While I've complained about SAS as an airline, I've always appreciated their sense of aesthetic. Their agency did an excellent job with a recent ad being shown in their Danish market. It stars the former foreign minister of Denmark, Uffe Ellermann-Jensen. I can certainly relate to many of the scenes in this ad from my business trips! Sometimes it just feels good to make the journey home.

I couldn't spot much of the dawn from where I was sitting. The sky was blue, splotched with a gelatenous cloud that stretched like cotton wool above the edge of the far wall. My breakfast table sat 25 feet from the hotel pool where three early morning swimmers, mostly German from what I could tell, flapped back and forth. A gentle draught from the wooden ceiling fan alleviated a bit of the scorching, humid day. I folded the Times of India, put the paper next to my plate, and motioned to the cafe butler.

It is one of the most densely populated cities of the world.

This fact was no more evident than during my drive from the airport. The car herked and jerked through traffic in a complicated ballet that made the Brooklyn-Midtown tunnel at rush hour seem like a Nascar speedway. There were men on bicycles, couples balancing on motorbikes, men in dark glasses being chauffeured in Maybachs, families of six stuffed into yellow and black Fiat taxis, and trucks spewing smoke like coal chimneys. My colleague told me yesterday it has been widely reported that a day breathing the air in Mumbai is equivalent to smoking two packs of cigarettes.

Like the eye of a storm, the Taj Mahal Palace and Tower sits just behind the Gateway of India, the city's most famous monument. The prestigous hotel was built in 1903, allegedly because Jamsetji Tata (the father of modern Indian industry) became offended when he was refused entry to a "whites only" hotel. The Taj Mahal Palace looked luxurious at first glance. Its architecture merges Moorish, Oriental and Florentine styles into stunning hallways and atriums of alabaster ceilings, onyx columns and graceful archways. In my room, there was a hand-woven silk carpet, marble bathroom fixtures and beautiful antique furniture.

However, the hotel quickly began to unravel in the details. The overwhelming paint smell in my room made me feel like a salmon in a smokehouse. The television system took several minutes to boot. Yes: minutes. There was no alarm clock. Multiple requests for an iron and ironing board went unrequited. Apparently, I had been upgraded to a deluxe room. But I'm not complaining (okay, maybe a little). Compared to many in the city, I was indulging in the high life.

There was not a menu at breakfast, which I actually found quite liberating. I assumed that meant I could order anything. After sharing morning pleasantries with the butler, I got down to business. "I'll have Akuri eggs, please, with a glass of orange juice, some English Breakfast tea and wheat toast." It was a bit of a test. Akuri eggs are a traditional spicy scrambled egg dish of Parsi origin. When done correctly, the eggs are tossed with coriander, cumin, ginger, chilis, tomatoes and pepper.

Fifteen minutes later the toast wedges arrived, balanced carefully in a metal rack. They were soon followed by perfectly cooked Akuri eggs, fresh-pressed oranges and a pot of tea as good as any in London. I thanked the butler and picked up my fork. I was sweating already.

Congratulations. It's an exit row seat. The glorious salvation from 29" pitch in SAS Punishment Class. I smile and settle in, even buckling my seatbelt to make sure no one removes me from this economy throne. I stash a book or two in the marsupial pouch in front of me and clip my iPod to my belt. No matter how bad the day was, I am determined to enjoy this flight.

Then She shows up. You know the one. Blond, her hair cropped short, she wears her make-up like a racoon. "Excuse me, sir." She is always very polite. "Would you be willing to switch seats with my boyfriend?" She points and smiles innocently to Her boyfriend a few rows up in 14E. That's right: E. It's a middle seat. He has just managed to unwedge himself from between the drunk German tourist and the photocopy salesman to look my direction with wide, imploring eyes.

No one takes note, as I do, that She asks ME. Neither the drunk German or the photocopy salesman were consulted in this negotiation. Come to think of it, perhaps they might quite enjoy sitting in the exit row. Legroom galore. And a nice seatmate that is not drunk, fat or selling anything.

I smile. "You know, I bet one of your boyfriend's neighbors would love to sit in the exit row!" I gesture suggestively towards the photocopy salesman. "Did you ask him?" Suddenly, her face turns from meek to mad as if I had just suggested she roll in a pile of mud like a demented sow. She stomps back to row 14 to make the offer. My neighbors calmly return to their sudoku, satisfied that I am indeed the Grinch of the Skies. But I don't care.

