Fiery Brazil
Posted on April 17th, 2009 –
Even on a day when the temperature eventually touches the nicer end of twenty degrees Celsius (sixty-eight Fahrenheit), it’s still possible to dress inappropriately. For example, dressing in nothing more than green-white-yellow boxers (don’t care what you say, those are not shorts), and miniscule t-shirt turned out to be a poor decision by the young man shivering on the subway.
There was a wee nip in the morning and, without exception, everyone else was dressed so as to retain some body heat. He was, as I could gather from the small logo on the sleeve of his t-shirt, a cadet of some sort. Sure, you gotta be a bit tougher for that kind of thing, but I hope that some wisdom intercedes before he’s given a firearm. He looked absolutely frigid, huddled in a small, pale mass on the subway bench next to a svelte woman twice his size.
He was, basically, really tiny and really cold.
The only other reason I could see for someone being so wholly under-dressed would be if they had just returned from vacation. You’ve seen them: doe-eyed sadness, brown and suddenly stripped of the sun by a bitter northerly wind raking their naked skin as they step through the terminal exit. Genuinely amusing; but I can appreciate the more relaxed attitude. Unless they were returning from one of those Conquest vacations. In that case, the blazing inferno of their concentrated displeasure would probably sear a hole in the side of the plane.
Imagine going south with your family after pinching pennies for a year only to discover that the company you had booked with went tits-up while you were sipping Pina Coladas. That, in and of itself, wouldn’t be the real pisser though. What would light your fire would be the fact that you might have had to pay for the remainder of your vacation, and your trip home, out of pocket. Or else.
So, where did the money go? I mean, last time I booked a vacation I had to pay for the full thing before I was given the flight tickets, and it sure as hell wasn’t cheap. In other words, I had already paid for my vacation. So imagine my surprise if I ended up in Cancun only to find out that, in fact, no I hadn’t. Except I had. Meaning, somebody stole my money. If it was a matter of bad credit between businesses then trying to shake down the customers to try to get it back is a theft on both fronts. Is it any more complicated than that?
The moment my feet hit Canadian soil, I would be exceedingly and most exceptionally pissed. Until then, I’d be high-tailin’ it through the jungle like a greased monkey. I’d probably discover later that I’d hurt myself real bad during my coca-fueled flight, but I would make it to a road. There I would swap English lessons and charm for rides, putting increasingly happy miles between the hotel and me. Thus, riding a crest of elation, I would find myself not north as I had expected, but south — in Brazil. Fiery Brazil.
So…I hope that the tourists who got the royal shaft from Conquest will be doing that when they get home because, frankly, I haven’t heard a single critical note on Conquest pipe put of any of the local media. Where are the kick-ass take-downs? Where are the public photos of Conquest execs hanging their heads in shame for absconding with their customers’ money?
That’s right, I’m asking for poo to be flung.
“Customers who have booked a Conquest vacation will likely get the money back.” – *sob*
“At home, Conquest’s sudden demise is raising questions about the travel-industry watchdog’s role in preventing such inconveniences.” – You know, that is inconvenient.
“As a gesture of goodwill, we are offering travellers who are rebooking their vacations with Sunquest over the next 10 days $100 off the lowest current Sunquest rates — with proof of their Conquest Vacations purchase” – Turning frowns upside-down.
“In business since 1972, Conquest served destinations in Canada, the United States, the Caribbean, Mexico and Europe.” – Good to know. Good to know.
“Beaver had recently planned a trip to the Dominican with her boyfriend.” – I’m so so sorry. I just couldn’t stop myself. It was automatic – like clicking in a dream.
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