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Affordable Europe
Affordable Europe | Budget Airlines
Adventures in Low-Cost Travel
By MATT GROSS
UNRESTED and unshowered, I arrived at Luton Airport, in suburban London,
around 5 a.m., and did not expect my situation to improve. I’d been up
all night, wandering around London with friends, and now I was about to
fly to Morocco on an airline whose reputation for rock-bottom prices was
surpassed only by its reputation for rock-bottom service. Bleary-eyed, I
slapped my passport on the check-in counter, picked up the boarding pass
(no assigned seating, of course), and began the long, long march to my
gate.
Normally, I would have shrugged off the looming discomfort as I did the
attendant’s warning about my overweight baggage. But I was halfway
through a weeklong jaunt around Europe, traveling solely via low-cost
carriers, the budget airlines that have multiplied across the Continent
like unnecessary E.U. regulations, and the perpetual motion was getting
to me. Where had I just been? Where was I going? I wasn’t really sure
anymore — all I knew was that getting there wouldn’t cost much more than
my sanity.
Every country or region has at least one budget airline: easyJet and
RyanAir, the pioneers in this industry, operate out of the Britain and
Ireland, while Air Berlin and HLX ferry the shallow-pocketed in and out
of Germany. Spain has Vueling, Scandinavia has Sterling, and Italy has a
host of tiny carriers that focus on random, disparate cities — Evolavia,
for example, flies between Ancona, Paris and Moscow.
What unites these small airlines is a devotion to cheap fares. Flights
routinely are less than 20 euros (about $27 at $1.36 to the euro), and
can even drop to the low, low price of ... zero. How can the airlines
afford that? By cutting out frills and tacking on fees. Fuel surcharges,
airport taxes, excess-baggage fees and the ever-popular miscellaneous
charges help make up for the seemingly unprofitable ticket prices.
Despite this sneakiness, these airlines remain the best way to bounce
around the increasingly borderless superstate known as Europe — faster
than railroads, more comfortable than a bus (if you’re lucky), and far
cheaper than the major carriers.
This winter, I set out to test the network. The plan: seven flights in
seven days, mixing established and off-the-beaten-path destinations,
staying in modest hotels and never taking the same airline twice. Along
the way, I would even try to enjoy myself wherever I landed.
At first, mapping out a route late last November drove me crazy. Not all
budget airlines fly every route every day, and plugging schedules into
Web sites took hours. Then I discovered Flylc.com, a booking engine that
streamlines the process. Its page shows three columns: the first
contains a list of every airport in Europe; click one and the second
column displays every destination you can reach from there, while the
third shows which airlines fly that route. One more click brings up a
timetable showing every flight from, say, Dublin to Bratislava on
SkyEurope. Neat!
Soon I had a drawn a viable route around Europe. From Geneva — a central
location served by many budget airlines — I’d fly to Prague, then to
Copenhagen, London, Fez (Morocco is around Europe, right?), Paris and
Budapest, and back to Geneva. At each stop, I’d have a day, more or
less, to get oriented before rushing off to the next far-flung city.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
And so, early one January Monday in Geneva, I checked into Flybaboo
Flight 75. Founded in 2003, the improbably named airline generally
ferries passengers to warmer climes — the French Riviera, Ibiza,
Sardinia — but for a mere 10 Swiss francs (about $8 at $1.24 Swiss
francs to the U.S. dollar, but the equivalent of $59 with taxes), it
also goes to Prague. As I walked to the farthest reaches of the airport,
where Flybaboo’s gates lay, I wondered what I was getting into.
Then I arrived at the Flybaboo lounge — the slickest non-business-class
waiting area I’d ever seen. Men in good suits sat on the red-leather
banquettes, checking e-mail on complimentary iMacs. I picked up a copy
of Baboo Time, a smart, stylish magazine, and read an interview with
Dita Von Teese. I was in no hurry to board, because I worried that
things could only get worse.
They got better. The plane was a cute twin-prop Dash 8-300, and as we
sat shivering on the runway, waiting for the wings to be de-iced, the
sole flight attendant — a young guy whose nice gray wool trousers and
black V-neck sweater were accented by a red tie and a red nylon belt —
kindly handed out blankets. A few minutes later, we took off, cruising
up through the darkness to the clear sky, where the gray quilt of clouds
stretched out before us, punctured by the peaks of the Jura Mountains,
glowing in the first light of dawn. I gazed out the window till
breakfast arrived — strong coffee and airy, just-sweet muffins — then
snuggled under my blanket till we touched down, on time, in Prague.
A bus and a subway took me to the heart of Prague’s old town, where
after a few wrong turns I arrived at my hotel, the Jerome House. I had a
big, clean room, and I made the most of my 24 hours in the Czech
capital, wandering the ancient streets and bridges, eating and drinking
with friends of friends, and popping into the Kafka Museum for a peek
into the life of the writer whose work is all about disorientation.
