Up, Up and Away! Or, Feeling Hot, Hot, Hot...

Our Floridian jolly was upon us. As the dismal, depressing dark nights started to bite here in Blighty, what better way to raise one's spirits than a trip to sunnier climes and - perhaps - to pay a vist to Messrs. M. Mouse and D. Duck? And, as holidays go, it had been a long time coming...

Imagine the scene: it’s April 2008; Ross and Brand are the darlings of Radio 2; girls are casting off their awful ‘UGG’ boots in favour of flip-flops in anticipation of another balmy British summer; a nice man called Mr. Obama seems to be embarking down a particularly ambitious political path and Usher – featuring Young Jeezy – is riding high in the UK hit parade (apparently).

And, despite a slight slowing of the UK economy (surely just a ‘blip’?), the dear old pound is still looking like mighty good value against the dollar. So, with a fine stash of flying club miles in the coffers after our recent Oz and Caribbean sojourns, what better way to take advantage of the near 2 for 1 exchange rate than to take a trip to the good ol’ US of A? Florida, to be precise, the Sunshine State, Land of the Mouse, and home to more bad shirts and perma-tans than you can shake a cocktail at. We bag 5 lovely Upper Class tickets to fly with Virgin Atlantic to Miami.

Fast forward to November: ‘UGG’ boots are – to the dismay of the country’s podiatrists – back in vogue, Ross and Brand are the anathemas they always deserved to be, the State Of The Nation is gloomier than an ‘Eastenders’ omnibus and Young Jeezy has become a victim of negative equity and is now struggling to keep up with the maintenance payments to his 'bitches' (though I hear that Usher is comfortably riding the downturn out thanks to investing heavily in ‘bling’ and 'hoes').

The credit-crunch has transformed into a full-blown recession and sterling has cast off a quarter of its value in little more than a month, subsequently increasing our forthcoming Stateside hotel bills by 25% (and with Mrs V’s taste in hotels, they weren’t all that cheap to start with).

But do we let this get us down? Do we lay down our arms in the face of recession? Turn heel and run at the sight of this credit-crunch? Well of course we don’t! We're British, for crying out loud, not French! In fact, the worrying slide of the pound actually spurred me to re-check the rates for a couple of our hotels, leading to a rather unexpected saving of some $800. A lesson learnt for future trips there folks, especially if you've reserved a hotel room quite a few months in advance - rates can go down as well as up, as they say...

This was to be a three-generational-trip with the Senior Vs (my parents) joining myself, Mrs V and Tizer. One of the disadvantages of travelling as a relatively large group on a trip like this is the logistics involved in shifting five bodies and all of their corresponding luggage to where they need to be, when they need to be there, a task which has improved very little since the replacement of the unruly hang-glider by the compact-and-bijou-push-chair. In fact, there was one significant occasion during this trip where the inclusion of the unruly hang-glider in our plans would have saved the smallest member of our party from suffering a nasty fall and a bust lip - more grizzly details to follow in due course.

As ever, we had quite a way to go before we could even think about boarding our flight to Miami - we had to get from our village in the wilds of West Yorkshire to Manchester, fly down to Heathrow then transport ourselves from Terminal 5 to the Hilton at Terminal 4 where we were staying for the night. By my reckoning this would involve a people-carrier (with child-seat and trailer), an aeroplane and a bus, all before we’d even left the country. The joys of travelling light, I vaguely recall, are far from exaggerated. It also goes some way to illustrate what us Northern types are willing to put ourselves through to fly with dear with Virgin. Still, beats living in the South and drinking flat beer...

We arrived at Manchester after a trek over the M62 which left Mrs V a little green around the gills to say the least, thanks to our chauffer’s inimitable driving style which involved getting so close to the HGV in front of us that you could literally taste the diesel exhaust fumes. Matters weren't helped by his almost incessant ramblings about his days in the merchant navy, which left us feeling like we were being driven over the Pennines by Uncle Albert out of 'Only Fools And Horses'. My mum and I were in the back and missed a lot of it, but my dad - who'd been sat in the front - was, I believe, rendered partially catatonic by the experience and didn't fully recover until we'd checked in for our BA flight, cleared security and had had a pint of lager thrust at him by his doting son.

It was at this point, as we sipped our overpriced Carlsberg and indulged in a ham and cheese sarnie, that Potential Holiday Calamity No. 1 occurred (the more keen-minded of you will no doubt have spotted that the numbering of said Calamity means there are more to come - and you'd be quite right). Casual as you like, Mrs V asks:

"Do Hertz in the US still expect you to show them the paper part of your driving license?"

