It’s a Hard Rock Life: Getting there isn’t always half the fun

Helsinki at last, and a moon over the Esplanade. (Photo: Tony Jackman)

By Tony Jackman

4 Nov 2022

I was supposed to go to Helsinki half a year ago but my renewed passport arrived the day before I was due to fly. I had to forgo that trip, but my Finnish angels offered me another one. What could possibly go wrong this time? Well. I’ll tell you.

Rainbows, moons and angels were to follow me on my long journey, seemingly to nowhere, and all the way back home again. For two days, the likelihood of my reaching my destination, Helsinki, seemed so remote as to be impossible to reach. Those two days were spent in London. (If you’d like to start at the very beginning and then come back to this, here are Finland, Found Part 1, Loving Helsinki, city of water, knowledge and light and Part 2, Moon over Helsinki: The wild and earthy food of ‘Suomi’. But it would also work to start with this and then go Parts 1 and 2.)

It had started back home when, suddenly, there it was once more. The trip to Finland which had disappeared from my grasp six months earlier suddenly appeared again. They’d remembered me, and decided to include me once more. I honestly couldn’t fathom why, but as everyone has explained to me, with the patience of a teacher talking to an uncomprehending truant, it’s because they like my writing.

When I was invited to go to Finland earlier in 2022, I found that my South African passport had expired. The Finnish Embassy in Pretoria, who had invited me on a media visit to Helsinki by journalists from many countries, was extraordinarily patient and helpful. But, a day before the intended departure, they had to move on to another candidate. Later that day, my passport arrived. Off into the sky the others went, and I smiled wryly and resigned myself to the inevitable. The South African authorities had offered no assistance whatsoever in expediting my passport; you wait, and it’s ready when it’s ready. Remember this little fact when reading on.

But it’s a Hard Rock Life, and why I choose those words will become clear. On being invited on a new trip to Helsinki, for journalists from Africa, South America and Asia, we had of course checked my passports. I have two: South African and British. Both were in order, but the British one was to expire in December. The first plan was for me to travel to Pretoria ahead of the trip for fingerprinting to be done and a visa obtained for my South African passport. But, when the travel agent discovered that I also had a British one, this went off the table. I would enter Finland on my British passport.

But we weren’t counting on Brexit.

My wife flagged this, saying it would be a problem as it was too close to the expiry date. I had flagged it with the travel agent, who I need to say is highly competent, every other aspect of the trip having gone perfectly. But she assured me that the British passport was valid for entry to Finland even so close to the expiry date, I consequently wouldn’t need a visa, and the itinerary was planned and scheduled, and tickets issued.

The lights in this picture of my plane before takeoff for London at OR Tambo airport in Joburg are reflections from the window I took it through. But they subsequently gained unexpected meaning. (Photo: Tony Jackman)

My chosen route was via Heathrow, and the timing afforded me a day and night in London. I booked myself an airport hotel to be nearby for my 10.20am Tuesday flight to Helsinki from Terminal 3. We landed in London at 5.30am on the Monday, and I found the airport hotel to drop my bags and be off into the day.

I took the Piccadilly line to the West End, alighting at Green Park, as I know that part of London well. I sauntered through the park a little, encountering a Just Stop oil protest in front of Buckingham Palace, then wandered towards Piccadilly (street, not circus) where I found breakfast and WiFi at St James Caffé.

Coffee and a bite at St James Caffé. (Photo: Tony Jackman)

This part of London is manna to me. I walked and walked: I quickly found Trafalgar Square, then turned towards Leicester Square and Shaftesbury Avenue and everything passed in a whirl of memories and familiar sights. The Garrick Theatre, and on to the Sondheim where Les Miserables is still on, 25 years after I first saw it. It’s been going since 1985, now in a new production. A Bob Marley musical was on at The Lyric. Chinatown, Soho, and Leicester Square, where now there are statues of Mr Bean, Mary Poppins et al.

Soon I was in Regent Street and off into Carnaby, in search of the city’s finest department store, not Harrods or Selfridges, but Liberty in its magnificent Tudoresque building and high-end fashion that I couldn’t dream of affording. It was a heady time, but the bubble burst after I exited Liberty into Regent Street and aimed back to Piccadilly Circus. My phone pinged.

Shaftesbury Avenue wakes up for the day ahead. (Photo: Tony Jackman)

It was an email from the travel agent. When checking you in I was not able to produce a boarding pass … my British passport would not allow me entry to Finland now that the UK is no longer in the EU, the agent told me. Exactly what we had flagged. Stymied by Brexit. And I had not had a visa for entry to Finland put in my South African passport. Suddenly, my pleasant day in London had turned into a nightmare. My flight to Helsinki was only 21 hours away.

