Orlando Magic

Those who know me well, and even those merely acquainted with me, know my tolerance level for fuckwits is quite low to non existent. With this in mind and now with the benefit of hindsight, it was likely a poor choice to stay at a two star establishment in our first port of call in Florida. 


Having not slept for two nights in a row, Orlando was on my shitlist before we even got there. Our flight from New York to Orlando was overbooked, so we had to wait until the rest of the plane had boarded to find out if we were to be one of the chosen ones to be given a seat. When we eventually boarded the plane, we were told our pilot was running late because he was, “stuck in traffic”. Now I’m not the most worldly person, but I would have thought the words ‘New York city’ and ‘traffic’ went hand in hand. But obviously some pilots get too cushy having the airways all to themselves, and fail to plan ahead when they once again set foot on solid ground. 


Add to this the longest wait in history for our bags to arrive at baggage claim, then an insufferable transfer in which we had the displeasure of sharing oxygen with six of the most obnoxious New Zealanders ever to roam the planet, and I was about ready to head home. But then I would have missed out on the gem that is the Champion’s World Resort. Its biggest claim to fame was a contemporary shower rod in each room, which was lovely but I’d have preferred a stock standard shower rod in exchange for a toilet that worked and windows that opened. I’d trade all of it for the ‘resort’ to have been staffed with people who knew what they were doing and could do more than one thing at a time without going into meltdown. The $8.99 steak on the resort’s dining room menu should have been a suitable warning of the alternate universe we had unknowingly entered into.


Here’s an actual exchange with one of the staff at the reception desk, who looked like a heavy-set Sonic the Hedgehog with glasses.


Me: “I’d like to book a taxi to take us to meet our bus to go to Kennedy Space Center.”
Sonic: “When do you want it?”
Me: “In about ten minutes if that’s possible.” (The night before we’d asked the lady at the activities desk about taxis etc, and she had said to ring for one ten minutes before we were ready to leave.)
Sonic: “You’re not going to get one in ten minutes.” 
Me: “Well as soon as possible is fine.”


Sonic, huffing and puffing as if it was so implausible someone might want a taxi to take them somewhere, reluctantly rang us a taxi and had great pleasure in telling me it would be at least 20 to 25 minutes before it picked us up. We waited in the lobby for about 15 minutes, when a shuttle bus pulled up, and the driver, who looked and sounded like Cee Lo Green, waddled in. 


Cee Lo: “Transfer for MARTIN, four people!” 


No Martins were coming to claim their ride, so Cee Lo went to ask Sonic where they were. Sonic then proceeded to scream at me: “MISS! IT’S YOUR TAXI. GO WITH YOUR DRIVER.”
Me: “He just yelled out Martin, I didn’t even give you my name.”
Sonic: “IT’S YOUR TAXI. GO AND GET IN YOUR TAXI.” 


Me to Cee Lo: “We aren’t who you’re looking for.” 
Cee Lo: “Yeah, I’m sorry I can’t afford a Ferrari, but that don’t mean I can’t get you there.” 



So in we got with Cee Lo who made a bit of cash on the side taking us where we needed to go. The real Martins eventually showed up too.