Oh bugger - thinks I - I don't like where this is going. "Pretty sure that you do", I reply, the fixed smile on my face belying the fact that my knuckles are whitening around my pint glass. "Do we have a problem?".

For those who might not have rented a car before, the funky little photo cards that most of us now carry around have a paper counterfoil that shows any endorsements on it. Car rental companies generally - and rightly so - like to have a look-see at this before they entrust you with one of their vehicles, just in case you're George Michael or Lord Ahmed, for instance. Mrs V, it transpired, had left ours in the safe at home, and neither my mother nor father had theirs with them, as they weren't expecting to drive.

So, in the customary cool, calm and collected fashion that my family will no doubt tell you is a keynote of my character, I informed my good lady wife in no uncertain terms that we were 'effed'. Absolutely 'effing' 'effed', to be precise. It was too late to go back home and still expect to catch our flight and there was no way on god's clean earth that Hertz were going to let us pick up our car in three days time in Miami Beach without the paper counterfoil, all of which was going to make it pretty darned difficult to get to Orlando and a certain theme park that Tizer was rather looking forward to visiting.

I was, quite rightly, berated by both mother and wife for my reaction. Further words were exchanged and Mrs V retired to a quiet corner to compose her thoughts and stick pins in the doll effigy of me that she carries around with her for occasions such as these, before returning with a plan so cunning in its conception that I was surprised I hadn't thought of it myself: She was going to phone her sister - who had a key to our house - who would retrieve the paper licenses from our safe and pass them to her father. He, in turn, would arrange to meet with one of my more trustworthy employees who would organise for the documents to be despatched via UPS to our hotel in Miami Beach.

Each member of the team was briefed with their duties and made aware of the consequences of failure, then issued with fake identities and suicide pills. We boarded our flight to Heathrow safe in the knowledge that we'd done all that we could.

Our journey to the Hilton at Heathrow's Terminal 4 was blessedly uneventful, and after checking-in to our tiny, overheated and overpriced rooms we settled down to a pretty decent curry in one of the hotel restaurants. Then Mrs V's phone beeped; we exchanged fitful glance across the nan bread. It was from her dad:

"Rendez-vous a success. The package has been delivered". So far so good then.

We hit the sack after dinner, wanting an early start to get the best of the Virgin Atlantic Clubhouse the following morning. Our flight time had been changed a month or so ago from 09:20 to 12:30, which we were all pleased as punch about, as it meant we had time for a leisurely breakfast and a glass or two of something fortifying which is, after all, what the Clubhouse is all about. With thoughts of mojitos, Tanqueray Ten and Tonics (the gin of Kings) and the awaiting sun of Miami Beach flitting playfully through my mind, I drifted gently to sleep...

...and was awoken some two hours later to mayhem or, shall we say, Potential Holiday Calamity No. 2: Tizer was ill. Red hot, fry-an-egg-on-her-forehead, screaming abdabs, vomit-in-the-bed ill. She hadn't joined us for dinner, so it wasn't the curry, but she was running a temperature of over 103 and was clearly one very unhappy bunny. We spent a fitful night of cooled flannels, doses of Calpol and mopping up of sick, obviously very worried and concerned for poor little Tizer, but also constantly aware of what this could mean for our flight later that day.

Thankfully, the barrage of drugs we were administering started to bring Tizer's temperature down and, consequently, she started to feel a little better. We all managed a couple more hours of kip before – feeling exceptionally groggy – we showered, dressed, and headed for T3, hoping that we’d seen the worse of her fever.

We'd booked a large chauffeur-driven car with the Hilton’s concierge the night before, and this picked us up promptly enough, dropping us outside Terminal3 just before 9 o' clock. Online check-in had been going through one of its 'off days' (i.e. it was buggered again) so we were a bit concerned that we may have lost our requested seats and/or been split up. Luckily, our seats were more-or-less as we wanted them, opposite each other in the front section a characteristically swish Airbus 340-600.

Onwards to the delightful environs of the Upper Class Wing, where we were swept through the Private Security Channel - compact-and-bijou-push-chair and all - in truly effortless fashion. Then along the Winding Road Of Consumerism, a path lined with perfumes, designer labels and duty free which the expectant traveller must now walk - tempted by the siren-like call of orange-faced women offering samples of eau de bloody awful - before finally approaching the hallowed portals of the Clubhouse.

