Visa: the card accepted everywhere
I have been remiss in updating this for a while. The entire Having A Real Job is not nearly as entertaining as I had presumed and greatly interferes with my ability to operate in a largely nocturnal fashion. It also limits my travelling entirely to weekends, which makes me not so much a traveller as a Londoner just getting out of the city for the weekend.
However one of my mates is, as I write this, cramming a bag with all manner of Australiana, and loading her Ipod with John Mayer, Cat Empire and Gwen Stefani in preparation for her departure next week.
In the time she’s here we have plans to get to Madrid, Paris and Brighton in addition to checking out a bit of comedy in London and stopping occasionally to sample local beverages. Sleep has not been scheduled into our plans, as sleeping is for the soft.
I was in Madrid in March and loved it.
Barcelona is a more impressive city in terms of architecture, but Madrid seems to be a far more laid back and less pretentious city.
And Paris is a city that changes each time I visit.
Brighton, of course, is easily the best place in Britain I have visited to date. It’s not only chilled and funky but is filled with some really groovy bars and cafes and great people. Despite the rubbish beach, Brighton is a must see for any future travellers. It also home to the best hairdressing salon I’ve found in the UK, bar none.
The planning for my mate’s arrival has resulted in a lot of virtual conversations about life/things/friends back in Australia you’d imagine. In the course of these convos, it has turned out that a mutual friend has recently been declined a credit card.
This is a long and muddy segue for which I apologise profusely, but them’s the breaks.
Bizarrely, the mutual friend has an enormous disposable income, no responsibilities like kids or mortgages but been declined a normal line of credit as she is relatively young.
I am astounded by this. When I was in Australia last, it was virtually impossible to not get a credit card.
Indeed, six months after my husband died, I/he received in the mail a credit card with a preapproved $8 000 AUD limit from a bank neither of us had ever used.
Obviously this piqued my interest. While he had resolutely refused to respond to any of my post death queries relating to “how do I do the thing with the stereo again?” it seems he had found time, post death, to fill in an application for a credit card.
It did pose a number of questions, which I obviously asked the bank in question:
a) how would he pay the minimum/balance each month, as I had had to close all his bank accounts as part of the probate process.
b) could he pay online (that’s some good wifi access they have there!)
c) If he did pay on line, how exactly where they planning on getting the monthly statements to him?
d) Did he really need $8 000 (AUD)? Did he need more? What was the average monthly credit bill post death?
e) I am the executor of his estate – would I therefore get to see the bills (I admit, I am still intrigued about what they thought he would buy)
f) And most importantly, how confident were they that visa really is accepted everywhere?
I posed all these questions to the bank, who formally apologised and sent me a mouse mat, pen set and money box to apologise just a little bit more.
Death is a funny thing. Well, not so much the actual death which is ultimately pretty shitty, but the reaction to death. People never really know what to say and so fall into two camps. The awkward silence fillers who will blurt out inanities to fill the silence; or the conflict avoidance conversationalists who will simply make no mention of it.
I was 31 when my husband died, which resulted in a number of falling off horse/getting straight back on type comments. The only way those conversations could have been more surreal was if the person was wearing a giraffe suit and tap dancing.
Case in point, an acquaintance rang me the day after the funeral (which she had attended, and so, like in law, ignorance is not a defence) to invite me to salsa dancing classes and kindly assured me that the class “supplied partners” so I didn’t need to feel weird if I didn't have one (there is that theory that you can pick up easily at funerals, however I don't think it usually applies to the widow.)
It was at this point that I realised my life had changed overnight from being a professional, capable, intelligent woman to Bridget Jones’ less appealing and apparently fatter cousin.
Anyway as this blog is meant to be about travel advice, for anyone looking to obtain a line of credit prior to travelling, death appears to be the easiest way to ensure a larger limit. So, good luck with that!
El Tajo gorge, Ronda southern Spain
However one of my mates is, as I write this, cramming a bag with all manner of Australiana, and loading her Ipod with John Mayer, Cat Empire and Gwen Stefani in preparation for her departure next week.
In the time she’s here we have plans to get to Madrid, Paris and Brighton in addition to checking out a bit of comedy in London and stopping occasionally to sample local beverages. Sleep has not been scheduled into our plans, as sleeping is for the soft.
I was in Madrid in March and loved it.
The Gran Via, Madrid
Sagrada Familia, Barcelona
And Paris is a city that changes each time I visit.
Sacre Couer, Paris
Brighton, of course, is easily the best place in Britain I have visited to date. It’s not only chilled and funky but is filled with some really groovy bars and cafes and great people. Despite the rubbish beach, Brighton is a must see for any future travellers. It also home to the best hairdressing salon I’ve found in the UK, bar none.
The planning for my mate’s arrival has resulted in a lot of virtual conversations about life/things/friends back in Australia you’d imagine. In the course of these convos, it has turned out that a mutual friend has recently been declined a credit card.
This is a long and muddy segue for which I apologise profusely, but them’s the breaks.
Bizarrely, the mutual friend has an enormous disposable income, no responsibilities like kids or mortgages but been declined a normal line of credit as she is relatively young.
I am astounded by this. When I was in Australia last, it was virtually impossible to not get a credit card.
Indeed, six months after my husband died, I/he received in the mail a credit card with a preapproved $8 000 AUD limit from a bank neither of us had ever used.
Obviously this piqued my interest. While he had resolutely refused to respond to any of my post death queries relating to “how do I do the thing with the stereo again?” it seems he had found time, post death, to fill in an application for a credit card.
It did pose a number of questions, which I obviously asked the bank in question:
a) how would he pay the minimum/balance each month, as I had had to close all his bank accounts as part of the probate process.
b) could he pay online (that’s some good wifi access they have there!)
c) If he did pay on line, how exactly where they planning on getting the monthly statements to him?
d) Did he really need $8 000 (AUD)? Did he need more? What was the average monthly credit bill post death?
e) I am the executor of his estate – would I therefore get to see the bills (I admit, I am still intrigued about what they thought he would buy)
f) And most importantly, how confident were they that visa really is accepted everywhere?
I posed all these questions to the bank, who formally apologised and sent me a mouse mat, pen set and money box to apologise just a little bit more.
Death is a funny thing. Well, not so much the actual death which is ultimately pretty shitty, but the reaction to death. People never really know what to say and so fall into two camps. The awkward silence fillers who will blurt out inanities to fill the silence; or the conflict avoidance conversationalists who will simply make no mention of it.
I was 31 when my husband died, which resulted in a number of falling off horse/getting straight back on type comments. The only way those conversations could have been more surreal was if the person was wearing a giraffe suit and tap dancing.
Case in point, an acquaintance rang me the day after the funeral (which she had attended, and so, like in law, ignorance is not a defence) to invite me to salsa dancing classes and kindly assured me that the class “supplied partners” so I didn’t need to feel weird if I didn't have one (there is that theory that you can pick up easily at funerals, however I don't think it usually applies to the widow.)
It was at this point that I realised my life had changed overnight from being a professional, capable, intelligent woman to Bridget Jones’ less appealing and apparently fatter cousin.
Anyway as this blog is meant to be about travel advice, for anyone looking to obtain a line of credit prior to travelling, death appears to be the easiest way to ensure a larger limit. So, good luck with that!
