What if a grocery store charges you more for milk because it knows how many kids you have in your house? Or a ride app quotes you a higher fare because you haven’t installed a competitor’s app on your phone?

Those aren’t random “what ifs.” They’re scenarios the Federal Trade Commission (FTC) published as examples of pricing that would raise legal concerns under the law. It’s an uncharacteristically pro-consumer position from an agency that seems to go out of its way to protect the interests of businesses.

A few months ago, I argued that banning surveillance pricing like this, as some states have done, was the wrong move. Requiring disclosure of surveillance pricing was the answer. Make them show their work.

Several readers wrote to say this consumer advocate had gone soft. So it was a little surreal when the FTC agreed with me last week.

What the agency wants

The government has proposed a rule that businesses would have to clearly disclose when a price is personalized. Merchants would also have to show the basis for it and the types of data behind it.

FTC Chairman Andrew Ferguson said shoppers expect everyone to see the same price.

Last year, a rule on unfair or deceptive fees took effect that bars hiding the total price for live-event tickets and short-term lodging. It was a partial victory for consumers. The original proposal would have covered restaurants, food delivery services and car rental companies, until the FTC narrowed it.

So a hotel has to show you the all-in number for your room, including those annoying mandatory resort fees. The car rental counter in that hotel’s garage doesn’t. 

Sure, there have been other small advances. StubHub agreed to refund $10 million over deceptive ticket pricing in an FTC action announced earlier this year. But it’s not nearly enough.

Every day, readers complain to me that they feel duped by dishonest prices that didn’t include an undisclosed fee or surcharge. This business-friendly administration has been dragging its feet on protecting consumers, but now it appears to have finally drawn a line in the sand.

Why disclosure could work

The FTC says Congress hasn’t given it the authority to prohibit personalized pricing. Disclosure is the next best thing.

So let’s talk about disclosure.

The Supreme Court said in 1965 that falsely claiming an item usually sells for an inflated price is deceptive, and the FTC cited that case in a footnote of its personalized pricing statement.

When a company has to put in writing that it charged you more because your personal data suggested you’d pay it, that sentence becomes evidence not just in the court of public opinion, but potentially in an actual court. A state attorney general can subpoena it and a plaintiff’s lawyer can quote it to a jury.

Companies don’t change their ways because shoppers squint at fine print. They reform because someone made them write down the sentence, and then it went viral on social media. Oops.

The FTC filed both problems in the same drawer. Its statement opens by saying the agency wants the price you see to be the price you pay, with no surprises or hidden charges. Then it lists the cases that got it here. They’re hidden fee cases, like that StubHub settlement. Surveillance pricing isn’t among them.

The agency even quotes a 1950 appeals court decision on why a partial disclosure doesn’t count. Telling less than the whole truth, the court said, is a well-known method of deception. The FTC wrote that down, then proposed a rule that covers one kind of omission.

What an honest price looks like

When you go grocery shopping in Paris or Berlin, the number on the shelf is the total amount you pay.

European law defines the selling price as the final price for the product, including VAT and all other taxes. Europe even requires that if you announce a price cut, you have to state the prior price, and the prior price means the lowest price the seller charged in the 30 days before the reduction. No invented “was” number.

Australia does the same thing. Its competition regulator requires retailers to display the total price as a single figure, meaning the lowest amount a customer could pay, including taxes, duties and any unavoidable or preselected fee.

That’s the standard we deserve in the United States. One price. No base fares, no pre-tax subtotals, and definitely no drip pricing that hides the real number until checkout.

We’re not getting it this year. The FTC says Congress hasn’t given it that power. What we have instead is a weakened commission arguing that companies should at least have to explain themselves.

An agency constrained like this—yet still demanding price transparency—is still better than the complete lack of oversight we had a month ago.

Say something

Comments go to the FTC website and the deadline is September 18. Mine will say the same thing this column says: Disclosing a personalized price is a good start, but we shouldn’t stop there.

Until then, when a price appears on your screen, consider it a work of fiction. Ask yourself: Is this everything? If the answer is no, walk away. That’s the fastest way to improve the rules of these ridiculous pricing games.

From his corner office in Queenstown, New Zealand, Dave Beeche enjoys a cinematic view of Lake Whakatipu and the surrounding alpine peaks that make the South Island one of the world’s most recognizable tourism destinations. But as the CEO of RealNZ, a tour operator founded in 1954, he’s leading a shift in how the region defines that legacy.

For decades, Queenstown has been the adrenaline capital of the world, a hub for bungee jumping and jet boating. Beeche is steering his company toward a different direction: environmental stewardship.

“It’s a core part of our DNA,” Beeche says. “It’s more than a tagline or a purpose statement on a wall.”

It’s about time. Queenstown is a victim of its own postcard-perfect success, with the local infrastructure buckling under the weight of 3 million annual visitors. The surge in short-term rentals has squeezed the local housing market, and the environmental footprint of all those jet boats and bungee jumps isn’t exactly light. 

Even Beeche admits the company still burns a lot of diesel to keep its ski resorts and tours running. For a town of roughly 35,000 permanent residents, playing host to so many guests creates what he calls a “say-do gap” that’s wider than a Fiordland canyon.

The TSS Earnslaw, a restored steamship launched in 1912 that shuttles visitors across Lake Whakatipu on New Zealand’s South Island.  (Photo by Aren Elliott)

Bridging the “say-do” gap

RealNZ’s values can be traced to its founders, Les and Olive Hutchins, who helped spearhead the campaign to save Lake Manapouri in the 1960s. That effort, which gathered signatures from nearly 10 percent of New Zealand’s population, effectively birthed the country’s modern conservation movement.

Today, Beeche is using that history to address the “say-do” gap.

“There’s a theory—and there’s been some research to back this up—that when people go on holiday, they leave their sustainability ambitions at home,” he explains.

That’s the “say-do gap”: Travelers who claim to prioritize the environment end up making purchasing decisions based on price, schedule and the appeal of the experience.

“It’s not yet a full differentiator in terms of people’s choice, but we fully believe that in the long run, people will want to choose more sustainable options in their tourism experiences, and so we’re leaning into that really heavily.”

Last year, RealNZ committed 1 percent of its direct online revenue to protect the Southern New Zealand Dotterel, a critically endangered alpine bird. The company also raised $270,000 for New Zealand’s Department of Conservation to fund predator trapping and monitoring.

It operates an internal network of roughly 2,000 traps, which are cleared by volunteers.

The company is also modernizing its tactics. By upgrading to AI-enabled traps that automatically reset, RealNZ saw a spike in effectiveness, catching 77 possums in a single month compared to its previous average of eight.

Walter Peak High Country Farm, an historic ranch originally settled in the 1860s.  (Photo by Aren Elliott)

Here’s the operational reality of being green

Despite the focus on sustainability, Beeche is candid about the hurdles of decarbonizing a massive fleet. The company still burns a significant amount of diesel and operates a historic coal-fired steamship.

“We have very strong commitment and ambitions to reduce emissions but we need to move in lockstep with technology,” Beeche says. The company recently piloted a 10-seater electric hydrofoil and is exploring electric options for its bus fleet as battery technology and infrastructure improve.

Turning tourists into advocates

RealNZ’s most potent tool may be the emotional impact it has on visitors. Beeche views the company as an incubator for environmental evangelists, citing its Doubtful Sound overnight cruise as a prime example. During the trip, crew members turn off all engines and generators, asking guests to put away phones and cameras to experience absolute silence.

“To me, that’s a much more powerful thing than giving someone a slide presentation on nature,” Beeche says.

To see this philosophy in action, you have to head to the Queenstown docks and board the TSS Earnslaw, a carefully-restored steamship launched in 1912. Known as “The Lady of the Lake,” she is the only coal-fired steamship still operating in the Southern Hemisphere. After a 45-minute cruise across the crystalline waters of Lake Whakatipu, you’ll arrive at Walter Peak High Country Farm, a historic ranch originally settled in the 1860s. 

Here, the intersection of tourism and conservation is literally rooted in the earth. The property sits on land that was once smothered by invasive, monoculture pine trees—stubborn, non-native plants that choke out local biodiversity. RealNZ took the costly and labor-intensive step of chopping them down. In their place, it has planted roughly 30,000 native trees to restore the region’s natural ecosystem.

A guide leads visitors through a lush kitchen garden, where they learn about seasonal local produce while foraging directly from the vegetable beds and orchards. Everything about the operation emphasizes sustainability—the idea of staying in balance with New Zealand’s fragile ecosystem. At the end, there’s a high-country lunch featuring fruits, vegetables and cheese, served on a rustic table made out of fallen trees. 

But the highlight of the tour—the real sales pitch for sustainability—comes at the end. Every guest is invited to play a role in Walter Peak’s Land Restoration Project by planting their own native tree or shrub on the reforested peninsula. RealNZ even lets visitors name their saplings. 

Not only does it directly aid the farm’s conservation goals, but it creates a powerful emotional tether to the land. It’s easy to imagine guests returning years later, grandchildren in tow, to check on the native tree they planted on a sunny afternoon at Walter Peak. 

For Dave Beeche and RealNZ, that lasting connection is the point. 

“If we’re a good custodian of the land and are doing our bit to reinvest in the environment that we’re operating in, then that’s going to pay dividends in the long run,” Beeche says. “We 100 percent believe it’s ultimately going to be value-creating. It’s a really good virtuous circle.”

In an industry where the bottom line often dictates the path of least resistance, RealNZ is trying to show visitors that there’s another way. If it can convince 3 million people a year to fall in love with conservation, they just might turn Queenstown into one of the world’s most sustainable destinations.

Brian O’Leary wants to see Bruno Mars in Chicago, but Ticketmaster claims there’s no accessible seating left—even though resellers have plenty of inventory. Can a consumer advocate help this 68-year-old fan get to the show?

Question

I’m 68 years old and live in Chicago. Like many people my age, I have specific medical accommodations that require ADA seating when I go to a concert. My wife and I were excited to see Bruno Mars when he comes to Soldier Field, but the ticket-buying process has been a nightmare.

Ticketmaster and Live Nation allow you to filter your search specifically for ADA seating. When I first checked the seating chart for the shows, it showed plenty of accessible seats available. However, every time I selected a seat, the system told me the inventory was not available. I tried repeatedly, but it was the same story every time.

The next day, I checked again. Suddenly, ADA seating was available—but only through a qualified reseller. 

It seems fundamentally wrong that someone can procure a seat specifically designated for someone with a disability and then turn around and flip it for a profit. To buy these seats, Ticketmaster makes you click a disclaimer stating that you actually require the accommodations due to physical limitations. This is a nice gesture, but it clearly doesn’t stop resellers who never intended to use the seats.

This practice keeps people with disabilities from enjoying live music. It feels like the platforms are more concerned with the appearance of “compliance” than they are with actual customer service. Can you help me get some clarity from Ticketmaster on why these seats are ending up in the hands of scalpers instead of the fans who need them? — Brian O’Leary, Chicago

Answer

Ticketmaster should have ensured that its inventory management system accurately reflected available seating. More importantly, it should have robust safeguards to prevent the predatory resale of ADA-accessible tickets.

Under the Americans with Disabilities Act, venues and ticketing aggregators must provide individuals with disabilities the same opportunity to purchase tickets as others. While the law allows for the resale of ADA seats, it also permits venues to investigate when they suspect fraud. If Ticketmaster knows a seat is being resold, it has the power to verify the necessity or restrict the transaction to ensure the seat serves its intended purpose.

Always take a screenshot when a site shows available inventory. If it suddenly vanishes, that’s your smoking gun when filing a complaint. You did the right thing by looking for a point of contact to escalate your concerns.