Mrs V was actually waylaid on the Winding Road Of Consumerism, but only so that we could stock up on what we imagined were going to be some much needed pain-killers for Tizer, who was already starting to falter a bit. Once Mrs V caught up with us, we decided to head straight for a spot of breakfast, and were given a table in one of the booths (which always seem to be marked as 'Reserved', but never really are). Tizer toyed with a bowl of rice-krispies, whilst the rest of us indulged in the (almost) full monty fry-up. Very nice it was too, although would it kill them to stick a spoonful or two of baked beans on the plate? Hmm?

We soon discovered that the flight was delayed by around half an hour - which considering our surroundings was hardly heart-breaking - and I ordered us all a glass of champagne (all except for father, that is, who views drinking before noon as the first step on the road to Sodom and Gomorrah).

Mrs V took Tizer over to the children's area for some light relief which, it transpired, was to be in very sparse supply. Of the half dozen or so toys supplied in the little cubicle set aside for kids in the Clubhouse, every single one of them was broken. Or not working. Or had important pieces/limbs missing. Tizer - like most children - is generally pretty easy to occupy for hours on end with even the most basic of toys, but you really can't get away with fobbing kids off with non-operative crap. They just stare at it for a while, frown, then give it back to you, looking sad, saying, "It's broken", before wandering off to put yoghurt in your DVD player. C'mon Virgin, get some toys that work in there, or I'll send Tizer round to Branson's with a carton of Ribena and a quarter of marshmallows to play with his Bang & Olufsen!

Tizer hangs out in the Virgin Atlantic Clubhouse

Another glass of champers whiled away the time before our flight was called, then we sauntered up the usual succession of moving walkways to our awaiting plane - Mystic Maiden. We had a couple of minutes wait before boarding, as the crew weren't quite settled (I guess they were caught out by the slight delay), then we were straight on-board and into our allotted suites.

More champagne and a cheery welcome from the crew were liberally doled out, and I quickly retrieved my essential flying kit from my bag: iPod, Bose QC2 noise-cancelling headphones, book. Tizer was definitely feeling on the ropey side, but was doing her best to put a brave face on it. The crew were great with her, getting her settled in and making her feel at home, with a pillow to prop her up and help fill out her seat belt. Mum and dad were equally well looked after and, as the sun had now passed the proverbial yard-arm, father had even treated himself to a Buck's Fizz, the rogue.

Then, as we were heading runwaywards and the crew had taken to their seats, Tizer decided it was the ideal time to vacate hers. With Mrs V in the suite next to her and me opposite, we did our best – without leaving our own seats – to coax her back. My usual tool for this is to throw well aimed M&Ms at Tizer’s seat to lead her toward the safe confines of her seatbelt, but with all the worry over the state of her health, I’d forgotten to pick a bag of them up; a schoolboy error, I know, but even I have my off days. Not to worry, the Flight Service Manager (FSM) quickly spied what was happening, leapt from her seat and firmly (but kindly) deposited Tizer back in hers with the promise of treats to come if she’d just stay put for the next 10 minutes. Which she did – the girl knows a bribe when she hears it and curiosity alone kept her bum in her suite until the seatbelt sign was turned off.

She still wasn’t very well though, bless ‘er, and she was starting to feel a little warm to the touch again, which was a worry. V:Port - Virgin's marvellous on-demand in-flight entertainment system (IFE) was booted up, and we thought it would be ideal for her to put her feet up with a cool drink and watch a cartoon or three. But it was not to be, as suites 2-6A appeared to have a uniform row of blank screens. Being in the D row, I was quite prepared to give up my suite for Tizer, as V:Port was working fine for me; in fact, I'd already trounced those foolish enough to take me on at 'Trivia Challenge' (one of the interactive games that V:Port offers). The crew, however, assured us that they could quite easily fix such a localised problem and disappeared off to press buttons, turn widgets, wave magic wands or whatever it is they do to try and fix their increasingly unreliable IFE.

But it wasn’t all bad news: my drinks order had been taken earlier by a polite and a keen young flight attendent (FA) who had assured me that, yes, a bottle of Tanqueray 10 was on board and - praise be to the lord, allah and vishnu - they saw very little reason why there wouldn’t have been a sufficient supply of limes loaded to sate my need for a 'wedge'. As this is so seldom the case on Virgin flights - and on the sage advice of a fellow V-Flyer earlier that week - I had purloined a lime of my very own from the bar in the Clubhouse, just in case. However, it was to prove surplus to requirements as Keen Young FA brought forth the perfect T10&TWLW (that’s Tanqueray 10 and tonic with lime wedge, by the way). Delicious, so it was, so much so that when Keen Young FA offered me another one, I eagerly accepted.

