HOBO, ME?

By Dave Hughes.Airframes.


Having been away in New Zealand for the month of November but noting the publication of the latest issue of the Journal, it has taken me this long to get around to reading its content, this being entertaining as always. However, Barry Close's item, particularly on his associations with the Shack, his memories of Shackair and of the scenic splendour you could enjoy when flying courtesy of it, brought back memories I have previously described in an earlier edition of the Journal. But on this occasion, it was his mention of the word "hobo" that stirred my innards so I thought I would write and tell the story that recently happened to me.

Let me explain and give a little background to the story: First the facts! I am an avid aviation enthusiast - have been since before I joined up in 1955 and, if there was a reason why I joined, it was probably because of seeing aircraft overflying my house from not-so-far-away RRE Pershore. These days I suppose you could describe me as an anorak (though, being 81st, I do dress with a little more of a delicate touch). Anyway, at the beginning of November 2015 there I was on this round-the-world journey; I had travelled from London Heathrow, had stopped off at the Regal Airport Hotel in Honkers to give myself time to catch up with some of the locally based airline fleets, before heading for Auckland and, later the same day, Wellington, NZ. All this was because I was on the way to my older sister's 80th birthday. I had planned and booked the trip over the previous six months and, in that planning, had used the superb inputs from fellow aviation enthusiasts - who advise on specific hotels and rooms - to assist me with my bookings at both the Regal, and later the Embassy Suites South in Los Angeles. As always, the advice was brilliant and the Regal certainly came up trumps even if it was bit expensive.

After my month's holiday, it was time to get on the road again, courtesy of Air New Zealand, and eventually I arrived in Los Angeles for another two days watching aircraft (I'd already done the tourist thingy on a previous visit).

Now, to further set the scene: I had arrived at the airport and, with others - after some delay waiting for it to arrive - I had caught the shuttle bus to the hotel. You must remember that at this point I had been travelling for about 19 ½ hours, and had been awake for about 22 hours, so I most probably did not look my best being somewhat unshaven, dishevelled and probably quite scruffy if truth be told (I would have denied all knowledge of being ex- 81st, I hasten to add). But read on and, when you have finished reading, share a quiet giggle with me, as now, when I think about it, I find the story quite funny.

There were about 8 of us on the bus and I was third to check in at the Embassy (a Hilton hotel). Despite having booked my room 6 months earlier, notifying the hotel of my time of arrival and that I would like access to that room immediately and, despite having contacted them a week prior to my arrival to reiterate time of arrival and my needs for a room, I was told it wasn't ready. I was told that I could go and sit by the pool "If I wished" but I couldn't have access to the room at that point.

As you can imagine I protested quite strongly, even more strongly at the apparent off-handed way in which I felt I was being treated, so I was non too pleased upon being told to "Go away and come back at 3 o'clock when the room will be ready". Being by now so totally shattered I decided I was really in no fit condition to argue and literally gave-up. However, noting that in the centre of the reception area there were some long seats with cushions, I decided to take my bags and baggage over to one of them, take off my shoes, put my feet up, lay down, and close my eyes in the hope of resting.

I suppose I managed 20 mins or so, I honestly didn't know how long, when I sort of heard an ethereal voice coming from somewhere out there, telling me I wasn't allowed to come in off the street and make use of the facilities (or words to that effect). Now I've already said that no doubt I looked pretty grotty but what was happening sort of astounded me; this was the hotel security man, a lad named Juan who, either because someone had told him of me or because he had noticed me on his rounds, had assumed I was a HOBO making use of the hotel facilities (they did frequent the area as I was later to notice). I answered him in the English that you and I speak of course, and he immediately had the sense to realise I wasn't a US hobo, not with that accent, and so he straight away asked if I was a hotel guest. Having confirmed I was and that I was waiting to check in, he immediately went to reception and stirred things up. Reception, however, really didn't wish to be stirred though ultimately I did have a room allocated even if it wasn't quite the room I would have wished for based on the advice I had earlier been given. Nonetheless my new room suited my purposes and, from then on, things improved. I think the hotel staff might have found it a little odd though that the 'Do not disturb' sign did not move from the outside door handle for two days.

I have been many things in my life, fellow 81st entrants, but a Hobo!! That just about took the biscuit. I should add that when the dust settled I did negotiate the refund of part of my hotel bill as some form of 'compensation' for the embarrassment I felt I had been caused. At age 76 that might have been my last venture to NZ for I found the very long flights quite tiresome; but who knows what the future might bring? And if it does allow travel, I will look very closely at where I stay and how I dress.