I always recommend following the paper trail method. Start with a polite email to customer service. If that fails, appeal to the executives. I publish the names and email addresses of the Ticketmaster leadership team on my advocacy site, Elliott.org.

When you reached out to me, I encouraged you to use those contacts. You went to work. You contacted Ticketmaster’s senior leadership, and your case eventually landed on the desk of a consumer support supervisor.

I’ve written about the frustrations of the Ticketmaster queue and the high cost of verified resales before. This case is a particularly ugly cousin to those issues because it adds a layer of accessibility barriers to the mix.

Ticketmaster told you it could not force its client, Live Nation, to procure new ADA seats once the primary inventory was gone. However, it did offer a rare concession. After you  engaged with the executive team, it agreed to reimburse you for the extra costs you incurred by buying from a reseller.

It’s a bittersweet victory. Ticketmaster stepped up to make you whole, but it’s unclear if the company addressed the underlying flaw in its system. If you find yourself in a similar spot again, don’t just settle for the “sold out” message. Fight for your right to be in the room. And if the company won’t listen, you know where to find me.

Christine Grosart’s car rental through Booking.com turned into a financial headache when Avis charged her extra by mistake. The company admitted its mistake, but sent her only a partial refund. Is the money gone forever?

Question

I booked a car in Spain through Booking.com for a rental with Avis. Everything seemed fine until I had a family emergency and had to return the vehicle early. At no stage during the booking process or at the rental desk was I informed that returning the car early would result in an increased cost.

Imagine my shock when I saw an unauthorized charge of $673 on my credit card. Returning the car early effectively doubled my rental cost. I never received any communication about this fee. It’s unjustified—Avis could have re-rented the car the second I dropped it off.

I’m a medic and I often work in the North Sea where mobile signals are difficult, so I’ve had to try and manage this via email and WhatsApp. It’s incredibly frustrating because Avis eventually admitted it was at fault and issued a refund, yet it’s still holding onto about $130.

I want the full amount owed, not a partial amount. Can you help me get my remaining money back? — Christine Grosart, Evercreech, England

Answer

Avis should have refunded you the moment it overcharged you. Actually, scratch that—it should have never charged you in the first place. 

If a company admits it made a mistake, it shouldn’t be a struggle to get a full refund. It certainly shouldn’t require a medic to take time away from her duties in the North Sea to chase down a missing $130.

Rental car companies often have automated systems that trigger early return fees or rate changes if you drop the car off sooner than planned. While their policies often state that rates are subject to change if the rental period is altered, those changes shouldn’t be applied in error, as Avis later admitted happened in your case.

You could have avoided part of this by carefully reviewing the final receipt before leaving the rental lot. I know, you’re tired and want to get home, but that’s the moment you have the most leverage. You also did the right thing by starting a paper trail. As I always say, if it isn’t in writing, it didn’t happen.

When you run into a wall like this, you can always escalate your complaint to the executives at Avis or Booking.com. You can find those contacts on my site at Elliott.org. 

I’ve dealt with similar fuzzy math from rental companies before. In a previous case involving Budget (which is owned by the same parent company, Avis Budget Group), a customer was hit with a cleaning fee that felt more like a penalty than a service charge. It seems these errors have a habit of leaning in the company’s favor.

 I reached out to Avis on your behalf and asked it to review your case.

“We can confirm that the additional charge related to a quoted rate change due to early return was applied in error and should not have been charged,” a representative told me.

It turns out part of the missing money was an additional driver fee that you signed for at the time of rental. Avis sent over a copy of your signed agreement to prove it. “Charges that are clearly included and accepted on the signed rental agreement are considered contractually agreed upon and are not eligible for refund,” the company noted.

Your total refund comes to $552. While you didn’t get the driver fee back, you received the rest of your money back.

The dream of a luxury resort getaway usually doesn’t include the resonant baritone of a 100-pound Doberman Pinscher echoing through the hallway at 3 a.m. But it did for Terry Reilly and his wife when they checked into the Westin Hilton Head Island Resort & Spa. 

A longtime marketing executive, Reilly knows a thing or two about brand promises. He spent his career analyzing customer satisfaction for Fortune 500 companies. Ironically, Marriott—the parent company of Westin—was once one of his clients.

So when Reilly and his wife checked in, they expected the “Six Pillars of Well-Being” that Westin splashes across its marketing. 

Instead, they found themselves in pet heaven: a hotel that markets itself as pet-friendly but interprets that as “anything with four legs and a pulse gets a free pass.”

The Westin Hilton Head’s website is specific: pets up to 40 pounds are welcome, with a limit of two per room. But the reality on the ground was more like a casting call for a Best in Show sequel. Reilly spotted German shepherds, collies, and pointers that clearly blew past the weight limit. Dogs were in the elevators, dog hair was under the furniture, and one unfortunate pup even left a souvenir on the carpet that sat there for 24 hours.

For Reilly’s wife, who suffers from dog allergies, her stay became a health hazard.

This case raises several important questions:

• How can travelers hold hotels accountable when they ignore their own published pet policies?

• What are the legal and health implications of pets in “human” spaces like hotel restaurants and lobbies?

• How does a high-status loyalty member navigate a corporate “ghosting” when a local manager refuses to respond?

Reilly tried the direct approach. He wrote to the hotel’s general manager, citing the specific violations of the hotel’s published policy. He pointed out that while he doesn’t mind having dogs in the hotel, he doesn’t like them in all the common areas, particularly in dining areas.

He waited. And waited. 

The manager didn’t respond. That’s when he reached out to me.

How can travelers hold hotels accountable when they ignore their own published pet policies?

Let’s get one thing out of the way: The Reillys are not anti-dog.

“My wife and I like dogs,” he explains. “We are previous owners, and our two children have dogs that we enjoy.”

But when a hotel publishes a policy on its website, it’s a part of the contract you sign when you book the room. If a hotel says “no dogs over 40 pounds” and then allows a Great Dane in the suite next to you, it has breached that agreement.

To hold a hotel accountable, you have to act like a detective. That’s what Reilly did. He documented the list of breeds present and noted the weight violations. He documented the failure of the staff to enforce the rules in the elevators and common areas. 

When your vacation goes to the dogs, your best weapon is the hotel’s own fine print. 

Take a screenshot of the pet policy at the time of booking. If the reality on the ground contradicts the screen, you have evidence of a material misrepresentation. In the travel industry, that’s a big deal. If you’re allergic, it’s an even bigger deal because the hotel is now failing to provide a safe environment.

You should also look for the hotel’s brand promise (here’s Westin’s). Reilly, with his background in market research, cited Westin’s “Six Pillars of Well-Being”—specifically “Sleep Well” and “Feel Well.” He argued that a barking dog at night is a direct violation of the “Sleep Well” pillar. 

When you  use a company’s own marketing language, you have increased the difficulty for it to argue. It’s much harder for a corporate liaison to say, “Well, we don’t actually care about your sleep,” when the word “Sleep” is plastered all over the lobby.

If the local manager ignores you, don’t just give up. Be polite and persistent (check out the  Elliott Method for details). Then escalate your case. 

When you take it up the corporate ladder, stay focused on the policy violation, not just your feelings. Reilly’s letter was clinical, factual, and hard to ignore. He asked for a refund because the hotel failed to provide the service it promised in writing.

But Reilly’s case also brings up a broader question about pets in hotels.

What are the legal and health implications of pets in “human” spaces like hotel restaurants and lobbies?

We’re living in an era of “pet creep.” It started with service animals—which are protected by the Americans with Disabilities Act and should be welcomed—and has developed into a free-for-all where people have been trying to board airplanes with their emotional support peacocks.

Hotels are caught in the middle, afraid of a lawsuit if they ask too many questions.

But there are limits. In many states, including South Carolina, health codes are clear about where animals can and can’t be. Reilly noted that he saw pets in the indoor restaurants at the Westin Hilton Head, which he claimed was a violation of state sanitary laws. He even witnessed a fight between two dogs in a dining area.

When a hotel allows non-service animals into areas where food is served, it’s potentially breaking the law. If you find yourself dining next to a golden retriever that is sniffing the buffet, you have every right to complain to the hotel, if not the local health department.

The health implications for other guests are significant. Allergies are a real concern. A hotel that allows dogs to roam freely through every hallway and elevator is essentially telling guests with allergies that their health isn’t protected.

Reilly suggested a simple fix: Limit dogs to the first floor and assign specific elevators for pet use. It’s a common-sense solution that respects both pet owners and those who prefer a dander-free stay.

The problem is that many hotels have become pet-permissive rather than pet-friendly. A pet-friendly hotel has rules, designated areas, and cleaning protocols. A pet-permissive hotel just stops saying “no.” That creates a chaotic environment where the “People First” mission of a company like Marriott gets buried under a pile of dog hair.

And what’s worse than that? When the hotel ignores your well-reasoned complaint.

How does a high-status loyalty member navigate a corporate “ghosting” when a local manager refuses to respond?

Reilly is a Lifetime Titanium elite member. In the world of Marriott, that’s like being royalty. You’ve spent a small fortune and decades of your life staying in its hotels. Is it too much to expect a return email?

But even the highest status doesn’t always guarantee a response from a busy general manager. When the Westin Hilton Head didn’t reply, Reilly asked me for our list of Marriott executive contacts, which I was only too happy to provide.

If you are being ghosted, the key is having a paper trail. Send a polite follow-up. If that fails to get a response, move up the chain. Reilly found his way to a corporate liaison, who finally got the ball rolling. No need to get my team involved, although we were ready to help.

The irony here is that the hotel’s silence actually made the situation worse for the brand. By the time a senior operations manager finally responded, the list of grievances had grown. Reilly’s friends, who stayed at the same time, reported unlivable conditions, including a lack of heat in the rooms and the lobby.

When a company ghosts a loyal customer, it sends a message that the relationship is one-sided. For a “People First” company, that’s a brand-killer. Reilly knew that. He reminded Marriott that violating a brand promise in the age of social media is a mistake you can’t wiggle out of.

The tension in these cases usually comes down to whether the company will admit it messed up or try to offer a “points” bribe to make the guest go away. For a $525 stay, Marriott had a choice: stand by its failing pet program or stand by its loyal customer.

So, how did this sequel to Best in Show end?

After the corporate office stepped in, Westin’s tone changed completely. The hotel acknowledged that it failed to uphold its own pet policy, including the size limits and the distribution of pet rooms throughout the property. It admitted the nighttime disturbances and the cleanliness issues were unacceptable.

Westin offered a full refund of $525.

“Of course knowing who to contact from you allowed this to happen,” he says.

In the end, Reilly got his money back, but the Westin Hilton Head has some soul-searching to do. If it wants to be a dog park, it should market itself as one. But if it wants to be a luxury resort for humans, maybe it needs to keep the dogs on a leash.

Have you ever taken your seat on a plane and had the strange realization that you haven’t spoken to a single person since you got to the airport?

Not at the check-in kiosk, where you silently printed your bag tag. Not at security, where you scanned your boarding pass and faced a camera instead of an agent. Not at the gate, where you flashed your boarding pass on a machine.

Then you sit in your seat and plug in your noise-canceling headphones, effectively hanging a “do not disturb” sign around your neck.

Welcome to modern travel. It’s efficient, frictionless — and incredibly lonely.

Walk through any airport, hotel lobby, or train station today and you’ll see it. People moving efficiently through space, eyes down, earbuds in, interacting with screens instead of humans. The gate agent? There’s an app for that. The concierge? Ask AI. The stranger at the bar? Look closely; they’re wearing noise-canceling earbuds.

“Places that once buzzed with humanity feel more like transit corridors than destinations,” says Lawrence Quill, co-director of San Jose State University’s Loneliness Project. “We travel with earbuds in, eyes on screens, impervious to our surroundings.” 