Lunch orders were taken (still no V:Port opposite us at this point, by the way, though I thought I could now hear some mystic incantations being mumbled beyond the curtain where the IFE gubbins resides) but we were sorely disappointed to see that a couple of the meal options had been taken off the menu. I’d been rather looking forward to Tandoori chicken as a starter, and I also knew that Tizer had her heart set on the sausages and mash. In fact, she’d been practicing ordering since we’d first had sight of the menu online, and she wanted to tell the FA what she wanted for lunch herself; so, we’d had a very carefully enunciated – if somewhat repetitious: “Soup – And – Sausages. PLEASE!” for the past two weeks, more-or-less every time the subject of food was brought up.

It wasn’t to be however, though Tizer was far from being on top of her game by this point. Nevertheless, we were all delighted when Keen Young FA suddenly appeared with a plate of steaming bangers and mash, purloined from PE, especially for our ailing daughter. She barely ate it, which made us feel awful, but she really wasn’t up to solids by this time. Still, a lovely effort on the part of the crew which was much appreciated.

The pleasant male FA who’d been trying to work his magic with V:Port finally came over to us to admit that, despite a call to the engineers back on the ground, a liberal dash of holy water and a sharp kick, he wasn’t going to get the IFE back up and running – or at least not without risking screwing things up for the rest of the plane – and we didn’t really want that on our consciences. He offered Mrs V, Tizer, and the very nice couple in 2 and 3A, DVD players and 10,000 Flying Club miles each in compensation, which was more than acceptable.

I, meanwhile, had tired of displaying my omnipotent prowess of Trivia Challenge (despite a spirited contest with ‘JUDY’ in 38A - which she subsequently lost) and had settled instead for a film: ‘Horton Hears A Who’, an excellent cartoon version of a Dr Seuss classic in which Horton – an elephant – hears a voice emanating from a speck of dust, which turns out to be the home world of millions of ‘Whos’, who Horton has to save. Fantastic film which whilst reinforcing my love of all thinks Suess, did beg the question – just what was the good Dr. smoking when he wrote these books?

Lunch arrived; the soup surpassed my expectations by not merely being warm and gloopy (something I’ve come to expect from Upper Class soup) but also decidedly ‘foisty’, which is what, I guess, one should be prepared for when eating cream of parsnip. Still, they’ve yet to devise a soup which I can’t stomach (the same applies to ice cream – cauliflower flavour anyone? I tried it once in Amsterdam and it was delicious). A cheesy-stuffed chicken breast followed, which was pleasant enough. Cheese and port, however, to be put on permanent hold as Tizer was now running a temperature of 104 and refusing to take any medicine.

She was literally hot to the touch, looking a little like a beetroot and giving us – and, by now, the crew - real reason for concern. She’s a sod when it comes to running a temperature – we’ve been in similar positions with her a number of times (though never before at 38,000 feet) and it seems that even the mildest of bugs sends her internal thermostat on the fritz. Alternate doses of Calpol and Ibuprofen are the order of the day, and they work a treat – as long as she takes the offered medicine and doesn’t spit it out. But we were struggling now, and Pleasant Male FA had now joined us in trying to coerce Tizer to take a spoonful of a her medication. Things were getting serious enough at this point that he and the FSM were discussing whether they could find a nurse or doctor on board to administer an IV analgesic...

Then the FSM – the same who’d offered the earlier treat – had a better idea, and returned with a couple of cuddly toys from the on board Retail Therapy collection. A monkey, or Captain Teddy (a cute teddy bear bedecked resplendently in an airline pilot's uniform) – either one would be Tizer’s if she’d be a good girl and take her medicine. With barely a seconds hesitation, Captain Teddy was chosen and drugs were administered. We laid our hands on some Heroes forms, which we've yet to complete, but if either of the crew in question are ever reading this and recognise themselves – a million thanks to you both. You’re worth your weight in gold and you do VS proud.

The medication had the desired effect on Tizer and we able to make her bed up and let her get some much-needed shut-eye. Pleasant Male FSM approached me soon after to ask if we had a camera to hand. Of course we do, we're tourists, we told him, but why did he want our camera? Well, as we're all aware, flight deck visits are pretty much a thing of the past thanks to current security measures, but it turns out that passengers travelling in airline uniform - Captain Teddy, for instance - could be afforded the privilege of a quick tour. And so, some 10 minutes later, Pleasant Male FSM returned from the flight deck with a camera full of photos of Captain Teddy's trip up front. Very good they were too, and really put a smile on Tizer's face later in the holiday.