My iPod drowns out the sounds of the photocopy salesman as he sleeps next to me during the flight. His snores are punctuated every so often by what I can only imagine are sighs of happiness. Congratulations. This is an exit row seat.

"Pain?" she remarked, quite matter-of-factly considering that my face had twisted into a grimace. I think this was the only word the Thai woman knew in English. Her right leg was wrapped under my left one, and her arm had somehow had found its way to my right shoulder via my spine. I tried to smile. But ouch.

I was wrapped in a Thai massage or "nuat phaen boran" which literally means the ancient-manner massage. Over the scheduled two hours, the woman beat and kneaded every known and heretofore undiscovered muscle in my body, gradually turning me into a soupy piece of human chewing gum. I didn't even get her name.

Instead, I've begun to develop a bit of a habit. First, a stop to see Victor at Rajawongse Tailors on Sukhumvit. He does an excellent job with my custom dress shirts (THB 1,000, about $30) such that I've never bought one in a store since. Then, there's Health Land Spa in Ekamai where a two-hour Thai massage in a luxururious and clean setting can be had for only THB 500 (about $15). Make reservations, though, this place is popular with the locals. For a meal, it's either Cabbage & Condoms, a touristy dive with unabashed flair off of Sukhumvit Road. Or Mali Restaurant, a tiny hole-in-the-wall near the Austrian Embassy that serves a hot, buttery green curry for THB 150 (about $4.50).

On Sunday morning, after over-indulging on dragon fruit at the breakfast buffet, I floated through the greasy, hot June air to Lumpini Park. It's one of the few open spaces in the city. As such, the park tends to attract morning joggers and Tai Chi practitioners seeking relief from the honking horns and pollution. So-called "monitor lizards" are also daily guests in the park. These 1.5 metres long cousins of the Komodo Dragon glide through the water and dash across the park lawns at astonishing speeds. During my morning walk, I happened to startle one in the tall grass and I think we both jumped five feet in the air before it dove head-first into the water away from me.

Perhaps it was out of envy that I returned to the hotel, donned my swim trunks and dove into the swimming pool. From ouch to ahhh. All in a days work.

Taipei lacks the charm of San Francisco, the beauty of Paris, and the glitz of Singapore. But beneath the formless, polluted skies, the monotonous cement buildings and the noisy road construction, there is the heartbeat of a young, independent city. Last night our Country Manager took the team to eat at AoBa, the self-described mecca for "creative Taiwanese food." The restaurant sits just a few blocks from the tallest building in the world, Taipei 101. This was an area of town where you could feel the pulse of this young country. At dinner, course after course of heavily-flavored Taiwanese and Chinese dishes paraded in front of my eyes and, after relatively few questions, into my stomach. Taiwanese food fuses together flavors from the middle and southern provinces of China and even has a hint of Japanese influence. It was delightful and put me squarely in the mood for some well-deserved rest.

Lamentably, Taipei is not a very walkable city. After being caged in the office all day on Friday, I wanted to stretch my legs and decided to navigate the five city blocks back to my hotel. Cars swarmed the four lane street to my right. The light rail barrelled over my head. The sidewalk was more of a parking zone for scooters than a pedestrian haven. The residents of Taipei barrelled down towards me, inured to the commuting madness. Many of them were wearing face masks, which made me feel for a moment like I had missed an important news bulletin. But given that we were out-numbered by gas and diesel motors, they were probably all the wiser for it.

Thirty minutes later, I dragged myself into the marble oasis of the hotel lobby. The bellman smiled at me and asked if he could help me find something. "Peace and quiet?!" I felt like saying. Back in my room, I non-chalantly glanced out the window for my neighbors before sealing the curtains shut. The treadmill and CNBC would be charming company enough for tonight.

Flying the friendly skies, Brian Finke began photographing flight attendants as he crisscrossed the country on Delta, JetBlue, Hawaiian, Hooters Air, Southwest, and Song airlines, before going abroad on Air France, Qantas, and British Airways. In London, he visited a flight attendant school, complete with emergency rafts and billowing smoke. Continuing east, Finke traveled Air Asia, Thai, Tiger, ANA, Japan, and Cathay Pacific. For the grand finale of his two-year trip, Finke traveled the illustrious Icelandair.

The result of this fascination is Flight Attendants, a vibrant document of those adventurous souls who choose to work at 40,000 feet. Shot before, during, and after trips, at school and at home, Finke's photographs capture the allure of this high-flying profession alongside the more quiet moments of the attendants' daily lives.