Call it the Great Disconnect. We’ve engineered humanity right out of travel. But why is travel so solitary, and what can we do about it? As AI continues to strip the human touch from travel, there’s no better time to ask these questions.

Why does travel feel so lonely?

The shift didn’t happen overnight. It crept in gradually, accelerated by a pandemic that taught us to fear proximity and trust screens. What started as convenience morphed into something else entirely: isolation on the move.

“We built technology to make travel effortless,” says Francis Hellyer, CEO of tickadoo, an AI-powered travel platform. “But in the process, we stripped away the human warmth that made it meaningful. The silence you feel in airports and hotels is the sound of efficiency.”

The numbers tell part of the story. Travel data shows the average group size for trips has decreased 9 percent since COVID-19 began. In 2020, the average trip included 2.14 travelers, according to travel insurance site Squaremouth.com. By 2025, that dropped to 1.95. More striking: The percentage of trips with more than two travelers plummeted from nearly 20 percent to just over 15 percent.

Thomas Plante, a psychology professor at Santa Clara University, sees this shift mirrored in his clinical practice. 

“Our culture has evolved with technological advances and conveniences to the point where you don’t have to interact with real people at all,” he says. “A major downside is that as we avoid human interactions, we lose our skills to do so and our social lives and skills atrophy.”

Reality check: For some people, being able to travel without talking to anyone and enjoying the silence is a bonus. (If you’re a new dad, you know what I mean.) For others, it’s kind of maddening.

Which travel technology cut out the human contact?

The culprits aren’t hard to spot. They’re in your pocket, on your wrist, around your neck.

Christian Petzold, a travel expert at BCN Travel, says he can now breeze through airports and hotel lobbies with minimal human contact.

“I can go from the curb to my room without a word to any staff member,” he says. “As much as it’s convenient, I feel a bit empty because I’m missing out on the human element that once made the traveling experience so much richer.”

The technology itself isn’t the villain. It’s how we’re misusing it:

• Smartphones. We can’t seem to get off them, says frequent traveler Molly Streuli, a marketing manager from Rice Lake, Wis. “Walking down the street, at dinner, at the beach — it’s happening everywhere,” she says. “No asking locals for restaurant recommendations, no wandering around without a destination, no making small talk with strangers at the bar.”

• Apps and kiosks. Self-check-ins. AI concierges. QR code menus. Digital tip systems. Each innovation removes another moment where humans might connect. It’s particularly noticeable in Asia, where efficiency is highly valued and technology is seen as a solution to every problem. Anna Shaverni, a 25-year-old nomadic traveler who’s visited 38 countries in three years, experienced it in Japan. “Ticket machines everywhere,” she recalls. “iPads instead of waiters. QR codes instead of front desk staff. I spent a week in Osaka. I had less real conversation than one day in an Italian village.”

• Noise-canceling headphones. They’re brilliant on long flights. But they’ve become an all-the-time accessory, sign that says: “Leave me alone.” These habits started during the pandemic and never went away, according to experts. “Post-pandemic, I have noticed more people reading or putting headphones in so they don’t have to interact,” says Beth Ribarsky, a professor of interpersonal communication at the University of Illinois Springfield.

In other words, we wanted control, reliable service and freedom from long lines. Technology delivered it. But we accidentally ordered a side of loneliness, too.

There’s nothing wrong with a little solitude when you’re traveling. Sometimes, it can give you time to relax or focus on work. But research shows that prolonged loneliness can raise the risk of serious physical conditions like dementia, heart disease, or a stroke. It can also lead to depression and anxiety.

How to have a real conversation while traveling

How can travelers avoid the Great Disconnect?

Ask for a person (even if you don’t have to). That’s what Andy Abramson, one of the most experienced travelers I know, does when he checks into a hotel. He always emails the general manager before he arrives. “I tell them a bit about who I am and what I like,” says Abramson, a communications consultant from Las Vegas. “In return, they share local tips with me.”

Leave the headphones off. It’s a simple signal that you’re available for conversation. Ralph Velasco, a professional travel photographer who spends months on the road, forces himself to be more outgoing, and it goes beyond leaving his headset in the carry-on bag. “I’ll sometimes ask directions from someone when I already know where I’m going, just to practice some social skills, perhaps start a conversation and get that human touch,” he says,

Choose the counter over the app. Robert Herbst, an attorney from Larchmont, N.Y., makes this his policy. On a recent trip, he ignored several emails from his car rental company to check in online. “I always want to get the local lore and recommendations of routes, restaurants, etc. from rental agents, desk clerks, and the like,” he says. (Note: If you want to check in for a flight at the counter, some airlines charge extra to talk to a person, so ask before you do this.)

Sit at the bar. Streuli, the marketing manager, swears by this. “I am very intentional about not using my phone at a bar or restaurant. And I always sit at the bar when it’s an option, because you just never know who you’re going to meet.”

Funny story: In 2019, she sat at an oyster bar in Ho Chi Minh City and watched the stranger next to her order spring rolls and a beer. “Good choice,” she said. She’d ordered the same thing. 

Seven years later, that stranger is her husband.

“Research shows that even small, genuine interactions with strangers can increase happiness and well-being,” says Michal Strahilevitz, a marketing and consumer psychology professor at Saint Mary’s College of California.

Where travel still leaves room for people

The goal isn’t to return to some imaginary golden age of travel. (Smoking sections on flights? Hard pass.) It’s to design experiences where efficiency and empathy coexist.

“Technology should be an enabler of connection,” says Hellyer, the tickadoo CEO. “Not a replacement for it.”

There are plenty of opportunities for human contact. From the Southwest Airlines flight attendant cracking a joke during the in-flight announcements to Wingle, an app that lets you chat with other passengers on your flight, there are more opportunities than ever to make a human connection. Travel is many things, but it should never feel as lonely as this.

This just in: AI is deciding if you can’t make a flight connection and proactively rebooking you. It happened to an almost-famous American Airlines passenger recently.

Then again, maybe it’s not just in. 

American says it launched its automated rebooking technology in 2023. The tool has been moving passengers off connections for three summers. What changed in August is who noticed.

Why you’re hearing about it now

This is the month when people who fly twice a year board a plane. They hit a delay, they discover how the system works and then they breathlessly report it.

That was the story when American Airlines changed Washington Post columnist Marc Thiessen’s flight schedule.

“Since when do you change my itinerary without asking?” he wrote in an indignant post on X to American Airlines. 

Oh yeah, X—the place we all go for our news.

A day later, media consultant Beverly Hallberg replied that the same thing had happened to her on the same day, and that she had spent part of a long wait on the tarmac calling the airline to put her original booking back together.

Disclosure: I spent 16 years as a Post travel columnist, and don’t know Thiessen or Hallberg, nor do I know how often they fly. But if you continue reading down the thread, you’ll see experienced air travelers telling him to stop complaining. The system saves time by accommodating passengers who wouldn’t make their connection and freeing up seats for other passengers.

How the system really works

American’s tool is called AURA, short for Automated ReAccommodation. It predicts which passengers are going to miss a connection and rebooks them before they do. The airline added a second piece of software, Connect Assist, at Dallas-Fort Worth and Charlotte about a year ago, and expanded it this year to Chicago, Miami, Philadelphia and Phoenix.

It isn’t perfect. After all, a late inbound doesn’t guarantee a missed connection, and planes make up time in the air. Connecting flights get delayed too, which is what happened to Thiessen and Hallberg. When the software guesses wrong, passengers can spend an afternoon on hold. 

But the discussion raises an interesting question: Is this too much AI?

Does anyone owe you anything for being rescheduled?

Not really. Federal rules on bumping, 14 CFR Part 250, cover passengers with confirmed reservations who are denied boarding from an oversold flight. When they apply, the money is real. An airline owes at least 200 percent of your fare, capped at $1,075, “if you get to your destination one or two hours late, and 400 percent, capped at $2,150, beyond that. It owes nothing if it reroutes you to arrive within an hour of your original time.

Neither of the August cases comes close to violating federal law. Thiessen kept flying. Hallberg got her seat back with a phone call. Nobody was turned away at a gate. (If you reach the gate on time and the airline gave your seat to another passenger, ask the agent directly whether you’ve been denied boarding involuntarily and get the answer in writing if possible.)

Wait, is this a customer service improvement?

American says the technology has cut the average delay to a customer’s final destination by 25 percent since 2023, and that it keeps refining the system. So the airline effectively knows where you’re going to end up before you do. 

Nice to see the airline using technology to improve the customer experience instead of using it to optimize revenue, isn’t it?

Still, shouldn’t the airline ask us before rescheduling?

If you said yes:

• Would you still say yes if the software were less reliable?
• Should the airline have to notify you the moment it makes a change?

If you said no:

• Should you be able to decline automatic rebooking when you buy the ticket?
• Would you pay more to fly an airline that keeps a person in the loop?

My take

I’ve been writing about this technology for decades. I don’t think the objection here is the use of AI. Plenty of passengers want to be moved without having to ask, and they said so in public this month. 

No, the objection is that the passenger is the only party to the transaction who doesn’t take part in the decision. You’re not allowed to argue with the AI. You bought a seat, but something else now holds the final say over whether you sit in it.

One reply to Thiessen claimed Delta rewrote a family’s itinerary in the air back in June, and that the family made the connection but lost the seats it had booked together. If predictive rebooking is dissolving family seating assignments across more than one airline, then this is much bigger than a newspaper columnist discovering three-year-old software.

Airlines have spent 20 years teaching us that the seat we bought is a suggestion. Everything from the overhead bin space to legroom moved from something you owned to something you paid extra for. Now the itinerary itself is becoming a suggestion, too. 

Oh well. It was bound to happen sooner or later.

Your turn

Has an algorithm ever rewritten your trip? Did you get it back, and how long did it take? Our comments are open.

When hackers cleaned out Amy Pollick’s PayPal account last month, she turned to the company for help. An automated assistant, which cheerfully introduced itself as generative AI and admitted it’s “still in beta testing,” told her it couldn’t process her request, but it offered to connect her to a human. 

Did she want to talk to a person? She typed “Yes.”

Then the bot repeated the offer, word for word.

She typed “Yes” again. And again. 

Four times, the machine offered a human being and then reneged. Pollick was stuck in a bot loop, a familiar place for consumers these days.

If that same algorithm had denied Pollick’s knee surgery instead of her $125, the law in a growing number of states would have required a licensed human being to sign off on the denial. Because it was about money and not medicine, she got the loop. That shouldn’t be allowed.

Some Americans already have this right

We’ve decided, in bits and pieces, that certain decisions are too important to be left to AI. 

Last year, California’s Physicians Make Decisions Act took effect, barring health plans from using an algorithm as the sole basis for denying care. A licensed human provider must make the call.

Other states have followed. Georgia and Utah both passed versions this year. Georgia’s law lets insurers use AI to speed up prior authorization, but when it takes effect in 2027, no adverse determination goes out without a human reviewing and approving it.

Colorado went bigger. Its rewritten automated decision law, SB 26-189, will give consumers the right to request meaningful human review after an algorithm makes a consequential decision that goes against them. “Meaningful” means a trained person who can actually overturn the decision. It takes effect in January.

Europeans have had a version of this since 2018. Article 22 of the General Data Protection Regulation gives them the right to human intervention when a machine decides something about them, though it too applies only when the stakes are high enough.

But what about Pollick?

Everything turns on one word

Every one of these laws is keyed to decisions we’ve labeled “significant” or “consequential,” like  credit, housing, employment, insurance or health care.

Getting hacked doesn’t make the list.

California’s new privacy rules take this somewhere strange. Starting in 2027, businesses using automated systems for significant decisions have to let consumers opt out, and one way to skip that requirement is to offer an appeal to a human who can overturn the decision. Human review shows up in the rulebook as a loophole for companies, not a right for customers.

