cab ride of unknown length, a train ride to the airport that both left and arrived at indeterminate times, as well as all the rigmarole associated with traveling through an airport, we were on the edge of missing a flight. And now I needed to deal with another nitwit who clearly didn't know how to do his job. Which was not promising for us to get out of there anytime soon.

I reiterate that this was the Courthouse Hotel Kempinski on Great Marlborough Street in London, England.

At this point, I felt it was time to refocus everyone's priorities. So I asked Nitwit Desk Manager is as calm a tone as I could muster at that moment, "What do I need to do to pay for this breakfast?" The continental breakfast, one might note, that really should have been free -- like it is in every other hotel in Western Civilization.

Nitwit Desk Manager then explained that he would charge the breakfast to the room, he would charge the credit card for the room charges and we would be on our way. So he asked me, "You were in room 286, right?"

"No, room 734," I responded in as even a voice as I was able to hold. I should also note that I don't remember the actual number of the room we stayed in, nor if there were even seven floors in the Courthouse Hotel Kempinski. But it should illustrate my reason for thinking that merely naming him Nitwit Desk Manager is being charitable.

Meanwhile, Back At the Wife...

While this was happening, I saw a cab pull up to the sidewalk in front of the hotel. Unfortunately, as there was not even the slightest indication that I would be leaving the desk anytime soon, Chris allowed another gent who was also waiting for a cab to jump in and go on his way.

Furthermore, as we were waiting, Chris got tired of standing outside waiting for me and she came inside to find out what the hell was taking me so long just to pay for breakfast.

With that little issue solved, the chap behind the desk finally succeeded in getting us checked back in, he charged our room for the breakfast, then checked us out and charged my card.

"37 pounds," he told me.

"For cereal?!" Chris chimed in.

Yes, that's right. 37 pounds. With the dive that the dollar was taking at the time, it came to $75.69, according to my credit card statement. But I choked it down as best I could, because I knew that yelling at people was not going to help things. In fact, it was just going to slow us down as we attempt to get out the door, so I did not say anything. I just signed the slip and got ready to get into our cab and go to Victoria station so that we could get to Gatwick Express and then to the airport. Whereupon Nitwit Bellhop informed us that it was going to be a long wait because there are no cabs on Sunday.

Courthouse Hotel Kempinski, Courthouse Hotel Kempinski, Courthouse Hotel Kempinski

On hearing this, Chris began making that sound water makes a little before it starts boiling. As for me, it was only the awareness of my unfamiliarity with the British legal system that prevented me from punching Nitwit Bellhop.

We were already probably 20 minutes past the absolute last time we should leave the hotel. We were not waiting any longer, we were taking the Underground exactly like we were planning to do before the nitwits at the Hotel Kempinski told us that we should take a cab. We got the hell out of there as quickly as we could. No, we will not be staying there, or at any other Hotel Kempinski in the foreseeable future.

We navigated the block-and-a-half walk to Oxford Station very easily, thanks to empty streets and the adrenaline rush of unvented fury that made our suitcases seem fairly light.

The Compounding Disasters

The London Underground part of the trip is a bit on the hazy side. We were trying to get through the twists and turns of the corridors, stairwells, escalators and hallways as fast as possible, but this is not easy to do when towing suitcases. Nor is it made any easier when the escalators are broken and the suitcases need to be hauled down the narrow stairways that result from such problems. I offered to carry Chris's suitcase down the steps, but she responded with a pointed, "NO!" and I let the matter drop.

To make matters worse for us, there was additional crowding in the broken escalators, due to people being sent onto the broken escalators from other escalators that were rendered unusable due to the fact that they were broken. I don't get it either. It seems as though The Fates had designs on our trip home. Though to what end, I am still not clear.

From Victoria stop on The Underground, we headed to Victoria train station to catch the Gatwick Express. We managed to get onto that without incident and then we had to sit down and discuss what to do if we missed our flight. We determined that we would figure out what to do when we got there, which we would do in about 30 minutes. Which, of course, was actually 35 minutes, because without that, we would not have another unexpected delay.

I tried to enjoy the countryside on the way there, unsuccessfully. Chris began to detest the whole of Great Britain quite successfully.

No Rest or Reprieve

Gatwick was yet another exercise in delays that were all adding up with increasing frequency and ridiculousness. We were running close to the one-hour deadline and every second was precious now. The train arrived at Gatwick Airport and we walked upstairs to the terminal. We checked the airline board to figure out which terminal we needed to go to. As it turns out, Continental had recently changed terminals from terminal 1, which was right next to the stairs for the Gatwick Express, to terminal 2. Which was a long walk, a tram ride, and another long walk away. We piled into an elevator to get to the tram, which was delayed by people trying to jam themselves into the elevator.

One painfully slow tram ride later, we arrived at terminal 2 and the escalator to the ticket area. In a ridiculous capstone to everything we had suffered through so far, we discovered that people with luggage are not allowed to use the escalator to the ticketing area. There was even a guard standing there to prevent people with luggage from using the escalator. Who on earth goes to the ticketing area in an airport without luggage?

We took the elevator, which was held up by yet more people who can't take the next one. It just did not end.

Finally, finally, we get to the ticketing area. We walk up to the Continental ticketing area and attempt to check in. The ticketing agent turns to another agent and asks, "Did flight 12 close?"

The answer: "Yes."

According to our watches, we were there an hour before our flight, but our watches were not the ones that mattered. We paid the nitwits at the Hotel Kempinski $75.69 for the opportunity to miss our flight.

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