Carry On My Wayward Traveler!

August 25, 2023

Before I delve into detail in this personal vignette, please remember that these were the days before yours truly became a road warrior and seasoned global traveler. Chalk it up to youthful inexperience if not outright stupidity. 

This story takes place in 1996, when I was toiling as Senior Economist at BMO/Nesbitt Burns. I was asked by the Bank’s bond desk out of London to do a European marketing trip to institutional clients across Europe. The person leading the charge was Paul Petrashko, who was a top-drawer salesperson on the fixed-income side and was (and is) of high character and a fun traveling companion. 

This was a week-long trip through Europe that began in Vienna (where I had never visited). I had a layover in Amsterdam and arrived in Vienna on a Sunday (my first mistake since everything was closed). The bond team out of London arrived the day before (wiser decision). As I am at the Vienna airport and am waiting at the carousel for my luggage after I cleared immigration. Everyone is pulling off their bags and there I am waiting. And waiting. And waiting. I’m standing there for an hour as I see the same round pale blue valise go round and round (not mine) and I get this sinking feeling that my suitcase didn’t come on this leg of the voyage with me. The dangers of connecting flights. But I recall to this day that sinking feeling of my bag not making it onto the carousel. All the more so since this was a business trip, I had no carry-on, my suit was packed nicely (shirts, ties and dress shoes too) in my suitcase that was clearly somewhere where I wasn’t – and I had a client breakfast presentation in the hotel the next morning at 10 a.m. (The best thing about European marketing trips is that in contrast to America where these presentations get started at 7:30 in the morning, the Europeans take it slow, smell the coffee first, and get started at a much more reasonable hour!). 

I am at the airport, I go to the help desk, and I am told that my bag is still in Amsterdam and KLM will be flying it in later that day (it was early afternoon at this point and there were two more flights that day arriving to Vienna). Arrangements were made, unnecessary as it turned out, to deliver my suitcase to my hotel. I felt better. But not for long. Now keep in mind that I am wearing jeans and a Montreal Canadiens jersey. That’s it. Not to mention day-old underwear and socks (too much information?). And running shoes that were three-years old and ratty beyond belief. 

I get to the hotel and my bond sales partners had already checked in the day before and I relay the story about my bags and that I want to stay close to the hotel phone to hear about the whereabouts of my (hopefully not lost) suitcase. Remember – these were the day before cell phones. Paul kept on telling me not to worry. That was soothing. Sort of. I called the airport late in the afternoon, knowing that the next flight from Amsterdam had arrived. I was on hold for what seemed like hours, and I was then told by the airport staff that my suitcase was not on the flight. Should I begin to worry now, Paul?? 

There was only one flight left that day from Amsterdam to Vienna – coming in at 10 p.m. I was going to stay by my phone in my hotel room, but Paul convinced me to come out with him and his team out for dinner and he kept telling me to relax (never my style, even in the calmest periods!). It was more drinks than dinner and Paul took us to this Russian vodka bar that he frequented on his trips to Vienna and remember – bond sales folks at major banks double as social alcoholics. And, boy, did they plug me with vodka and caviar (Trout, not Beluga … these were bond guys, not equity guys!). They successfully got me drunk and my mental anguish from not having my suitcase subsided with every shot of vodka, but I was also operating on hope that I had one last chance to have my bag arrive in time for my slide show the next morning (at least Paul had the slides with him!).  

I used the bar phone to make the call to the airport at 10 p.m. And … what do you know? No bag. Nobody at the airport or at KLM knew where it was. I was beyond distressed. And the remedy from Paul and his team was simply to plug me with more alcohol. I told Paul that my boss back at the ranch, Sherry Cooper, would surely chew me out if not fire me for giving my presentations wearing old jeans and a smelly hockey sweater. Paul, always the optimist, told me the clients would not only understand but would find it humorous. Not to worry!  Not to worry! So, we drank some more because I figured it was the only way to put this dismal situation out of my mind.  

I woke up early on Monday morning and realized that I was traveling throughout Europe all week long. A city a day. Vienna and then Brussels, Milan, Frankfurt, Paris and finishing in London. With no business attire! So, I went to Paul’s room and knocked on his door at around 7:30 a.m. Of course – he was sleeping! We both were hung over in a material way, but I didn’t care. He opened the door, all groggy, and I said, “Guess what, I’m worried and you and I are going shopping!”. Paul spoke fluent German and knew Vienna inside out, and it was a ten-minute walk from the hotel to the shopping district which looked a lot like the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-Fifth Street in Manhattan or Yorkville in Toronto.  

I don’t exactly fit off the rack, nor did I back in the mid-1990s, but we did our best. We found a clothing store that had my size (sort of), and I bought a blazer, two pairs of slacks, two ties and three dress shirts. And a pair of shiny black shoes. All the while, Paul is playing the role of interpreter and fashion designer for me. I go to the counter to pay, and the bill came to something like $3,000 — back when $3,000 meant something! I had this look of shock on my face as I pulled out my credit card and Paul noticed that and whispered in my ear, “Rosie, you aren’t at Yorkdale shopping mall. You’re in one of the most expensive shopping areas in Europe”. Okay – I get it. Plus, there was no choice (pure price inelasticity on my part), and it was already 8:30 in the morning, and I was on stage in ninety-minutes. 

All that was left was undergarments and stocks.  We found a department store of sorts and when Paul told the sales lady that I was looking to buy underwear and was in desperate need of a few pairs her face turned white and I told Paul to quickly tell her that I was indeed wearing a pair but that it was two days old.  So, I bought some underwear and a few pairs of socks, and I was good to go (plus a toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, comb). My blazer was an inch too long and the slacks were just a tad tight, but I didn’t care a bit and would just get everything tailored when I got home. 

As it turned out, it’s a good thing I bought multiples of everything. I kept getting calls from KLM that my bag had arrived, but it arrived each day at the prior city I was in! That bag followed me all week through Europe and was always a day behind. Finally, it made its way to Toronto, but a week after I arrived home. Go figure. But I survived the trip. When I wore my new clothes to the office on Bay Street, everyone would come up to me (including Sherry) and say, “nice threads, Rosenberg!”. To which I would say to myself – “Oh, if you only knew”. On the advice of my brother, Mel, I wrote a letter to KLM about my experience and guess what? The airline asked me to send them the bills for the flashy apparel (socks and underwear included) and that they would pay for it. And KLM sent me some airline lounge vouchers too for my next stopover there (which became numerous over time). 

All’s well that ends well. Had I known all of this would happen, I would have closed that Russian bar with my BMO sales pals that first night (people who know me well know that I have given some of my best presentations completely hung over if not with some alcohol still left in my blood levels the morning after). But to be honest – what I really would have done, and have done ever since, is take what I need in my carry-on on the plane. 

Lesson learned.