If you're on the East coast of the United States, you're fresh into your work day. On the other side of the world, in Taipei, it's already creeping into the next morning. This fact is no more evident to me now that I am sitting in my "Heavenly" bed staring at the orange glow from my bedside clock as it counts down the minutes to 3AM. Jetlag is a funny thing; the great biological reminder that I have little control over my body's sleep functions. I flop back onto my pillow and run through the events of the previous 24 hours in my head.

It didn't seem like that long ago I had sauntered on to the Air New Zealand flight from London-Heathrow to Hong Kong. Even though the thought of spending 14 hours on one plane is enough to make anyone grumble, I was actually eager for the in-flight experience. The airline was fresh off winning the "Best Passenger Service" award from Air Transport World magazine. And who am I to disagree? Within seconds of arriving at my business class seat-pod-thingy, two flight attendants descended from either end of the aisle -- one smiled a welcome while grabbing my coat, the other raised a tray of champagne glasses for me to enjoy while settling into my seat.

Air New Zealand's Business Premier physical product is effectively a variation on Virgin Atlantic's famed Upper Class seat. The herringbone seat layout runs down into the front end of the 747 in such a way that ensures privacy and amazingly spacious comfort. The design of the seat is quite unique. An ottoman sits opposite each seat in case you want to have some company during lunch. Since I wasn't feeling social, I found the ottoman most practical as a footstool to stretch out my legs. When I was ready to turn in for the night, the flight attendant pushed a button and the back-board of the seat flipped down to form a fully-flat bed 6-feet 8-inches long. She spread out a mattress pad, down comforter and fluffy pillow ... I was out before you could say "fasten your seatbelt."

Besides the fantastic service and revolutionary seat, it's probably worth mentioning that the wine menu for this flight was 54 pages long. No, that's not a typo. 54 pages just for wine. It was a virtual encylopedia of the best harvests from New Zealand -- Northland Merlots to Gisborne Chardonnays. It even included a few pages for note-taking! Although I had been advised to make the most of sleep early in the flight to avoid jetlag, this was too much to pass up! (Of course, now I'm paying for it.) The wines were complimented by a mouthwatering menu featuring pan-seared organic salmon, beef fillet steak with red wine jus or roasted chicken leg stuffed with ginger, lentils and garlic confit.

The gastronomical adventure didn't stop with dinner. Two hours out of Hong Kong, the breakfast service started including blended-fruit smoothies, eggs, bacon, and French toast. It was tempting to keep on flying!

I snap back to reality. It's now 3:23AM and I'm no closer to sleep. In fact, I'm kind of hungry.

Just when I think that United couldn't do anything stupider (reference new $25 fee for checking a second bag), the brain trust actually comes up with a pretty good idea. United is building a special lobby at Chicago O'Hare for first-class and Global Serivces (top 1% spenders). Inspired by the exclusiveness of a five-star hotel, this private check-in area will have a separate entrance and exit directly to the front of the O'Hare security line. Specially-trained "concierges" will check-in United's best customers, process their bags and escort them to security. I dare say this is nearly identical to Austrian Airlines' Star Alliance Gold check-in lobby in Vienna or Swiss' First-Class check-in area in Zurich. The Chicago Tribune did a good job of summarizing the efforts and quotes United's CEO Glenn Tilton as saying, "We're investing in products that put us ahead of our U.S. competitors, and put us in a position to compete with virtually anyone in the world." The lobby will certainly put them a step closer, but without fundamental philosophical changes in on-board service, United will likely never be able to compete at the level of Singapore Airlines, Virgin Atlantic, Cathay Pacific or Jet Airways.

New "EasyUpdate" screens appear to be spreading across the United system and are very welcome. I noticed them the other day transiting through Washington Dulles. They rotate through several "information-rich" slides, including the Standby List, the Upgrade List (along with number of upgrade seats available), the Cleared List/Awaiting Seat Assignments, and other useful information including the weather and onboard meal service. My Thursday evening flight was bordering on hilarity: 38 people on the upgrade waiting list for only two seats. Luckily, I was one of the winners!

Another helpful feature displays the plane's capacity and the number of passengers checked in to the flight. I'm glad to see United taking steps like this to improve the customer experience, even though they are now charging budget travelers for checked luggage. Take from one mouth to feed another, I guess.

The ads are long on the problems travelers face, but short on solutions. So, with all the screaming kids kicking my seats, running in the aisle ways, what do I do? If this is on a Delta flight, I'll certainly check-in elsewhere. But at least I'll have a good laugh at their ads along the way. View more ads after the jump.

More of their ads should take on this positive spin!