After all the stress, I felt a visit to the bar was in order, and dragged my dad along for a snifter or two (be under no illusions, despite his earlier reticence, my father enjoys a drink as much - if not more - than the next man once he warms up). The pleasant couple from 2 and 3A were also at the bar and turned out to be fellow Northerners and, it transpired, fellow Flying Club miles whores to boot. We put a healthy dent in a nice bottle of Viogner Sauvignon and swapped stories of miles earned and reward seats gained over the years.

The arrival of the tea service is probably the only thing that saved me from getting into an unfortunate 'sesh' (never a good idea at 38,000 feet) and we returned to our suites to a pretty nice spread of sarnies and a cream scone, complemented by a surprisingly good of cup of tea. Nice and strong with just a touch of milk - Builder's Tea, as we call it back home. The sarnies were very good (though I swapped the egg with Mrs V for her chicken). Dad wasn't impressed though; as a life long loather of a things fish - bar the stuff they batter and deep fry down our local chippy - he was rather shocked to find that the 'ham and mayo' sandwich he tucked greedily into was in fact smoked salmon and cream cheese. So appalled was he that he entirely lost his appetite for his scone, poor old bugger.

Tizer was starting to stir by this time, and we managed another dose of medicine whilst she was still drowsy enough not to be able to resist. We asked the FSM to ask the Captain if she could sit with Mrs V during landing using a lap-belt, so as not to upset her more than was necessary. The Captain, incidentally, had been good enough to come out and check on a Eliza during the flight. We told her that he was the pilot but she misheard us and is now convinced that planes are flown by pirates. Anyway, he was kind enough to allow the use of the lap-belt, and our steady descent into MIA was all the more restful for it.

Once we'd landed we were quickly onto a stand, and Tizer was swiftly transferred to the compact-and-bijou-push-chair where she promptly fell back to sleep. Thanking all of the crew wholeheartedly for their simply stunning service and help throughout the flight, we took a deep breath and headed for immigration. Now, after hearing various rumours about the sheer hell-on-earth that Miami Airport immigration can be, we were really dreading the prospect of a two or three hour wait - or, worse still - to find ourselves being handled in a similar fashion to dear Dragon Lady recently, especially with an ill child in tow. But guess what? It couldn't have been easier; possibly the best entry into a US airport we've had (and I'm comparing New York, LA and Chicago here). I think we were just lucky, and a sleeping child in a push-chair seemed to open lengths of Tensa tape that weren't being made accessible to everyone. We were through in less than half and hour, I reckon.

Then, of course, we weren't accounting for the appearance of Potential Holiday Calamity No. 3 - where the hell was our pre-booked limo?! Various terse 'phone calls and much pacing of the outside of arrivals later and the driver finally showed up, blaming a lack of parking spaces, believe it or not. But hanging around arrivals in 80 degree heat with a sickly kid for over an hour isn't the biggest bag of laughs, I can tell you.

He led us out to the road, where we were to wait while he collected the car, which is always a bonus if you ask me 'cause it gives me the chance to have a quick ciggie (I know! Awful habit, but I barely smoke anymore, honest). It was sticky, humid and busy and - despite the fact Tizer wasn't exactly having a ball - I rather enjoyed the chance to soak up a bit of the atmosphere. It was about 7 in the evening, so dark already, but still very warm; there was a definite smell of the tropics to the fume-laden air; people in loud shirts were bustling to-and-fro beneath avenues of tall palm trees, and the whole scene gave a real 'sense of place'. No Crockett or Tubbs look-a-likes to be seen, however, which was, I have to say, a little disappointing.

The driver pulled up at the kerb within 5 minutes or so, loaded up the frankly vast SUV with our mountain of luggage, then we were quickly on our way to Loews Hotel in Miami Beach. All the to-ing and fro-ing had woken Tizer by this time, so we checked in as quickly as we could and got straight up to our suite, where she lay on the bathroom floor a promptly threw up. Truly, has there ever been a better start to a holiday?

We managed to get some more Calpol down her - despite the procession of porters and maids who decided this was a great time to descend upon our room - and she slowly started to cool down. We're in a beachfront junior suite which (with the benefit of a tiny bit of hindsight) is very nice indeed. It has a separate living room area with a pull-out sofa bed, which we quickly settled Tizer into; she was shattered - absolutely whacked out, poor thing - and fell swiftly to sleep. It was about 9 in the evening local time, so 2am as far as our bodies were concerned and, quite understandably, we weren't far behind her.

Well, at least the flight's out of the way. Now, surely, things have to start looking up - don't they?

(A lot of the above post is an edited version of my trip report posted on V-Flyer - those nerdy enough to want it in its entirety - with all the lovely airport codes and related chuntering from my fellow V-Flyer types -can view it here )