It should be a right, though. People like Pollick should have the right to ask for a human review, especially when it involves their money.

Washington almost fixed this two years ago

In August 2024, the White House rolled out an initiative called Time Is Money. Its fact sheet promised the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau would start writing a rule to let customers reach a human by pressing a single button.

The rule never got written. There was no proposal, no comment period, nothing. And the current administration—well, let’s just say it’s unlikely to pass consumer protection like this anytime soon. In the meantime, corporate America is aggressively swapping out its front line for a logic tree.

Look, this doesn’t have to be complicated. If you want to talk to a person, you should get a person. A chatbot promising you an eventual human representative or a callback just doesn’t cut it.

You should be able to get through to a real person with the authority to make a decision. Let’s put it in federal law and let it cover every consumer transaction, not just the ones we’ve blessed or that seem significant.

Companies will say their bots handle most problems fine, and that’s true. Where’s my refund, reset my password, change my address—a machine can do it faster than a person ever could. Fair enough. What I’m advocating applies when the machine gets it wrong.

Companies will say it’s expensive. Yep. That’s the point. Right now the cost of the bot loops falls entirely on people like Pollick, who spent two weeks and an unknowable amount of dignity and frustration chasing a refund to which she was entitled.

While we’re at it, let’s make it illegal to charge for the privilege. Frontier Airlines bills up to $25 per passenger, each way, for what it calls Airport Agent Assistance, and another $35 if you book your ticket by talking to one of its agents. Those are fees for speaking to a human being. Come on.

Humans 1, Bots 0

I contacted PayPal on Pollick’s behalf and, lucky me, I got through to a real person. The company called her, apologized for how she’d been treated and returned her money.

Her appeal worked because a consumer advocate got involved. She’d already written to PayPal’s executive office herself and heard nothing back. The system didn’t fix her problem, despite its promises of connecting her with a real person.

Pollick typed “Yes” four times and got nowhere. The rest of us should only have to say it once: “I want to talk to a person.” It should be our right.

You don’t have to be in the direct path of a hurricane for it to ruin your next vacation. And this year, which is quieter than most, is no time to let your guard down.

“We often see ripple effect claims where a traveler is stranded because their incoming aircraft is stuck in a hurricane zone,” says Terry Boynton, co-founder and president of Yonder Travel Insurance.

The sun may be shining when you leave and the weather forecast at your destination may be perfect, but your plane could be stuck on the tarmac in Miami, waiting out a tropical storm.

If you’re brave enough to travel inside the hurricane belt this time of year, you could reach your resort and find a debris field, with the lobby serving as a staging area for relief efforts.

“A common misconception is that hurricanes will either miss them or won’t seriously disrupt their trip,” says Bill McIntyre, a director at Global Rescue.

U.S. travelers are spending a record-breaking $226 billion on summer vacations, according to Allianz Partners. Data from travel insurance marketplace Squaremouth shows a 39 percent surge in searches for hurricane-related coverage last year.

They have good reason to be nervous. The storm on the radar isn’t the only one that can hurt you. 

That’s worth reiterating even during a quiet year for hurricanes. NOAA’s latest update predicts 7 to 13 named storms, 2 to 6 hurricanes and 0 to 2 major hurricanes, with a 75 percent chance of below-normal activity; to date the season has produced two named tropical storms and one hurricane.

For travelers, that threat is the invisible storm: the cascading effects of a hurricane that can ground your flight a thousand miles away, turn a “technically open” resort into a disaster zone, leave vacation rentals with hidden mold and structural damage, or expose you to legal and insurance loopholes that leave you stranded and uncovered. But there are ways to avoid that kind of trouble.

Technically open, but practically ruined

One invisible hazard is the “technically open” situation. This happens when a storm hits a destination weeks before you arrive. The sun is out, the hurricane warning is gone, and the hotel manager insists they are “open for business.”

But “open” is a relative term.

“There are times when a storm does not rise above a tropical storm but hits in just the right way that the tourism areas are affected,” says Christopher Falvey, co-founder of Unique NOLA Tours in New Orleans. You might arrive to find power outages, contaminated water, or closed amenities.

Thomas Carey, a partner at a law firm in Clearwater, Fla., who has handled hurricane-related injury cases for nearly 40 years, warns that the most dangerous invisible hazards in these scenarios are mold and hidden structural damage.

“We saw a spike in premises liability cases where tourists rented properties that looked fine in photos but had compromised floor joists, hidden mold from roof leaks, or balconies with water-damaged supports,” says Carey.

He cites a heartbreaking case where a client fell through rotted decking at a Florida Airbnb. The owner knew about the roof damage from a storm the previous year but hadn’t fixed the structure underneath. Because of Florida’s statute of limitations, the client waited too long and couldn’t file a claim.

Carey’s advice? “Text the host asking specifically: ‘Was this property inspected after [named storm]’ and ‘Do you have documentation of repairs?’ That written communication becomes evidence.”

Why traveling too soon after a storm is dangerous

Even walking around a post-storm city can be fraught with hazards.

Joe Caputo, personal injury lawyer in Austin, Texas, has represented dozens of clients injured during the aftermath of storms. “The invisible hazard nobody talks about is the 2 to 3 week period after landfall,” he says.

He recalls cases where people stepped on nails hidden in debris or tripped over concealed damage on commercial properties that hadn’t been inspected yet. And if you think the property owner will just pay your medical bills, think again.

“The insurance coverage gap that destroys injury claims is the ‘Act of God’ defense,” Caputo says. Property owners will claim the hurricane absolves them of liability.

It gets worse when you’re driving. Ron Harper, a licensed paralegal from Ontario, Canada, says travelers often wrongly assume their insurance covers them if they get into an accident on storm-damaged roads.

“I have witnessed cases where drivers received a fine due to passing through a flooded intersection which was technically open despite the danger,” Harper says. “Normal travel policies do not cover legal defense expenses associated with traffic offenses.”

The “named storm” rule

So, how do you protect yourself? If you wait until you see the swirl on the weather map, it’s already too late.

“Once it’s a named a storm, it becomes a foreseen event,” says Boynton.

This is the insurance industry’s “named storm” rule, and it trips up travelers every year. 

“If you buy your ticket or your insurance policy after the storm has formed, your policy isn’t going to cover those losses because you knew about the risk,” explains Michael Giusti, an analyst at insuranceQuotes.com.

So how to get around the rule? 

“The ‘named storm’ rule simply means you need insurance in place before the storm has a name,” says Wendy Stahl, a travel insurance product director at AXA Partners US.

One more thing: You can’t get a refund if you cancel your vacation because you’re worried about a storm. 

“Standard travel insurance doesn’t cover weather anxiety or discomfort with a forecast,” says Kayla LeClerc, owner of Whimsical Wishes Travel Concierge.

The “Cancel For Any Reason” solution

If you’re the type of traveler who would be miserable if the hotel pool was closed or if you had to look at a pile of debris on the beach, consider Cancel For Any Reason (CFAR) coverage. It’s more expensive than standard coverage, but it allows you to cancel your vacation for any reason, including storm concerns, and receive a partial refund.

“If your trip hasn’t officially been canceled, but you know you would be miserable if you went, then a ‘cancel for any reason’ policy would be worth it,” says Giusti.

But there’s a catch. You can’t buy this policy the day before you fly. 

“CFAR must typically be purchased within 1-21 days of your very first trip payment,” warns Boynton. “You can’t wait until hurricane season starts to add it to your policy.”

Should you cancel your vacation if there’s a hurricane coming?

The invisible hazards of hurricane season—the diverted flights, the moldy rentals, the hidden nails, and the “Act of God” loopholes—are reason enough to pause.

Daniel Durazo, a spokesman for Allianz Partners USA, notes that in 2025 alone, his company received almost 3,000 claims for hurricane-related disruptions. More than half were related to Hurricane Melissa, a catastrophic Category 5 storm.

“Melissa was an extreme example of how hurricanes can impact travel plans and how severe weather events can occur quickly and unpredictably,” he says.

If you’re  booking travel during hurricane season, watch the weather—and the calendar. Buy your insurance early, consider the CFAR upgrade, and if a storm hits near your destination, ask for proof of repairs before you check in.

Jay Catelli’s Alfa Romeo dashboard is defective. He has a warranty that covers interior damage, but the company says his specific part is on a secret exclusion list. Can he get the $14,000 repair covered? 

Question

I own a 2019 Alfa Romeo Stelvio SUV covered by a Mopar MVP MultiCare Plus Service Contract. This policy expressly provides protection for interior and exterior damage.

The dashboard in my vehicle is currently separating from the air vents, resulting in a significant gap. The interior section of my policy covers reconditioning, repair, or replacement of surfaces damaged due to normal wear and tear, including loose seam stitches, rips, and tears.

Despite these terms, Mopar has denied my claim. It says the specific part number is on an “exclusion list.” However, my policy documents make no reference to an exclusion list by part number, nor do they list the dashboard as an excluded item.

I have escalated this to Alfa Romeo, a division of Stellantis, which also owns Mopar. Alfa Romeo issued my policy. It agrees that the dashboard should be replaced under the policy terms. However, the representative has been unable to secure an agreement from Mopar to authorize the repair.

The cost to replace the dashboard exceeds $14,000. Given the explicit terms of the policy and the absence of any referenced exclusion list in my contract, I’m trying to get this covered. I have written a letter to Stellantis North America Customer Experience but have received no response. Can you help me? —Jay Catelli, Swampscott, Mass.

Answer

Mopar should have fixed your dashboard. If your MVP MultiCare Plus Service Contract explicitly covers “interior surfaces” and “wear and tear,” and your dashboard is doing a slow-motion separation, then it’s an open-and-shut case.

Service contracts—often called extended warranties—are usually one of two types: inclusionary or exclusionary. An inclusionary policy lists exactly what is covered. If the part isn’t on the list, you are out of luck. An exclusionary policy covers everything except what is specifically listed as not covered.

If you have an exclusionary policy, you read the fine print and checked the list. The dashboard wasn’t on it in your case.

Then Mopar claimed that even though the dashboard isn’t listed as an exclusion in your contract, the part number is on an internal exclusion list.

Come on. You can’t be bound by a secret list of part numbers that you never saw and didn’t sign. 

You did an excellent job trying to resolve this yourself. You kept a thorough paper trail. You contacted the dealership, which agreed with you. You contacted Alfa Romeo, which also agreed with you.

In fact, an Alfa Romeo representative told you she tried to reason with Mopar, but Mopar insisted the part was excluded. It is rare to see two divisions of the same parent company—Stellantis—bickering like this over a customer’s repair. 

When you hit a wall with the normal customer service channels, you can usually appeal to a higher authority. I list the names, numbers and emails for the Stellantis executives on my consumer advocacy site, Elliott.org.

You sent a certified letter to the senior vice president of North America Customer Experience at Stellantis. That was a smart move. But when you didn’t hear back, you contacted my team.

You were looking at a bill of more than $10,000 for a problem you paid good money to insure against. That is enough to make anyone’s blood boil—and apparently, your dashboard melt.

My advocacy team contacted Stellantis on your behalf.  A few days later, you received a call from Stellantis. A representative said the company reviewed your case and reversed its decision.

“Stellantis informed me that they reversed their initial denial and acknowledged that the leather dashboard should have been covered under the plan,” you told me.

The company approved the full cost of the dashboard replacement. It’s nice to see Stellantis standing behind its product, even if Mopar had to be dragged to the finish line. Next time, let’s hope the dashboard—and the warranty—hold together a little better.