I met my stepdaughter as arranged but, instead of the pleasant afternoon together in London, she had to put up with my high stress levels as we sat in borrowed cafés and pubs using their WiFi to make call after call to anyone who might help. The Finnish Embassy in Pretoria and in London were all over the problem, pulling strings to get something done, but I kept hitting brick walls. I should try the South African consulate in London, I was advised, but when I called them I was met with naked sarcasm by two individuals who deserve to be sacked. Their rudeness and condescension were shocking. There was not a glimmer of courtesy and the blunt advice they were able to offer, that only the Finns could help (they were right in that), was dripping with derision.

On the phone, the Finnish Embassy in London gave me a number for the Border Guards in Finland, but hours of trying their number brought no reply. Masego Polo from the Pretoria embassy was on the phone and on WhatsApp all the time, doing everything she could to solve my crisis. In the background, I learnt, other officials in Pretoria and in Helsinki at government level were working on the problem.

By close of business it was clear I was not flying on Tuesday morning. I went to Kings Cross for a pre-arranged meeting with my friend James and we had dinner and a catchup while I forced my mind off the worries at hand. He guided me towards a tube station and pointed me to the right platform and train. By 11pm I was in my cheap and nasty Heathrow hotel bedroom and collapsed into sleep. I had no idea what Tuesday would bring. Would I fly to Helsinki, fly back to South Africa, or head off to family and friends in Chichester to fill the time before my Sunday flight back home?

The least likely scenario seemed to be that I would actually get a visa, miraculously. And I’m aching. My step count for the day is 16,000.

Tuesday morning brought fresh WhatsApps from Masego. Get to central London. Find the Finnish embassy, they might be able to help you. People were talking to people. Meanwhile, the Pretoria embassy had contacted the Finnish Border Guards, but they were unable to help. It kept coming back to this: the only solution was an emergency visa, which would normally take days to issue.

I’m on the train back to Green Park 24 hours later but the mood is very different. My flight takes off in three hours but everyone has accepted that I’m not going to make it. This is doubly stressful because the Finns have paid a lot of money to get me there and I am not getting there. Everyone else is arriving in Helsinki, the welcome dinner is tonight. It weighs heavily on my conscience. I cannot enjoy my time in London when I know I am meant to be somewhere else; someone who has paid for me to be there.

I am in London without any currency, because I was not expecting to need any and knew that I could tap my credit card in taxis and on the tube, which you can do now. You no longer need an Oyster card, though they are available. All I have in my wallet are leftover rands and cents, no coins with either the late Queen’s or new King’s face on them.

A protest was in progress in front of Buckingham Palace on the Monday morning. (Photo: Tony Jackman)

Once at Green Park, the earlier coffee and water have done their work and I need a loo break. But they require coins. I leave the station and head off to Piccadilly again hoping to find the same caffé but take a wrong turn. I walk. And walk. Pubs are closed and I seem to be taking every street except one with a restaurant in it. I look up and I’m in Savile Row, then Regent Street again. Wrong direction, the palace is far behind me, and I know that Buckingham Palace is en route to Belgravia where the embassy is. All the while, I’m pulling a trolley suitcase and have a heavy bag over my shoulder, which is still a bit sore even now.

After an hour I’ve found Green Park again, having taken all sorts of turns to nowhere. London is a jangle of roads, side streets and cul de sacs with no apparent order to them. There in front of me, how did I miss it, is a kiosk selling sandwiches, water and the like. I tap, eat, sip water and now need the loo even more. Is there a public loo in the park, I ask the kiosk assistant. No, sir, but just go down there. Into the station. Where the loos require a coin which I don’t have.

I hoist up the bag again, and start wheeling the case on a path towards the palace. At the end of Pall Mall, where the protest was the day before and where the Queen’s funeral cortège had passed only weeks earlier, I set my bags down and gaze intently at the oncoming black cabs. One has its light on. He sees me and pulls over. Mate, I say, if I were to ask if you know where the Finnish Embassy is, would you know? He’s a friendly fellow, puts his specs on, finds it on the map, and I’m inside and en route to Chesham Place and the Finnish Embassy. I tap the card to pay the cabbie. It works. I ring the doorbell of the embassy and am allowed entry.

The lady behind the glass partition is expecting me, but asks: Did you bring a photo with you?

I must have gone white in the face. I told them to tell you that if you don’t bring a photo, we cannot help you. You will have to go and get one taken.