You too can take advantage of this earth-shattering scientific discovery by visiting www.besttripchoices.com. You'll quickly learn whether or not you like to relax on the beach, climb mountains or hang out in a pub. But now since I like to do all three, does that make me schizophrenic?

Who goes North in December, much less to Stockholm, which sits at the same latitude as Anchorage, Alaska, for just three days? Apparently, I do, when work is footing the bill. The trip calls for an all-day meeting on a Monday, so it makes inherent sense to spend the weekend dawdling in and about the northern capital.

There are very few major cities in the world that have longer winter nights than Stockholm. In fact, the sun is already tucking in behind the horizon as I feel our SAS flight glide into position over Stockholm's Arlanda airport. I check my watch: half past two in the afternoon. We spill out of our 737 into the strange, empty sanitarium of Terminal 5, with its dark polished wood floors, grey Ikea seats arranged in neat lines, and floor-to-ceiling windows separating us from the plunging temperatures outside. No one talks as we click-and-clack our way to baggage claim.

My bus ride to central Stockholm costs 99 kr. (about $15), much cheaper than the Arlanda Express train at 220 kr. and just a shade longer at this time of day (30 minutes). Plus, I get a free tour of the city.

Stockholm has been the political and economic center of Northern Europe since the 13th century. With an urban population pushing 1 million, the city is spread over fourteen islands and peninsulas connected by bridges and pedestrian walkways. I learn quickly that the Swedes love candles. Small flames line window sills, mantles, tabletops and restaurant entrances. The flickering light lends Old Town ("Gamla Stan") Stockholm -- with its cobblestone streets, small squares, squatty buildings and light traffic -- a remarkably intimate ambience. The bus terminates at the Central Station and I walk two blocks down to the Sheraton Stockholm, where I burn 10,000 SPG points for a free room.

Not wanting to waste the few remaining minutes of sunshine, I drop my bags and hurry out the door. But the world turns fast -- daylight is no where to be seen and the early darkness makes me feel like dinner. It's 3:30PM. I walk across town, snapping photos along the way, to the Pelikan -- a working man's restaurant on Stockholm's south-most island (Blekingegatan 40, +46 (8) 556 090 90). It's a drag eating alone when I travel by myself, but that is no excuse to pass up the opportunity for a good meal! I order pytt y pana, a traditional Swedish dish of potato hash with bacon topped with a fried egg, washing it down with a pint of Langren's Lager (250 kr.).

Darkness and chill don't lend themselves to outdoor exploration, even if it is still early. So, sitting at the Pelikan, I decide to seek out some indoor entertainment for the evening: jazz. The annual Stockholm Jazz Festival is of international repute, so I imagine there are year-round venues of high-quality music in the city. The waiter recommends a club called Fasching, the jazz destination in Stockhom. On the way there, I stop by my hotel's club lounge for a drink and some dessert -- a Swedish apple tart of some sort with some cream.

I soon discover that the one great cultural gift that America has given the world -- jazz, that is... not McDonalds -- is flourishing in this cold city. It has taken on a remarkably high artistic standard, as demonstrated by the musicians here tonight. The Swede sitting next to me at the club strikes up a conversation over some wine and cider and he is kind enough to translate some of the jokes (somehow not as funny in English) and commentary from the musicians. What I love about watching jazz is the spontaneous creation -- it is music in the moment, it is freedom and it is trust.

The three hours at the small, cozy club are well worth the 125 kr. No surprise, it's still dark outside when I get back to the Sheraton. Tomorrow I plan to capitalize on as much sunlight as possible.

I recently attended an executive training class about competitive strategy led by the dean of one of America's leading business schools. We spent a good portion of the class talking about the airline industry and how mainline carriers have struggled to compete against their low-cost counterparts. What mainline carriers have not done, he said, is create a product worth paying for.

Mulling this over on a recent flight on Sweden's SAS (Scandinavian Airlines), it was clear that this airline had so destroyed its in-flight product that there was no way they could command a premium in the market. The seats were cramped; when the flight attendants came by with drinks they demanded payment even for a water (I literally scoffed when I heard this!); and their attitude could not have been much better. My company had shelled out hundreds and hundreds of dollars for my ticket. And what were we paying for exactly? The frequent flyer miles? The paint job? I dare say a flight on Ryanair would have been just as miserable.

It would be wrong to say that my second day in India started off as a smashing success.