John Fisher and his wife are stranded in Atlanta after a weather delay makes them miss their flight connection. A representative suggests they rent a room to rest, but the airline later denies their claim—and downgrades their seats. Can he get his money back?

Question

My bride of 53 years and I recently flew Delta Air Lines from Hartford, Conn., to Boise, Idaho. We had a 6 a.m. flight to Atlanta, so we woke up at 2 a.m. to ensure we had enough time for check-in.

There had been a storm in Hartford. We pushed back from the gate at 6:10 a.m., but didn’t lift off until 7:15 a.m. Even with this delay, our connection in Atlanta looked doable.

However, once we arrived in Atlanta, we waited 35 minutes for an open gate. Because of the wait, we eventually missed our 10 a.m. connection to Boise.

Delta’s customer service was helpful, but there was no choice but to rebook us on the 8 p.m. flight to Boise. We received food vouchers, but the agent denied us any Sky Club participation because we did not qualify.

Both of us are over 75 years old. The run through the Atlanta airport, coupled with the 2 a.m. wake-up call, left us exhausted. The representative suggested utilizing Minute Suites in the terminal in order to rest. She told us Delta “might” reimburse us.

We took her advice and crashed for two hours, which was enough to recharge our batteries.

On the 8 p.m. flight, Delta downgraded us from the Comfort+ seats we bought to coach, as all Comfort+ seats were booked.

I submitted a reimbursement request for the Minute Suites and a refund request for the Comfort+ seats through Delta.com. The site does not allow for any explanations, and the airline denied both requests.

I am frustrated. The site offers no way to appeal or explain the circumstances of our age and the long delay. Can you help me get my money back? — John Fisher, Wethersfield, Conn.

Answer

Delta should have refunded your seat downgrade automatically. It also should have been specific about whether it would cover your stay at the Minute Suites.

Let’s look at the downgrade first. You paid for Comfort+ and you flew in coach. That is a no-brainer.

Under U.S. Department of Transportation regulations, if an airline downgrades you to a lower class of service, it must refund the difference in price. You don’t need to negotiate or fill out a complex form. It should be automatic. Delta’s rejection of your refund request for the seat difference suggests a glitch in its system or a reviewer who wasn’t paying attention.

The Minute Suites expense is trickier.

Airlines generally don’t cover hotel or sleep accommodations for weather-related delays. Your delay in Hartford was caused by a storm, and the late arrival of your aircraft meant a gate wasn’t available. Technically, that’s an “act of God,” and Delta’s contract of carriage—the legal agreement between you and the company—says it isn’t liable.

The agent’s use of the word “might” was unfortunate. In the travel industry, “might” usually means “no.”

If a representative suggests you incur an expense, get it in writing. Ask for a voucher right there at the counter. If they can’t give you a voucher, ask them to note the promise in your passenger record (PNR). Without that paper trail, you are at the mercy of an anonymous adjuster (usually an AI) who sees a weather delay code and hits “deny.”

You did the right thing by keeping your receipts and writing to the airline. When the automated system failed you, you could have escalated your complaint. I list the names, numbers, and emails of the Delta Air Lines executives on my consumer advocacy site, Elliott.org. A brief, polite email to one of them often fixes these glitches.

I love the ending of this case. You contacted Delta’s executives on your own after finding the emails on my site. You politely pointed out the downgrade and the agent’s advice regarding the Minute Suites. 

The airline reviewed your case quickly. A representative followed up with instructions for securing the reimbursement for the Minute Suites and the refund for the seat downgrade. Delta also added 10,000 SkyMiles to both your accounts as a gesture of goodwill.

If there’s a perfect car rental customer, it is probably Tasha Huebner. She’s responsible, careful, and she returns her vehicles in what she describes as “pristine” condition.

So why is Avis hitting her up for an extra $450 for trashing her car?

The charge is for a “special” deep cleaning—for smoking.

Just one problem: Huebner doesn’t smoke. Neither does her travel companion, Cori. In fact, the accusation was physically repulsive to them.

“Only my friend Cori and I were in the car and neither of us smokes,” Huebner told me. “We’re both cancer survivors and initially met some 10-plus years ago through an organization for young women with breast cancer.”

Accusing two breast cancer survivors of chain-smoking inside a Chevy Malibu seems wrong. And charging them an extra $450 is way out of line.

But Avis wasn’t done. It also slapped her with a fuel service charge of over $30 for four gallons of gas. This was strange, considering Huebner had filled the tank at a Shell station less than a mile from the airport.

Huebner was caught in a bureaucratic pincer movement: accused of a vice she doesn’t practice and billed for gas she didn’t use.

This case raises several critical questions for anyone renting a car:

• Is the “smoking scam” becoming the new preferred revenue stream for the travel industry?
• What constitutes valid proof of smoking when a company wants to charge you $450?
• How do you fight a cleaning fee when the company holds all the cards—and your credit card deposit?

“I honestly asked them if they were insane”

Huebner rented a car from Avis to attend a memorial service and visit her brother in Illinois. It was a somber trip, not a joyride. She returned the car without incident. There were no warning lights, no damage, and certainly no clouds of smoke billowing out the windows.

But a few days later, the receipt landed in her inbox.

The $450 cleaning fee is the nuclear option of car rental charges. It is the maximum amount most agencies will charge for a deep cleaning. To justify this, you’d expect the car to look like the inside of a frat house after Homecoming weekend.

Huebner was stunned. 

“I honestly asked them if they were insane,” she says.

She immediately contested the charge. Avis responded not with a retraction, but with a PDF containing grainy images of the car interior.

“It looked like water spots or something,” she recalls.

There were no pictures of cigarette butts or burn marks on the upholstery. Just grainy ambiguity and a demand for payment.

After some back-and-forth, Avis made a benevolent offer to reduce the fee to $250.

This is a classic negotiation tactic used by claims departments. They know the $450 charge is bogus, so they offer to cut it in half. The weary traveler, terrified of a collection agency or a permanent ban, often pays the $250 just to make the problem go away. It is the cost of doing business.

But Huebner was fuming—and she refused. 

“I still said that was insane, because I had returned the car in pristine condition,” she says.

She was at a stalemate. Avis had her credit card, which it could charge. She had the truth. (In the world of travel disputes, the money usually wins.)

And that’s when she contacted our team.

Is the smoking scam the new junk fee?

Let’s answer the first question: Is this happening more often?

Yes, unfortunately it is.

In recent years, I have seen a dramatic uptick in complaints about erroneous cleaning fees. It is not just smoking. I recently advocated for a consumer who was charged $450 by Budget for dog hair, despite not owning a dog. I’ve seen charges for sand in cars that never went near a beach and “excessive dirt” on floor mats that looked brand new. (Of course, if you do trash a rental car, you should pay to have it cleaned. That goes without saying.)

But the smoking charge is the most insidious because it is the hardest to disprove. You can photograph a clean seat. You can video a lack of dents. But how do you photograph a smell?

You can’t. And the rental companies know it.

The rise of these smoking fees correlates with the tightening of margins in the travel industry. When rental rates drop or fleet costs go up, ancillary fees become the lifeblood of the profit and loss statement. A $450 cleaning fee is pure profit. It requires no parts, no skilled labor, and often, no actual cleaning.

For Huebner, the accusation was particularly stinging. As a cancer survivor, she’s hyper-aware of health risks. The idea that she would light up in a rental car is ludicrous. But to an algorithm or a remote claims adjuster viewing a grainy PDF, she represented just another revenue source.

The gas charge she received adds weight to the theory that this was a systemic failure—or a systemic strategy—rather than an isolated mistake. 

Charging for gas when the tank is full is the “did you check the minibar?” of car rentals. It’s a lazy attempt to pad the bill, hoping the customer won’t notice or won’t have the energy to fight.

What constitutes valid proof of smoke damage?

This brings us to our second question: What proof does a company need to confiscate $450 from your bank account?

Legally? Not much. Practically? Even less.

When you sign a rental agreement, you are essentially handing the company a blank check for damages. The terms and conditions are written by lawyers who anticipate these disputes. They use vague language like “excessive soilage” or “odors,” giving the company broad discretion.

In Huebner’s case, the “proof” was laughable. Grainy photos of water spots do not prove smoking. They prove it rained, or perhaps someone spilled a bottle of Dasani on a seat.

To sustain a smoking charge, a company should provide:

• Physical evidence: Cigarette butts, ash in the console, or burn marks.

• Time-stamped inspection logs: A report showing the smell was detected immediately upon return, not days later after the car has been moved by porters who might be enjoying a smoke break.

• Cleaning receipts: An invoice from a third-party detailer proving the work was actually done.

Avis provided none of this. It sent a PDF that proved nothing other than the fact that their camera has a low resolution.

The timing is also suspect. In many cases I handle, the smoking charge appears days or even weeks after the return. I’ve seen cases where Budget waited almost a month to charge for dirty floor mats.

If a car smells like heavy smoking, as Avis claimed, the return agent should smell it the moment the door opens. It should be flagged instantly.

When the charge comes later, it suggests the smell might have come from an employee moving the car, a subsequent renter, or—more likely—it doesn’t exist at all.

How to fight back against a smoking fee and win

So, how do you fight a smoking fee? Huebner’s approach is a textbook example of what I call the Elliott Method.

• Don’t get angry on the phone. The frontline employees at the 800-number have no power. They’re reading from a script. They are the human equivalent of a “Do Not Enter” sign. Arguing with them is like trying to explain physics to your cat.

• Create a paper trail. Huebner emailed Avis’ customer service department. She kept records. She forced them to put their “evidence” (the grainy photos) in writing. This is crucial. When you force a company to document its lie, the lie often falls apart.

• Appeal to a higher power. Most consumers stop when the department says “no” or offers a token refund. Huebner didn’t. She refused the $250 compromise and escalated to a manager.

“I honestly wondered if they had the wrong car,” she said.

Huebner found the executive contacts for Avis on my consumer advocacy site. These are real people—vice presidents and CEOs—not chatbots.

She wrote a concise, calm email. She explained the absurdity of the charge. She mentioned her history as a cancer survivor (establishing credibility and emotional weight). She pointed out the factual error regarding the gas charge (establishing the company’s incompetence). She had the receipts to prove it.

And she did one more thing, which I always recommend: She cited a precedent. She included a link to an article she found about a similar $450 fee from another Avis-owned brand. This showed she was informed and that she knew this was a pattern.

She sent the email to the two executives listed on my site. And, “just for the hell of it,” she copied the CEO.

Avoiding a PR nightmare

The laws of corporate customer service say you can’t be a heavy smoker and a cancer survivor falsely accused of smoking without creating a massive PR headache.

“No lie, not 10 MINUTES later, I heard from the department I had been going back and forth with,” Huebner says.

Their attitude had changed. Avis removed the $450 charge and the gas fee. Then came another email apology. Then came a phone call.

“It was kind of nuts,” Huebner told me. “Talk about results!”

Why did this happen? Because she bypassed the algorithm and reached a human who could recognize the absurdity of the situation. A low-level claims adjuster looks at a screen and sees a revenue opportunity. An executive looks at an email from a cancer survivor with a flawless rental history and sees a brand liability.

It’s likely the gas charge—$30 for four gallons when the tank was full—was the smoking gun. It proved the return agents hadn’t done their job. If they were wrong about the gas, they were probably also wrong about the smoke.

“Victory was mine!” Huebner wrote to me. “And yours, because I know I would have gotten nowhere without your assistance.”

The takeaway

This victory belongs to Huebner, actually. She refused to accept a compromise for something she didn’t do.

If you rent a car, protect yourself. Take photos of the interior and exterior when you return it. Keep your gas receipts and take a photo of the gas gauge. And if you get hit with a bogus smoking fee, don’t pay it—fight it.

These fees are a tax on the passive. They rely on you being too busy or too intimidated to fight.