Too soon, it was back to the airport for Sterling Flight 564 to
Copenhagen (7 euros, or 31 euros with taxes and fees). After Flybaboo,
Sterling was a disappointment: service was efficient but impersonal, and
the flight attendants wore brown pantsuits with tight brown gloves — the
corporate dominatrix look. Worse, the Boeing 737-800 was filthy. The
dark blue seat fabric hid ground-in grime, fingerprints smeared the
windows, and the unmistakable smell of body odor lingered in the stale
air. A flavorless chicken sandwich and a Diet Coke cost 8 euros.
Luckily, the in-flight magazine provided distraction with an article on
eco-friendly Danish fashion and an interview with Lars von Trier.
Less than an hour after we touched down, I arrived by speedy train at
Copenhagen’s main station. Climbing up from the platform, I spotted an
ad for my hotel that included directions. I turned right, then left,
then right again — and promptly found myself nowhere near the Cab Inn.
Instead, I was circling around the dark gates of Tivoli, the grand
amusement park smack in the middle of downtown. The ad’s directions had
seemed so clear — but where was I going?
Though the sky looked ready to pour at any minute, I pulled my MacBook
from my messenger bag, found a public Wi-Fi signal and loaded the Cab
Inn Web site: The hotel had moved from one side of Tivoli to the other;
the train-station ad had not been updated. Fifteen minutes later I was
in my room, designed to look like a ship’s cabin.
That evening, I reunited with Egil, a friend since childhood, and along
with his girlfriend and his brother, we ate at Det Lille Apotek, which
claims to be Copenhagen’s oldest restaurant. In the quaint little
tavern, where Egil’s grandfather, the painter Asger Jorn, used to hang
out, we reminisced over old times and devoured roast beef, gravy and way
too many potatoes. I’d been lost; now I was found.
The sensation did not last long. The next day, Air Berlin was waiting to
whisk me off to London via Berlin (31 euros, 65 euros with taxes and
fees). The flight began on Air Berlin’s code-sharing partner, Fly DBA.
The quarter-full 737-300 exuded shabbiness — tray tables opened
crustily, and the color scheme was white and inconsistently green, with
shades ranging from yellowish to kellyish to simply soupy, as in the
shirts the flight attendants wore under black polyester jackets. The
snacks, however, were great — breadsticks flavored with olive oil and
rosemary — and as we approached Tegel Airport, we skimmed the clouds in
a wide circle, the silhouette of our craft projected against the frothy
white surface. Ah. ...
The next segment was on an actual Air Berlin plane, a spanking new
Airbus A320 that was all computer-designed curves, with a gray color
scheme that whispered sophistication. The air was so clean I could smell
the high-tech filtering system, and for the first time I had a personal
flat-screen, on which I watched “The King of Queens” and followed our
westward progress across an ultra-detailed satellite map, all the way to
Stansted, one of the London area’s four airports.
We landed around 8 p.m., and since my next flight was leaving out of
Luton Airport at 6:30 a.m., a hotel room was pointless. Instead, I
planned to prowl the streets all night with my friends Vincent and
Weiting. Fortified with fish and chips, we set out across London from
Vincent’s Bloomsbury town house, walking first to the Barbican Estate —
a marvelous, messy, modernist apartment complex and arts center that is
almost a town unto itself — then through the stately, lonely City and
over the Thames to the Tate Modern. Maybe it was the threat of rain, but
we saw no one else until we reached Waterloo Bridge, where a
voluminously afro’d young woman was comforting a friend who’d had a
lovers’ quarrel. They hugged and smiled for us, and at 3 a.m. we
returned to Bloomsbury by cab.
Arriving at the airport tired and dirty is bad enough, but when you’re
flying on RyanAir, it’s enough to make you suicidal. This was the
airline friends had warned me about — not just the cheapest but the
chintziest, not just no-frills but inhabiting a frill-free alternate
universe. Still, when the London-Fez route is £1.39 (£38.32 with taxes
and fees; $76.64 at $2 to the pound), who can complain?
I can. Boarding the 737-800, again at a distant gate, was absurd: seats
on RyanAir are not assigned, and everyone made a mad dash for a good
spot; all the while a flight attendant — in a blue uniform so crisp it
seemed like she’d never worn it before — kept everyone out of the first
six rows. They remained inexplicably empty the whole flight.
I settled in Row 7, then began to wish I’d never sat down. The cramped
seats did not recline, and were made of molded blue plastic, as if they
would be hosed down after the flight. Luckily, I’d been awake all night
and fell instantly asleep.
RyanAir got me to Fez on time, however, and I even befriended my
seatmate, a Canadian named Matt who said he was “studying terrorism” at
a university in Wales. We shared a taxi to Fez’s medieval medina and
spent much of the day exploring the labyrinthine marketplace together.