It’s 11.30am. She suggests I walk to Victoria Station, which I know well as it was our entry point to London when we lived in Chichester. Thank you, I say, but before I go, could I please use the toilet? I’m afraid not, sir. There must be a rule that disallows entry to the other rooms in an embassy. I elect not to argue, and leave. On the embassy steps, where the WiFi still works, I call Masego. I fill her in. But where am I going to sleep tonight, I ask her. My flight has departed without me and I’m in London with nowhere to stay. Leave it with me, she says.

I’ve walked half a block when I stop and ask myself, aloud: Tony, don’t you still have photos in your wallet from when you renewed your ID document recently? And I did. So within minutes I’m back at the embassy, I fill in the form, she takes my fingerprints and I walk to Victoria Station and its adjacent mall, the consul having advised me to “be nearby” in case the visa is approved. Which I must say I think is unlikely to happen so quickly, the lady has said.

It’s 12.30pm when I reach Victoria Station and a loo which does not require a coin. I sit in Café Rouge and drink lots of coffee and water, WhatsApp family and friends, and the time ticks by. An hour later, nothing. Helsinki is two hours ahead, so it is close to 3.30pm there. The London embassy closes at 4pm UK time. Masego calls. The travel agency has been told to book me a hotel, near the embassy, to their own cost. The agent is quickly on email; the poor woman is desperate to make everything work after her human blunder. Is this one okay, she asks. I look at the name. It is the Hard Rock Hotel, corner Oxford Street and Park Lane. Um, ja, that will do nicely, I say. I feel bad for the agency that they’re having to pay for it but they take it on the chin and do what must be done, impressively.

So I’ve scored a seriously cool hotel night right in the heart of things; a darn sight better than the cheap-and-nasty of the night before. But it’s gone 3.30pm now, London time, past close of business in Helsinki. I tap the card at Café Rouge, hail a cab, and in minutes I’m queuing at the Hard Rock Hotel to check in.

My phone pings.

It’s Masego. Where are you? I’m at the Hard Rock Hotel. You need to get to the embassy now. Your visa has been approved. They close at 4. It’s 3.40. Reception stows my bags, thank goodness, and I’m outside and a cab is right there. At 3.55pm he drops me at the embassy. The consul is smiling. Miracles have happened, she says. Please let me have your South African passport.

It’s done, visa in passport, a new flight is booked for the next day, same time, and the knowledge of what has happened is exhilarating. I’m going to Finland after all. I tear up. Thank you, I say.

Earlier, she’d warned me that there would be a hefty fee to pay for the visa, something like £187. But what’s more, she adds, they have told me there will be no fee. It’s on the house. How marvellous are the Finns?

I’m back in a cab and, in minutes, back in the queue at the Hard Rock, the sweetest hotel I ever saw. Grace, a proper Cockney rock chick, black hair, tats and all, checks me in.

The lobby, for want of a flashier word, of the Hard Rock Hotel on the corner of Oxford Street and Park Lane, London. (Photo: Tony Jackman)

I take photos of the supercharged rock exhibits around me, the space age central bar, the neon, the vintage costumes, the humble piano Freddie Mercury played as a teenager in a glass cabinet, the thumping rock music, the video on a loop, the poseurs posing, the teenager in front of me in the queue with a diamond bracelet dripping off his wrist, and send them to friends. And this is just the lobby, I say.

‘This humble Kirkwood piano is a true piece of history. It was in Freddie Mercury’s Middlesex home in the mid ’60s shortly after his family arrived in England from Zanzibar. A teenaged Freddie played the piano while dreaming of the superstardom he’d achieve in just a few short years.’ (Photo: Tony Jackman)

I offload my bags in my room upstairs, shower, dress in fresh (and cooler) clothes, and check myself in the passage mirror which measures the heights of the pop universe. I’m the same height as Hendrix, Jagger and Bowie, taller than Nina Simone, who is taller than Diana Ross, who is taller than Madonna, who is taller than Amy Winehouse, who was taller than Lady Gaga, who is taller than Ariana Grande who is under 5 foot. Tallest of them all is Jay Z, ahead of Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder and George Michael, followed by Buddy Holly. Just below Hendrix et al are Mercury and Adele, with Dylan and Elton John coming in at 5 foot 7.

I head back down to photograph everything and take it all in. I have earned this. I order a bottle of white at the bar, book a table for dinner later, and marvel. I’ve been in Hard Rock Cafés before (an older one in London and the erstwhile Cape Town one) but there’s more going on here. Maybe it’s because it’s where it is in the West End.