Avis tried to charge two cancer survivors for smoking. It picked the wrong customers. And thanks to Huebner’s persistence, the air is finally clear.

Do you know the feeling of getting a first-class seat, hoping for hot towels and porcelain plates? And instead, you get a basket of lukewarm popcorn from a surly flight attendant.

Ralph Velasco does. On a recent domestic flight, the photographer and international tour organizer from Chicago discovered there was no meal in the front of the cabin, just a basket of snacks.

Why? A flight attendant told him the airline no longer serves meals on that route.

It’s the time of year when the amenities you thought you had just disappear. You pay more, you get less. It’s that sinking realization that our vacation budget bought us a whole lot of nothing.

Why does it feel like a “no service” summer?

When travel demand came roaring back after the pandemic, capacity and labor systems didn’t recover at the same pace. So, instead of raising prices, airlines, hotels and car rental companies just cut service.

Jeff Galak, an associate professor of marketing at Carnegie Mellon University’s Tepper School of Business, explains why travelers are not OK with that.

 “What makes it feel worse is the reference point,” he says. “Consumers remember pre-pandemic full service and now feel the loss, even when prices look normal for a luxury category.”

Behind the scenes, the calculations are cold but necessary, according to one airline insider, who works in the operations department at a major carrier and asked not to be named because he isn’t authorized to discuss pricing. He told me when fuel costs rise but competition keeps base fares locked, airlines slice what passengers can’t compare on shopping sites—legroom, complimentary snacks, customer service staffing ratios.

Domestic airlines have systematically reduced economy class legroom over the years while still advertising a “premium” experience. But you can’t have it both ways.

Coffee makers and ghost hotels

The no-service summer isn’t limited to the friendly skies. It has infected hotels, too.

Take the experience of Krista Kowalczyk, a photo preservationist from Fort Myers, Fla. On a recent trip to Las Vegas, she stayed at an expensive chain hotel that charged her to check in two hours early. And when she got to her room, there was no coffee maker.

Her stay at another chain hotel in Denver wasn’t much better. Kowalczyk, a seasoned traveler, has resorted to a strategy that would make a minimalist wince: She brings her own coffee maker.

“I know these aren’t luxury properties, but at $500 a night, a coffee maker would be nice,” she says.

No kidding. If I’m paying that much, I shouldn’t have to pack kitchen appliances.

Oh, don’t forget the ghost hotels. Hugh Dixon, the marketing manager for a moving company in London, recently stayed at a midmarket hotel. The rate had jumped from $180 to $220 a night after the pandemic, yet the front desk was unstaffed after 10 p.m.

“There were only key card locks to enter my floor and no live staff,” Dixon recalls. When he asked about it, the day staff cited labor shortages and high costs.

Why is this happening now?

Jay Wardle, president of Adara, a company that tracks travel data, says the industry learned a lucrative lesson during the pandemic: We are pushovers.

“Despite these cuts in services, most travelers are still booking travel,” Wardle says. “This has led to a chain reaction where those once temporary savings for brands by cutting services quietly became permanent.”

In other words, as long as we keep filling seats and rooms, companies have no incentive to bring back turndown service or provide a meal. They are banking on our collective amnesia.

But you can fight back.

How to avoid the no-service summer?

Get informed. Review recent traveler reviews, and make sure they’re recent. A lot can change in a few months. Pay attention to the angry rant from last week about the missing coffee maker, but ignore the five-star review from 2019.

Go small. Mac Steer, the owner of a telecommunications company and a frequent traveler, advises skipping the big chains that answer to shareholders. “Small businesses often fight harder for your loyalty and can’t afford to cut corners the way a global conglomerate can,” Steer says. He suggests booking independent or boutique hotels where the owner is likely to personally ensure your stay is up to par.

Leverage your loyalty. If you must fly a major carrier or stay at a chain, use your status. Wardle notes that brands prioritize established customers. It might not get you a meal, but you’ll get priority treatment if something goes wrong, like a canceled flight.

Yes, you can fight this nonsense

This summer we’ve seen a drop in service levels. And if you talk to insiders, they’ll tell you it’s just business.

It shouldn’t be. You should reward companies that maintain their human touch and high service levels with your business. And until they get their act together, you need to vote with your wallets. If a hotel wants to charge you luxury rates for a “ghost” experience, don’t just complain to the manager—blacklist it.

And if you see me in the airport lobby lugging a coffee maker and a bag of sandwiches, please don’t laugh. I’m just packing for the no-service summer.

A Porter Airlines flight from Victoria, British Columbia, to Toronto never got off the ground last week because a child wouldn’t stay in a seat belt. 

The plane had already pushed back when a crew member noticed the young passenger standing on the seat. Efforts by both a parent and the crew to get the child to comply were unsuccessful.

But if you’re looking for another viral baby-throws-a-tantrum-on-a-plane story, sorry. 

This one was decidedly Canadian. Nobody defied a crew instruction and the parents weren’t met by police at the gate. By most accounts, a child got frightened in a pressurized metal tube full of strangers and simply stood up to see what was going on.

Did the airline overreact by canceling the flight? What other issues does this incident raise, and what should you do if you’re flying with a young child?

What happened on flight PD444?

Porter said the crew elected to return to the terminal because the aircraft couldn’t take off in an unsafe condition. 

Brad Cicero, an airline spokesman, said removing only the child and the accompanying parent, retrieving their bags and refiling the paperwork would have taken too long. Victoria International’s airfield closes at 12:30 a.m. Everyone deplaned, and the airline canceled the flight. 

Passenger Hillary Hertzberg told CBC the child got off around 11:30 p.m., after passengers had sat on the plane for close to an hour. Another passenger, Aryeh Kozuch, said the child wasn’t misbehaving, and described a kid who kept sliding out from under the straps to hide beneath the seat. The airline rebooked everyone on a flight for the following afternoon.

What Porter hasn’t said is which category it assigned the cancellation under Canada’s Air Passenger Protection Regulations. That answer decides whether anyone gets paid.

Why the airline says it had no choice

An unrestrained passenger is a loose object, and loose objects aren’t allowed to fly. Transport Canada requires everyone seated and belted for takeoff, and a crew that departs anyway is the crew that ends up in front of an inspector. Porter says it followed the rule and lost its runway window by doing so.

So the system worked as designed, resulting in a plane full of people sleeping in Victoria.

The rule nobody wants to touch

Porter’s own policy says an approved child restraint is mandatory for an infant under 2 who occupies a seat, and optional for a small child, depending on the manufacturer’s weight limits. An infant under 2 can also fly on a lap with no restraint. Porter doesn’t supply car seats or harnesses. You have to bring your own.

That isn’t a Porter problem. In the U.S., the Federal Aviation Administration says the safest place for a child under 2 is an approved restraint rather than your lap, then declines to require the seat. The National Transportation Safety Board has been asking for a mandate since 1979. 

The Transportation Safety Board of Canada recommended mandatory child restraints after a 2012 crash in Sanikiluaq, Nunavut, killed a 6-month-old who wasn’t secured at all. Regulators on both sides of the border have given the same answer for decades: A mandate requires families to buy an extra ticket, so many of them drive instead, and driving has been known to kill more people.

The result is an industry that recommends a seat it sells you but provides no device to put in it—and then cancels your flight when the arrangement fails. 

What to do before your next flight with a small child

• Buy the seat. A ticketed seat is the only way to use an approved restraint on board.
• Check the label. Porter accepts car seats certified to Canadian, U.S., Australian/New Zealand or UN ECE standards, and the label has to say the seat is approved for aircraft use.
• Look at a CARES harness. It’s approved for children at least a year old, 22 to 44 pounds and up to 40 inches tall, and it packs into a coat pocket.
• Leave the booster home. Boosters aren’t permitted on board, because the internal harness has been removed.
• Practice with the belt before you go. A taxiway is a bad place for a toddler to meet a seatbelt for the first time.

If your flight gets canceled for a reason the airline classifies as within its control, Canadian rules put standards of treatment and compensation on the table. Porter routes unresolved claims to the Canadian Transportation Agency. Ask for the classification in writing.

As of today, Porter hasn’t said which Air Passenger Protection Regulations category it assigned the flight. I reached out to the airline on Thursday to find out, but it hasn’t responded. I’ll update this post when it does.

If you said yes:

• Should the airline still owe the other passengers a hotel and compensation?
• Would you answer the same way if a mechanical problem had caused the delay?

If you said no:

• What should the crew have done with a child who couldn’t be secured?
• Would you pay a higher fare if airlines had to carry approved child restraints on board?

My take

I’ve flown with kids who refuse to stay in their seats—mine!—and it’s a terrible feeling of being both powerless and embarrassed. (Mind you, they’re in their 20s now, so the joke is on me.)

Airlines have spent 40 years warning regulators that a restraint mandate for young passengers would price families off airplanes. It’s a fair worry. It would carry more weight coming from an industry that doesn’t blink at charging you an extra $60 to sit next to your kid.

Your turn

Have you flown with a small child who wouldn’t stay buckled, or been stuck on a plane that couldn’t leave because of one? Our comments are open.

The doctrine of federal preemption probably was the last thing on Jamie Baltus’s mind when she bought tickets for her and her young son to fly from Chicago to Cairo on Turkish Airlines.

But when war broke out in the Middle East, she asked her airline for a refund. And it refused. 

So Baltus, a veterinary hospital manager from Montello, Wis., turned to the Department of Transportation (DOT), the agency that’s supposed to protect airline passengers. 

Beyond giving her an automated response and a case number, it didn’t help her either.

“I don’t know what else to do,” Baltus says.

In the last two years, as federal agencies have taken a back seat to enforcing consumer protection laws, states and even cities have stepped forward to lend a hand where they can. But the airline industry is one place where they can’t. Federal preemption, a rule holding that federal law beats state law when the two are in conflict, effectively bars states from protecting airline passengers.

When the DOT dismissed Baltus’ request for help, it meant she was out of options. Her airline got to keep the $1,808 she’d spent on her tickets.

It’s time for that to change.

Washington has all but stopped protecting consumers

In January, DOT rewrote its own enforcement policy. Its Office of Aviation Consumer Protection announced it would focus on “helping” airlines comply rather than penalizing them for breaking the rules. Warning letters first, fines maybe later.

It kept that promise. The government hasn’t assessed a single civil penalty this year against an airline for a consumer violation. It waived the $11 million Southwest Airlines still owed for the 2022 holiday meltdown that stranded millions. So far, the government has forgiven close to $28 million.

The Consumer Financial Protection Bureau (CFPB) is on the same trajectory. It has proposed supervising nonbank companies only when there’s a high likelihood of “significant” harm to consumers, and it moved to strip consumer education and financial literacy out of its penalty fund.

States are picking up the slack

Trenton went first this summer. On June 15, Gov. Mikie Sherrill signed an executive order telling every New Jersey agency to hunt down hidden charges in housing, travel, financial services and ticketing. Attorney General Jennifer Davenport put out an enforcement statement warning companies that the state’s existing fraud law already reaches most junk fees.

California built something even bigger. Its new Business and Consumer Services Agency opened July 1 under Rohit Chopra, who ran the CFPB from 2021 to 2025 and sat on the Federal Trade Commission before that. He now oversees California’s financial protection, consumer affairs and real estate departments from a single chair.

Chopra isn’t being subtle about what he wants. Last month, he asked Californians to send him tips about dishonest pricing, inflated fees and undisclosed kickbacks. Federal regulators, he wrote, are turning a blind eye to illegal upcharges that all of us pay for.

Then there are the cities. New York’s click-to-cancel rule takes effect Oct. 1, the first of its kind at the municipal level. Its proposed junk fee ban carries fines starting at $350 per violation and takes direct aim at service charges, processing fees and destination fees, formerly known as resort fees — the mandatory extras hotels add to your bill after you click the “buy” button.