If I was going to get lost anywhere, I thought, it would be here, amid
the high khaki walls and shadowy passageways to nowhere. Even before we
entered, kids offered to guide us, warning, “La casbah est difficile!” I
said I preferred difficulty — and plunged in. But though the market was
enormous, with dead-end alleys and vegetable stands and near-identical
knickknack vendors and swarms of schoolchildren who rioted with joy
every time I pulled out my camera, I never quite lost my way. Even
better, I felt comfortable — this was my kind of place, and I could have
spent days or weeks drinking espresso with hash-smoking teens and
stumbling upon the hidden ruins of pashas’ palaces. I left only out of
exhaustion, but invited Matt to my hotel, a gracious courtyard house
called the Riad Zamane, for a dinner of the best chicken tagine ever.
Next morning I was back in the air, this time on a 737-400 operated by
Jet4you. My ride out of Fez, this tiny low-cost carrier — it flies
between Morocco, France and Belgium with just two jets — had the highest
fares (134 euros, or 144.09 euros with taxes and fees) and the oldest
plane. The seats were threadbare, a chunk of my armrest was missing, and
let’s not even talk about the stained fabric. The in-flight magazine was
low-budget and unimaginative, and one of the French tourists on the
nearly full flight was a middle-aged woman in a leopard-print top and
tight black-leather Versace jeans. I closed my eyes and woke up at Paris
Orly.
Ah, Paris! Now this was a place I knew well. Ever since I walked across
the city one wintry night in 1994, my feet had developed an instinctual
sense of the Haussmannian boulevards. I checked into my hotel, a cute,
affordable Latin Quarter boutique called the Five, and headed straight
for the Marais, where I found a pleasant surprise: winter sales!
Virtually every store was offering deep discounts, and I took full
advantage, picking up a Mandarina Duck suitcase to replace my venerable
Briggs & Riley, which had lost a wheel under RyanAir’s care.
Getting to my flight the next day was a hassle. I was leaving not from
Charles de Gaulle nor Orly, but from a little-known airport called
Beauvais, about 50 miles north. (Colonizing third-tier airports is how
many budget airlines offer such low fares.) To get to Beauvais, I took
the Metro to Pont de Neuilly, wandered in a light drizzle until I found
the bus depot, then rode an hour out to the airport, again befriending
my seatmate, Gabriella, who like me was bound for Budapest on Wizz Air
(6.99 euros, or 39.11 euros with taxes and fees).
“Oh, Wizz is the worst,” she said.
Not quite true, but Wizz, based in Poland and Hungary, was no Flybaboo.
First, I had to pay an extra 35 euros for my overweight bag, now laden
with 10 pounds of in-flight magazines, then the plane almost left
without me. Inside, the air was overpressurized, and the flight
attendants as confused as the color scheme, a mix of white and “magenta”
that ranged from borscht to spilled zinfandel. At least Wizzit, the
airline’s magazine, was entertaining: “The World’s Worst Food” was one
cover line, and contributors included the travel editor of Wallpaper*.
Around 11 p.m. I checked into my hotel, but did not go to sleep.
Instead, Bernadett, a friend of a friend, picked me up and we roamed the
Hungarian capital in search of food — stacked crepes stuffed with
mushrooms, tomatoes and cheese, and slathered in sour cream — and drink:
Borsodi beers at Szimpla, a shabby but wonderful bar in what was once
someone’s house.
The next afternoon, Bernadett and I drove up to Buda Castle, which looms
gloriously over the city, and then to the airport. It was time for my
final flight.
O easyJet, how I love thee! You may be a big shot, but in your Airbus
A319, you treated me like a human being (for 5,950 forints, or 12,350
after taxes and fees, about $68 at 182 forints to $1). You looked the
other way at my excess baggage, and though you don’t assign seats, you
keep them spotless and roomy. Your flight attendants wore chic
open-necked orange-and-gunmetal-gray shirts, and your in-flight magazine
was professional and informative, with articles on percebes, the Spanish
delicacy, and up-and-coming neighborhoods in Toulouse. “Come on,” winks
your magazine, “let’s fly!” With you, baby? Anytime.
Alas, easyJet and I parted ways in Geneva. I grabbed a shuttle to NH, an
airport hotel, and tried to sleep. I couldn’t. After a week of constant
motion, I was buzzing with memories and inertia — I’d sampled so many
places, so quickly, I wanted to revisit them all. Yet here I was at the
end, in Switzerland on a desolate Sunday night. The adrenaline rush of
disorientation was fading. Still, there was one ray of light: In the
morning, I would be flying to Bulgaria. On Lufthansa. It was no low-cost
carrier, but as I drifted off, I decided it would have to do.
WHERE TO GO ONLINE
Like all airlines, low-cost carriers often offer better prices to those
who book early. Be sure to check all terms and conditions; these
airlines often limit baggage and the changing of tickets after purchase.
FlyBaboo, www.flybaboo.com.
Sterling, www.sterling.dk.
Air Berlin, www.airberlin.com.
RyanAir, www.ryanair.com.
Jet4you, www.jet4you.com.
Wizz Air, www.wizzair.com.
EasyJet, www.easyjet.com.
MATT GROSS writes the Frugal Traveler column for the Travel section.
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