By Joel Thurtell
[donation]
Memo to self: Never, never go with the lowest bidder.
Giant burrito & me. Adam Thurtell photo.
Unless the company has a name you can trust.
In the case of my rental car company in Los Angeles, I’d never heard of them. But hey, they had the cheapest daily rates on cars. Never heard of them? Didn’t faze me.
Neither did their booking calendar. It wouldn’t move off 10 a.m. I reasoned that the rentals were figured from 10 a.m. on pick up day to 10 a.m. on drop off day. Wrong. Dumbie me!
EZ didn’t have their own shuttle from LAX airport to their rental office. They piggyback on the Sheraton Hotel shuttle. So what? I reasoned that calling for a ride was no worse than standing around gawking at all the shuttles that go by. Give me something to do.
Reality set in when I found my luggage. It was noon. I called the car agency. “Mr. Joel?”
That’s me.
“We canceled you. You were supposed to be here at ten.”
You did what? Turned out that malfunctioning web signup page did me in.
For Christ sake, now what? Was this a harbinger of the visit? Bad luck all the way? Little did I know I’d get up close to the LA mayor and be served the biggest burrito I’ve ever seen, let alone eaten. I kid you not, this thing could pass muster with the NFL. A little mushy on hiking and passes, but the tastiest football I’ve ever had. More on my burrito at the Vera Cruz restaurant in Pico Rivera later.
Because I’m getting ahead.
“But we have more cars,” the EZ guy said.
Big relief.
“Take the Sheraton shuttle, walk a block west and you’ll see our office.”
I did as told, walked a block behind the Sheraton. Where’s the rental office?
Oh my God, it’s in a trailer!
That wasn’t the worst. What the guy forgot to tell me was that sure, they had carrs to rent. But no more small cars. Somehow he remembered when I was in front of him, having wasted a shuttle trip from the airport.
All they had were Dodge Grand Caravans at $20 a day more. Five days, a hundred smackers. Forget it, I said. Decisively. Irrevocably. I didn’t swear, though the words came to mind.
I walked out, found the shuttle driver, thankful I’d tipped him, and he tipped me — don’t go back to the airport, he said. Walk down to the Budget rental car office a block away.
A long block away. A good quarter mile. With a line of wannabe customers nearly a half mile long. And me without a confirmation number. What to do? Go back to EZ and eat crow? After my huffy departure, go back and grovel?
The Grand Caravan turned out to be a godsend. On Sunday, my son Adam, his girl friend Alysha and daughter with friend and a cousin, 3-year-old Tony, fitted into the Caravan very nicely.
So — I had a car. Followed Adam’s directions onto the 105 and 605 and Whittier Boulevard and on to his house. He guided me to the Days Inn with help from GPS and his iPhone. I rang the bell at Days Inn counter. Clerk looks up my name. Finds it not.
I had a confirmation number. Too bad. No reservation. Want a more expensive room for smokers?
What is going on here?
Welcome to California!
No, I don’t want a more expensive stunk-up smoking room. Negatative and negatory.
I walked out in a huff.
Conferred with Adam. No other hotels except the Whittier Radisson, a lot more expensive.
What, eat crow a second time? Where is dignity?
The smoking room had a jacuzzi. Not that I used it. It was also the shower. I used that. It leaked. A big part of the floor of that room — with its carpet — was soaked. No socks near the jacuzzi or I’d be wringing them out by hand. Minor, though. And on Saturday, they switched me into a cheaper room. Really, I hardly spent any time there. I was at Adam’s place from breakfast till nearly midnight.
Hey, it all worked out. Next time, I’ll just rent a Grand Caravan to begin with, so there’ll be room for everybody.
And I’ll book the Radisson instead of the Days Out.
Coming up: Torpedoes, tar pits, books on the cheap and, oh yes, more about that huge burrito.
Contact me at joelthurtell(at)gmail.com