California, Minnesota and Virginia have fee disclosure laws on the books. Colorado and Connecticut are coming online. Massachusetts has new consumer regulations, too.

Call it ZIP Code justice. Your consumer rights now depend on your mailing address.

But it doesn’t extend to the airport

To figure out why airlines are off-limits, let’s get back to Baltus in Wisconsin.

The Airline Deregulation Act of 1978 bars states from enforcing any law related to the price, route or service of an air carrier. The Supreme Court has read that clause about as broadly as it can be read. Wisconsin’s attorney general can go after a used car dealer or a gym that won’t let anyone cancel. But Turkish Airlines — any airline — is exempt.

So the one industry that perfected the junk fee, the one that invented paying extra to sit next to your own kid, is the only industry your state can’t reach. Every other business in America has to answer to an attorney general or local law enforcement. But airlines answer to an agency that has stopped writing tickets.

State attorneys general saw this coming. In 2022, 38 of them, Republicans and Democrats, asked Congress to let states enforce consumer laws against airlines. Congress passed a five-year Federal Aviation Administration reauthorization bill in 2024 and left that out of both chambers’ versions. DOT offered a consolation prize instead: a partnership letting state attorneys general refer airline complaints for “priority” review. Refer them where? Back to DOT.

The fix has been sitting there since 2017

It’s Section 211 of the Airline Passengers’ Bill of Rights, titled “No preemption of consumer protection claims.” One section would let your state sue your airline. The bill has been introduced in nearly every Congress for the last nine years and has never gone anywhere.

I keep waiting for Washington to fix it so I can tell readers like Baltus that there is hope for them.

So when a hotel or car rental company takes you for a ride this summer, skip the federal complaint form and file with your state attorney general, where a human being will read it. When an airline does it, you have my sympathy and a suggestion. 

Ask whoever’s asking for your vote this fall why your ZIP Code protects you everywhere except your airline seat.

On the shortest day of the year in Queenstown, New Zealand, the serrated edge of Single Cone mountain casts a long, blue shadow over a valley locked in a deep freeze. In this sub-alpine June chill, the air feels like acupuncture needles on your skin, and the Otago earth is as hard as ice. 

But not for Michael Sly. He’ll be busy harvesting watermelons and eggplant in the dead of winter—and helping Queenstown meet its ambitious sustainability goals.

His secret is in a metabolic fever of steaming food scraps.

Sly, known locally as the Compost King, operates an enterprise called Waste to Wilderness. It takes the byproduct of Queenstown’s massive tourism industry—the half-eaten buffets and coffee grounds from 95 percent of the town’s luxury hotels—and blends it with carbon-heavy wood chips from invasive wilding pines. The result is fertilizer used for the region’s regeneration.

“Food waste isn’t the end,” Sly explains, as steam rises from the core of a pile. “It’s just the beginning.”

Sly is one of the cornerstones of Queenstown’s ambitious goal to become the world’s first carbon-zero visitor economy by 2030. His team diverts 80 percent of food waste from the town’s hotels away from the municipal landfill, converting 1,200 tons of organics into soil each year—an environmental impact equivalent to removing 1,200 fossil fuel vehicles from local roads. The closed-loop system is a case study in local resourcefulness, turning the byproduct of the massive tourism industry into fruits, vegetables—and opportunity.

Millbrook Resort’s head chef, Shubham Gupta, in his vegetable garden. (Photo by Aren Elliott)

Growing a greener menu at Millbrook Resort

The nutrient-rich soil fuels the kitchen garden at places like the nearby Millbrook Resort, a luxury hotel where the waste from last week’s guests fertilizes the heirloom tomatoes for next week’s menu.

Head Chef Shubham Gupta walks through a sprawling kitchen garden that has transformed the resort’s dining experience. Gupta says you can tell the difference in the soil immediately. 

“The tomatoes are sweeter and juicier than the ones you buy,” he says. “And because we harvest them here on the same day we serve them, they’re also fresher.”

Millbrook is now roughly 70 percent self-sufficient, when it comes to vegetables, growing everything from radishes to winter artichokes. 

Mat Woods, CEO of Destination Queenstown. “We want to be a place that people look to for innovation,” he says. (Photo by Aren Elliott)

An imminent sustainability deadline

This hyper-local loop is a small-scale version of what the entire region hopes to achieve. According to Mat Woods, CEO of Destination Queenstown, the town is moving away from unsustainable growth and toward a model of what he calls “pioneering bravery.” The goal is to shift from merely sustaining tourism to actively regenerating the land.

The city has set several ambitious benchmarks to meet this 2030 target:

• A carbon-zero goal. Queenstown aims to be the first tourist destination in the world with a completely carbon-zero visitor economy.
  
• Electrification of industry. This includes showcase projects like the world’s first fully electric jet boats being developed on the Shotover River and Mike Casey’s fully electric cherry farm, which uses 23 electric harvesting machines to eliminate emissions.
  
• Waste diversion. Regional initiatives are focused on diverting 80 percent of organic waste from landfills to be repurposed for local food resilience.

“We want to be a place that people look to for innovation,” Woods says, noting that Queenstown should be the world’s showcase for how a destination can thrive without destroying itself. He views the shift to a carbon-zero economy not as a restriction, but as an adventure. 

“It’s about being a good ancestor,” he adds. “We’re thinking about what this place looks like in the year 2100, not just the next fiscal quarter.”

Mr. Chippy’s lawn lattes

Back at the compost site, Sly is surveying his small fleet of specialized Japanese waste trucks that hauls the table scraps, rescuing them from a landfill. He’s even found a way to make the process marketable with a mix of coffee grounds, biochar, and liquid smoke called a “lawn latte” that helps local gardens flourish. He sells the powder from an unstaffed roadside stand where people pay on the honor system.

For Sly, the value is both in the dirt and in the independence it gives the community. 

“We’re importing 90 percent of our food into this region,” Sly says. “By helping 1,000 families grow their own, we’re injecting millions of dollars of value back into the community. This is about local food resilience.”

In a few weeks, it will start to turn cold on New Zealand’s South Island—too cold to grow most garden vegetables. But Sly’s garden will still be growing. He’ll set up a glass enclosure to retain the heat generated from the compost, and the produce will flourish despite the freezing temperatures. 

In a town famous for its temporary thrills, this hot transformation is part of a bigger plan. Sure, Queenstown has pretty alpine views and some of the best skiing in the Southern Hemisphere. But it’s also becoming a place that understands how to sustain the land that provides it. 

By reclaiming the nutrients from tourism waste, Sly and his team are ensuring that when his descendants look back at the world’s Adventure Capital, they’ll see people who finally learned how to close the sustainability loop. 

And the clock is ticking: 2030 is just around the corner.

StubHub insists a Rick Springfield concert has been postponed, but the show actually takes place. Can a customer get a refund even if the company’s computer thinks the band hasn’t taken the stage yet? 

Question

I bought tickets to a Rick Springfield concert through StubHub. The event was originally scheduled 11 months ago but was postponed to three months ago. StubHub did not update this rescheduling correctly within its internal system.

On the new date of the concert, I contacted StubHub because I still hadn’t received my tickets. A representative assured me that the system showed the event as still “postponed.” I told them the concert was happening that day, but they couldn’t override the system to transfer the tickets.

I missed the concert. StubHub initially said I was eligible for a refund, but then changed its position, insisting the event is still pending rescheduling. I have confirmation from the venue that the concert took place. Can you help me get my $348 back? — Craig Field, Wellington, Fla.

Answer

You shouldn’t have missed this concert. 

This is a bizarre case of man versus machine. You knew the concert was happening. The venue, the Kravis Center, knew the concert was happening. The promoter knew the concert was happening. Even Rick Springfield knew he was supposed to be on stage.

But StubHub’s computer insisted the show was postponed.

When you called on the day of the show you ran into a brick wall of binary logic. You said the representatives told you that “unless confirmation was received from the event organizers or venue, someone higher up within StubHub could not modify the system.”

Because the computer said the show wasn’t happening, it wouldn’t release your tickets, and you missed the performance. How frustrating.

What happened next is even stranger. You asked for a refund. At first, StubHub agreed to return your $348. Then, it went back to checking its system, which apparently still thinks the show is pending rescheduling. You received communications that continued to claim the event remained postponed.

Come on.

You kept a great paper trail of correspondence between you and StubHub. You contacted the venue to get independent confirmation that the show actually took place. And you were patient.

StubHub’s FanProtect Guarantee promises that if an event is canceled and not rescheduled, you will receive a credit worth 120 percent of the amount you paid or a cash refund. If there is an issue with your tickets, StubHub says it will find you comparable or better tickets, or offer you a refund.

Clearly, a system glitch that prevents ticket delivery falls under that guarantee.

If you ever run into a problem with StubHub again, you can always find the names, numbers and email addresses of StubHub’s executives on my consumer advocacy site, Elliott.org.

I contacted StubHub on your behalf. This time, a human reviewed your request.

“We’re truly sorry this fan didn’t receive the experience they deserved,” a spokesperson told me. “We know how important live events are, and we understand how disappointing it is to miss out.”

StubHub confirmed that the show did, in fact, go on. It issued a full refund of $348 and offered you a voucher as a gesture of goodwill. Next time, hopefully, the computer will agree with reality.

Brent Marcelino faces a terrifying blowout in a Mercedes with bald tires. Instead of an apology, Turo sends him a bill for the damage. Does he have to pay? 

Questions 

I recently rented a Mercedes SUV through Turo for a friend’s birthday trip to New Hampshire. While driving in the mountains at about 40 mph, the front right tire blew out.

I called Turo immediately. A representative told me I could use their tow service for $199. Since I have been a AAA member since I was 16, it made no sense to pay extra for a tow, so I used AAA instead.

AAA towed the vehicle to our vacation rental. The tow driver asked us to look underneath the vehicle. Both front tires were so worn that the metal threading was visible and protruding. The vehicle was unroadworthy.

I had to pay $680 to tow the Mercedes back to Connecticut and $1,000 for a car service to transport my group home.

I reported this to Turo. At first, the company said the damage was due to pre-existing wear and that I was not responsible. About one hour later, I received a second email stating that the claim had been reopened and that I was financially responsible.

Turo charged my card $500 in damage fees. I’m out more than $2,000 for renting a car with bald tires. Can you help me get my money back? —Brent Marcelino, New Britain, Conn.

Answer

Your Turo host should have given you a vehicle with safe tires. And if the tires were bald, you shouldn’t have to pay a dime for the blowout.

But this case is a little complicated.

Let’s look at what happened. You rented a 2022 Mercedes-Benz GLB-Class. You assumed the car was safe. But when the tire blew, you discovered the truth.

You did the right thing by contacting Turo immediately. But then things went a little sideways.

Turo initially agreed with you. It sent you an email confirming that it had determined the damage was “pre-existing” and that you weren’t responsible.

Then, Turo’s claims department did a U-turn. An hour later, it told you the claim was reopened. Turo’s position was that while you weren’t “at fault,” you were still “financially responsible.”

How can you be responsible for damage you didn’t cause on a car that shouldn’t have been on the road?

Turo says it reviewed the pre-trip photos and decided the tire was in “good condition.” But standard walk-around photos don’t always show the inner tread wear.

You were also stuck with a $1,680 bill for towing and a car service because you declined Turo’s roadside assistance.

When you go off-platform for repairs or towing, you usually pay out of pocket. Turo’s terms are clear about that. If you want the company to pay, you have to play by its rules.

“Guests have the option to purchase enhanced roadside assistance when booking their trip to reduce out-of-pocket costs like towing,” a Turo spokesperson told me.