The Original Legendary Burger at the Hard Rock Café. ‘The burger that started it all.’ (Photo: Tony Jackman)

Grace is walking past at the end of her shift, stopping to say something to what very much appears to be Johnny Depp. Oh, it’s not actually him, she says, we get a lot of that here, and laughs in that cheeky Cockney way. The guy is pretending to be Johnny Depp staying at the Hard Rock Hotel. Nicki Minaj takes a photo of herself mid-lobby. I smile to myself, knowingly now. I get to bed, exhausted but happy. I check my step count for the day: 19,000 steps.

The fabulous bar in the centre of the hotel lobby. (Photo: Tony Jackman)

Next day, lights guide me. A cabbie the day before had advised me to taxi to Paddington and get the Heathrow Express there. It’s amazing: I was at the airport in less than 15 minutes of leaving central London. I find the flight, am amazed when there’s no frowning at the passport or visa. Stamped. Onward. On the plane, in the air. It’s actually happening, my miracle trip.

Looking down over Sweden, I see a circular rainbow, then another, and another. There’s a moon over Helsinki whenever I look up for the next four days.

Helsinki at last, and a moon over the Esplanade. (Photo: Tony Jackman)

But there will be more obstacles. On my second night in wonderful Helsinki, a city which is all the more important to me thanks to the trial of getting there, my credit card, the only one I have that is cleared for funds in the UK and Finland, does odd things in a restaurant. The following night, my card is blocked after I become confused about PINs. I feel, and am, stupid. It was my fault, confusing the PINs of two cards obtained only recently. But, you’d think your bank would help you, right? Saturday morning and I’m on the phone to Standard Bank in Joburg for a full hour, being passed from agent to agent. Yes, we can unblock your card, sir, but it will take 10 working days.

Your own bank cannot help you when you’re stuck at the other side of the world with no access to funds? Even after they have satisfactorily security-checked you? Funds you own but need their help accessing? Just NO? Because that is what it was, effectively: NO. I came THIS close to closing all my accounts when I got home. It may yet happen.

But. My Finnish angel, Anu, one of the people looking after our media group in Helsinki, lends me Euros of her own, which I repay by bank transfer on getting home. After wishing me well, she frowns. What is it, I ask. No it’s just … it’s just that in Finland we always say, there will always be a third thing…

At Helsinki-Vantaa airport to start the trek homewards, I spoil myself with a Finnish jacket to see me through the next Karoo winter, then find a coffee joint, order and relax. Coldplay is mellowing us on the tannoy. Lights will guide you home.

Lights will guide me even though travel today has become a high stress factor. The Finnair flight to Heathrow is as smooth as the ride there had been; flawless. Negotiating Heathrow, I found on arrival from Joburg, now has the stress levels of the prison yard. Curt commands during the security check to be here, be there, do this, don’t do that. The headlong rush from Terminal 3 to 5 with two hours between flights. They’re processing humans like sheep through a dip. I’m walking what feels like 2 km, up endless escalators, walking the same again, queuing, on a bus, off a bus, walking again, queuing again, on a train, off a train, and walking, walking, walking, dragging a case, bag slung. Just to get from one flight to another at the same airport. Note to self: you need at least four hours between flights.

And security again, but I’m slicker at it now. Suddenly I’m through, boarding pass, bags and all, I find my gate, I put the bags down on a chair and do a final check. Passports. Wallet. Cellphone. Boarding pass ….

Boarding pass ….

Damn, where is it? I had it a minute ago. But it’s nowhere.

There will always be a Third Thing. Priority passengers are queuing at the gate to board. I load up my bags again and push through the crowd, to the barrier, beyond which are two women in British Airways uniform. I’m sorry to push in, but I have a big problem, I say. One turns to me, says don’t stress, sir, let’s see your passport. I hand it over, she walks off, and five minutes later comes back with a newly printed boarding pass.

Finally on board, the plane’s nose pointed to Johannesburg, over Brighton, on over sea, France, the Med, North Africa, broken, noisy sleep. There’s a dour Yorkshireman next to me. I know them well, I’m from their stock. He engages me in conversation. I tell him a compact version of this story. When I say, but I did score a free night at the Hard Rock Hotel in London, he grimaces.

“Well,” he grumbles, sourly. “If you like garish.”

I do. I like light, I like colour, and I like bright, from the footlights and spangled wizardry of the rock star stage to the gentle mellowing of Coldplay or Neil Young on the tannoy. There’s a full moon risin’, let’s go dancin’ in the light. In the end, I had found Finland. Now, lights would guide me home. DM/TGIFood

Follow Tony Jackman on Instagram @tony_jackman_cooks. Share your versions of his recipes with him on Instagram and he’ll see them and respond.

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