I had arranged with my colleagues to meet them at the office at 10AM. This would give me ample time to catch up on some rest after the harrowing ride through the Delhi streets the night before. Unfortunately, someone had other plans. At 7AM, the phone next to my bed shakes me from my sleep: "Hello? Mr. John?" Yes, I think that's me. "This is Kishin from the concierge desk calling to confirm your car for this morning." The kind gentleman, clearly unawares that I am tired and cranky, proceeds for the next five, maybe thirty-five, minutes to tell me about the car, the driver, the pick-up time, the drop-off time, the happy time, whatever. I mumble something about that being fine and slam the phone back into the receiver.

An hour later, my mobile phone alarm beeps because, in my eagerness to sleep, I had forgotten to reset it. I turn that off and curl back into bed. By 9AM, it's wake-up call time and my bedside phone rings again with an eager young woman at the other end who wishes me a "Good morning, Mr. John!" Finally, an intended disturbance.

My new driver, not as conversant as Rim, stops every few meters and peers around curiously. Is he lost? After about 20 minutes, he puts the car in park in the middle of the road and, honking be damned, gets out to ask directions.

Perhaps it's not his fault. Gurgaon is a suburb of New Delhi that is quickly becoming the business hub and upper-middle-class residential area of the city. Skyscrapers and air-conditioned condominiums appear to be popping up like dandelions here. I give him the benefit of the doubt that maybe our office is hiding behind a tower that wasn't there yesterday.

In total, the 15-minute drive to the office takes 30 minutes. It also costs me 1,300 Indian Rupees, which, in dollars, converts to a bloody rip-off. My Indian colleague meets me on the 5th floor and introduces me to the other Indians in the office. From one of the windows, I look out across Gurgaon, a virtual hotbed of construction. Layers of new highway, condos, shopping malls and office structures are creating veritable urban sprawl. But with more cows.

The office itself feels all very Western, aside from the faint smell of curry and the brown-outs every couple hours. The first few times a brown-out hits, I can't help but crack a smile. We'll be in the middle of a meeting, and suddenly all the power cuts out. No lights, no PowerPoint projections, no air-conditioning... the Indians don't even blink. They continue to talk, pointing and carrying on as if electricity was an optional element of doing business. I too soon learn to ignore the rolling power outages and feel rather proud the first time I don't stop mid-sentence because I suddenly can't see the person sitting across from me.

For lunch, a few of my colleagues invite me along to a cafe where I'm told India's young professionals go to eat. We pull into the dusty parking lot and walk into a cool food court. By "cool", I refer to the temperature, not the hipness factor. It feels like McDonalds meets India Palace wrapped in a Golden Corral. Nevertheless, for $US6, we feed four of us a feast of Indian foods I could not name. No matter. It was delicious.

Later that evening, I join a colleage at his brother's house in a gated community just outside Gurgaon. His brother is the director of a large insurance company in New Delhi. There are actually two gates: the gate to the community, guarded by two suspicious young men in tattered uniforms, and the gate to his house, also operated by a team of uniformed guards. The house itself is massive. A Malibu-style bungalow sitting on four acres of pristine, manicured lawn with accompanying pool, hot tub and tennis courts. Two beautiful dogs bound out to greet us, a striking contrast from the owner-less mutts wandering the Delhi gutters. They are soon followed by two maids bearing Kingfisher beer and bowls of nuts. The whole experience, again, seems a bit surreal. One of my American colleagues settles back into the leather comforter and exclaims, "This is not a bad life... not a bad life at all..."

We sit for the next couple hours and discuss the rise of India, the new-found wealth of the Indian upper-class, and the potential expatriate packages that might be doled out to brave Westerners who agree to make India their home for a chapter. Clearly, India has reaped great rewards from embracing capitalism and the free markets 20 years ago. Its economy is growing at a robust 9.5 percent. Some would correctly point out that globalization has also deeply divided the country. There are now those who can and have benefited and those who don't and perhaps never will. Many of the Indians who left their home country for education have now returned, eager to multiply their investment portfolios and get venture funding for their business ideas.

After the nuts and chips have disappeared, the four of us pile into the chauffered car to head to dinner. It's an upscale Indian restaurant, but I'm told it sits in the middle of a popular expatriate neighborhood. At the table next to us, four Korean girls chat excitedly. A few French people two tables over draw long on their cigarettes between nibbles of paneer tikka. Again, I leave my taste buds to the mercy of my colleague and enjoy every second of chewing as the flavours of North India burst in my mouth.

Some people say it is difficult to sleep after a heavy, spicy meal. But that night, as I tucked into my goose-feather duvet, I proved those people wrong. This is not a bad life... not a bad life at all.