I write from a noisy LA Airport Departures Lounge Bar; the muzak is ok, my Lady Bar Attendants funny, witty, sassy. They seem to like entertaining a female barfly; the flirtations of my lascivious male neighbour elicited polite tolerance and a chilly stare. Quite right, too.

My window for writing is delivered by Virgin Atlantic, whose services I have not enjoyed for about 25 years and whose airborne delights are delayed by almost two hours. Accustomed as I am to flying BA on business jaunts, this Virgin adventure was forced upon me by a threatened BA Pilots’ strike, cancelled too late for my convenience (the Pilots had a point, I don’t mind).

Back in the mid-90s, Virgin Atlantic was the Air Carrier of Choice; it delivered Cool Britannia in spades: edgy, ironic, full of Branson Pickle. But not now … or perhaps we just don’t want that any more.

A regular business traveler, I want airline representatives to be infused with kindness and generosity of spirit; I ask only for well crafted, essential comforts even in Economy or Premium Economy (Business and First are not yet on the cards). BA delivers all of this with aplomb … and two whole bags in the hold. Today Virgin checked me in with cursory attention, the second bag exciting a possible $100 fee and accusatory Dontcha know the flight’s delayed? Yeah … problems with the incoming aircraft. Oh, good. No I didn’t know. Sorry would have been nice.

I have written before about my solo travel experiences around the UK; Travels from the female business executive includes my stay in George Melly’s Manchester hostelry of choice, his favourite simply because he wanted to see how much worse it could get on his next visit. Although its jazzy credentials made up for the less-than-compelling and enduring scent of previous guests, I wouldn’t go back.

Today I am at the tail end of a week-long visit to the USA, starting in Boston where a Condo provided excellent accommodation, a kitchenette and privacy. The discovery of short-term ApartHotels has been a revelation; cheaper and better than a good hotel, the opportunity to buy food and eat in, gym, swim and generally be independent and unobserved is too good to miss.

My judgement of a hotel relies on a warm welcome and top-banana room servicing. All of this and more I received at the Embassy Suites in Irvine CA.

Simple but assiduous care from a hotel is essential support for one who has daily back-to-back meetings, the effort and chutzpah for which elicit exhaustion unalleviated by the need to network and connect with colleagues and new contacts of an evening. The fresh-and-clean room is a joy to return to and generous tipping will ensue.

Actually a good hotel bar with sexually neutral servers prepared to protect you from the Hairy Brigade is also an asset.

Which brings me to the essential lack of glamour surrounding Single Female business travel, mainly the  perpetual advances of opportunistic prowling chest-beaters endemic within hotel corridors, bars, the aisles of airports and planes … shh, there’s one on the next table … Historically, my efforts to divert these hirsute individuals with charm have failed; I have learned that  a Hard Stare and Utter Disinterest does the trick. If not, a robust Fuck Off will nail it.

Young women: do not feel incumbent to entertain these creatures. They are two a penny and you will not arrive at your deathbed wishing you’d spent more time with them.  Let them return home to their weary wives and girlfriends; doubtless, said WAG is infused with regret. We can only hope she breaks free because truly, all women deserve better.

Those who are not pressed into regular business travel generally assume it to be a Bit of a Gift – oh come on, you have a great time! It’s glamorous, it’s paid for, it’s freedom. I’ll tell you a secret: it is none of those things. Business travel is gruelling, tiring and frustrating, mainly because hard work lies ahead and the equally hard work you were doing before you left has – unlike you – not gone anywhere. More than that, BB is not with me, not here to divert my attention from the mundanity of delays and TravelCrap. Not here to make me as happy as he does. The hardest sacrifice of all is enforced distance from him.

My blogs are usually more optimistic, but as I colonise this particular corner of the SlapFish bar at LAX Terminal 2 (the one without the pedicure service), truth is required.

It’s not so bad; it’s actually quite funny,

© Giovanna Forte 2019