Still, charging you a $500 deductible for a tire that was clearly worn out seems wrong.

You might have appealed this to an executive at Turo. I publish the names, numbers and email addresses of key customer service managers at Turo on my advocacy site, Elliott.org.

I contacted Turo on your behalf. I shared your photos of the bald tires. Turo reviewed your file again.

“After reviewing all available information related to this incident, we can confirm the guest was fully refunded for the trip and any related damage charges,” the spokesperson said.

Turo returned your $500 damage deposit and refunded the $304 cost of your rental. But it did not cover the towing or car service expenses, sticking to its policy on roadside assistance.

I’m glad you got some of your money back. But there is a lesson here for everyone: Before you drive a rental car off the lot, check the tires. Turn the wheel so you can see the tread. If it looks worn, ask for a different car.

And consider paying a little extra for roadside assistance. It might cost a little more up front, but it can save you a small fortune in the long run.

Michael Huang thought he’d found a reliable and clean place to stay when he reserved a studio apartment in Penang, Malaysia, through Booking.com.

Instead, he walked into a crime scene.

Or at least, it looked like one. There were blood stains on the surfaces. There was mold on the walls. The bedding was crumpled and smelly, sporting hair that definitely didn’t belong to the Huang family. It was, in his words, a “health hazard.”

When Huang asked for a refund, Booking.com told him the decision was up to the host. The host told him to cancel. And then, nobody did anything—except keep his money.

His case raises several questions for anyone renting a vacation home:

• What constitutes an uninhabitable rental?
• Who is legally responsible for a refund: the host or the platform?
• How do you document a disaster to ensure you get your money back?

First, let’s go back to the beaches of Penang, where Huang is trying to sort out this mess.

A filthy boxspring in Michael Huang’s rental in Penang, Malaysia.

“We walked into a health hazard”

Huang booked the stay through Booking.com because he believed the platform’s promise of safe, habitable accommodations. But the reality was a stomach-turner.

“We walked into a health hazard,” Huang says. “The conditions were appalling.”

He wasn’t exaggerating. He found clumps of hair on the floor and spiderwebs throughout the property. The mattress had stains covering it. The couch was dirty. And then there were the “biological hazards”—the blood and the mold.

Huang did exactly what a smart traveler should do: He left. 

He didn’t try to make it work, because a line had been crossed. The rental was uninhabitable. He contacted the property management immediately.

His hosts offered no solutions, he says. No cleaning crew. No alternative room. They simply told him to cancel the reservation. Huang returned the keys to the lockbox and found emergency accommodations for his family, paying out of pocket.

Then he contacted Booking.com. He sent the company photos and explained that the host told him to cancel. He assumed that a refund would follow.

He was wrong.

A Booking.com representative sent him a polite but devastating email. 

“The decision of a refund always remains up to the property,” she wrote. “Despite our best tries, they have refused any compensation.”

She added, “We hope we have resolved your inquiry and all is clear.”

It was clear, all right. It was clear that Huang was out $313. And that’s when he contacted my advocacy team.

What constitutes an uninhabitable rental?

There’s a big difference between a rental that is rustic and one that is repulsive. 

In the travel industry, we see complaints all the time about decor that hasn’t been updated since the Carter administration or a view that looks at a brick wall rather than the ocean. Those are disappointments, but they’re not refund-guaranteed events.

However, Huang’s case introduces what I call the squalor threshold.

The squalor threshold is the line where a property moves from being questionable to dangerous. A rental should meet a warranty of habitability. This means it needs to be structurally sound, have working plumbing and electricity, and be free of sanitary hazards.

Biological waste places a property firmly across this threshold. Blood stains are not a quirk. They’re a biohazard. Mold that’s visible on walls and ceilings is a respiratory threat. Unchanged linens with a stranger’s hair are a hygiene violation.

When you encounter these conditions, the product is defective. It is the equivalent of buying a car that is on fire. You don’t need to drive it around the block to see if you like the handling. It’s on fire.

If you walk into a rental and see bodily fluids or mold, you are in the “uninhabitable” zone. At that point, the contract is breached and you’re entitled to a full refund. 

Booking.com’s initial refusal to recognize this distinction is a classic example of a platform trying to enforce a cancellation policy on a product it should have never sold.

Who is responsible for a refund: the host or the platform?

This is the travel industry’s favorite shell game. Online travel agencies love to play the role of the innocent middleman. They process your credit card, they send you the confirmation email, they take a commission—but when things go wrong, they suddenly become just a bulletin board for listings.

In Huang’s case, the customer service agent told him, “The decision of a refund always remains up to the property.”

Nonsense.

While it is true that in the agency model, the merchant of record might be the hotel or host, the platform still bears responsibility for the inventory it displays. If you buy a carton of milk at a grocery store and it is sour, the store does not tell you to call the dairy farmer. The store refunds you, and then it deals with the farmer.

Booking.com has policies that promise safe and clean environments. When a host violates those standards—especially by providing a room with blood and mold—the platform has the authority to override the host.

The agent also told Huang, “We cannot issue a refund until the host replies to our emails.”

That’s a stalling tactic. If a host goes dark or refuses to answer, the consumer should not be left holding the bag. The platform has the money (or the ability to claw it back). It’s banking on you giving up.

Never accept “we are just the intermediary” as an answer, especially when safety is involved. If the platform facilitated the transaction, it has a duty of care to ensure you aren’t sleeping in a biohazard.

Blood on the walls of Huang’s Penang vacation rental.

How do you document a disaster to ensure you get your money back?

If there is one thing Huang did perfectly, it was his documentation. He had all the receipts—and the photos.

When you find yourself in a rental nightmare, you need to think like a crime scene investigator.

Take immediate action. Huang didn’t stay the night. If you stay, you pay. By leaving immediately and returning the keys, he demonstrated that the property was truly uninhabitable. If you stay “just one night” because you are tired, the company will argue that the room was habitable enough for you to sleep in. Huang left, booked a new place, and kept the receipts. This made his case a slam dunk—even if Booking.com didn’t see it that way at first.

The paper trail. Huang communicated via the Booking.com chat app. That’s important. Never rely on phone calls. Phone calls are where consumer rights go to die. Agents can say anything on the phone and deny it later. Huang had a written record of the agent admitting, “We’ve followed up… however, no compensation could be provided.”

Photos and video. Huang took photos of the blood, the mold, and the hair. He uploaded them to the cloud and sent a link to the company. Without photos, it is your word against the host’s. With photos, it is undeniable.

Here’s the resolution

After Booking.com gave Huang the runaround for days, he came to our team. We reviewed his photos, and he was right—they were disgusting. We reviewed the correspondence. And he was right—it was infuriating.

“Our customer service team has investigated this matter further,” a representative responded.
“We can confirm a full refund has been issued.”

Why couldn’t Booking.com offer a refund sooner, when Huang showed it the pictures? Booking.com wouldn’t say.

“We just received the refund from Booking.com,” Huang told me. “Many thanks for your support! This really means a lot to us.”

It shouldn’t take a consumer advocate to get a refund for a room that looks like a set from a horror movie. But until platforms stop hiding behind their hosts, we’ll be here to help clean up the mess.

Welcome to August, the month travel goes to die.

Can you feel it? The system has been redlining for months, and now it’s starting to crack.

Planes are filthy and hotels look neglected. The staff is exhausted and done with you.

If you’re packing your bags for vacation, here’s what you need to know: You’re buying a product the travel industry can’t always deliver.

Last month, with its storm delays, high cancellations and technology snafus, was just the warmup for air travelers. In good years (like 2025) cancellation rates stay around 1 percent in August. But in 2024, it was running about twice that rate, with the major carriers canceling more than 13,400 domestic flights.

Fortunately, your vacation isn’t a lost cause. You just need to adjust the way you travel, lower your expectations a little, and adopt a few survival strategies.

Why the system is breaking

Delbert Lee has tracked this breakdown for years. He’s a former vice president of sales at a travel agency, and he’s consistently observed a 30 percent jump in service complaints every August.

“The root cause is simple,” Lee told me. “Capacity peaks and starts to degrade by late July.”

He calls it “operational decay.” The service infrastructure is designed for a 60-day sprint, not a 100-day marathon.

By the time mid-August rolls around, the machinery of travel starts to sputter.

You see it in the little things. Or, in Isabella Rossi’s case, the gritty things.

Rossi, a product officer for a social networking company in San Francisco, checked into a vacation rental in Half Moon Bay earlier in the summer. She already saw the cracks forming.

The balconies were covered in dirt and old leaves. The kitchen didn’t have the basics—not even sugar, salt, or coffee.

“It felt like the host had stopped caring,” she says.

It happens at hotels, too. Brian Clark, a nurse anesthetist from Utah, recalls a late-summer trip where the fatigue was on display everywhere.

His hotel room smelled and the carpet had “black traffic spots.” 

“The grout in the shower needed a power washer,” he says.

It was a property that had clearly been hammered by guests since May. The housekeeping staff was focusing on turnover, not cleaning.

The great staffing exodus

Dirty carpets are one thing. The real problem with August is the human element.

By this time of year, the college kids who staff the resorts are packing up. They’ve got to go back to school.

“I’ve seen restaurants, golf resorts, hotels, all scrambling to cover for the last few weeks of summer because the staff has up and left,” says Susan Stevens, a retired communications consultant who owns a vacation home in Michigan.

The tourists are still there and the weather is beautiful. But there’s no one left to serve the clam chowder.

The employees who remain are running on fumes. Susan Sherren, founder of Couture Trips, says flight attendants and gate agents are just fellow humans with frayed nerves.

“Everyone goes into survival mode in August,” she says.

Clark noticed this in the sky. He was on a delayed flight last summer, and the airline blamed “crew availability,” a classic burnout excuse. He observed a flight crew that looked “exhausted.”

“They weren’t rude,” he says, “but they weren’t present.”

Why we travel in August anyway

If the carpets are stained and the planes are late, why do we travel in August?

It’s a fear of missing out, says Joe Cronin, CEO of International Citizens Insurance. He says we’re trying to cram in those end-of-summer-break plans. We treat travel like a checklist that must be completed before Labor Day.

And that’s the problem. We have high expectations of a perfect vacation, but the industry can’t really deliver on its promises.

“Service providers are exhausted, service quality declines, and traveler expectations of the perfect vacation are still as high as ever,” he says.

Hotel rates peak in August, so you’re paying Ritz-Carlton prices for a Motel 6 experience. 

So why are we surprised when something goes wrong?

How to survive the burnout

I know what you’re thinking. Chris, I already booked the nonrefundable tickets. What should I do?

You’ve got two choices. You can cancel and go in January. Or you can change the way you travel.

• Lower the bar a little. If you travel in August, stop expecting perfection. You aren’t going to get it. If the flight’s on time and the sheets are clean, you win.
  
• Book the first flight of the day. Sherren advises choosing morning flights. The crews are fresher and the planes haven’t had time to break yet.
  
• Find a quiet place. Airports are getting more crowded. Chris Gwilliam, an executive with Airport Dimensions. recommends you pre-book a lounge. If you can’t get into a lounge, find a gate that isn’t being used. Just get away from everyone else.
  
• Pack your manners. I wrote a chapter about this in my book, The Unauthorized Travel Manual. When everyone else is stressed and entitled, don’t add to the noise. 

Personally, I’m planning to steer clear of the chaos. I’m in Seoul in August, which is definitely outside of tourist season. Yeah, it’s ridiculously hot, but probably no worse than Las Vegas or Palm Springs. 

No matter where you go, here’s some advice you can take with you: Slow down. More than anything else, it’s the frantic pace of an August vacation that’ll kill you. Travel isn’t a race, and there’s no prize for being the first person to board a flight.