When you’re booking online, you need to know whom you’re dealing with--otherwise, proceed at your own peril

Re “Read Between the Stars,” On the Spot, Feb. 12, by Catharine Hamm: Sometimes the deception of the websites of both the airlines and search app companies is downright frustrating.

One thing I have found: You must be careful when using an app or website and know whether you’re working with a third party. Any problems with your itinerary must be taken care of by the third party, not the airlines or hotel you are using.

It can be a nasty experience.

Even though your booking shows a major hotel or airline, they often will not be able to help you.

I have seen more than one unhappy traveler arguing with an employee who has no power to make it right. Unpleasant for everyone.

Paul Brown

Santa Ana

I’d like to suggest as a follow-up to Hamm’s article: the Italian film “A Five Star Life.” A wonderful take on world-class hotels and how they may or may not stay that way.

Linda Lennon

Los Angeles

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The lowdown on ‘high’ tea

Rosemary McClure’s recent article on various afternoon teas was delightful [“Take Tea in High Style,” Jan. 8], especially because not once were the occasions described with the pretense of the inaccurate adjective “high,” except as “high style.”

My British friends are amused by our highfalutin’ insistence on that term, which they use only for a soup-and-sandwich supper at home.

Afternoon teas are lovely occasions, but they are never called “high tea.” Except by Americans.

Patti Garrity

Manhattan Beach

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The frills were smiles and songs

Rosemary McClure’s article highlighting the Aranui 5 and its itinerary reminded me of my trip on the Aranui in 1988 [“When Low Frills Make for Thrills,” Jan. 29]. Now that was low frills.

The owners had been in financial difficulty. With amazing forethought, they added a few basic cabins and a dining room to their cargo ship, which served as the transportation lifeline and supply link to the remote Tuamotos and Marquesas Islands.

The ship’s only amenity was an incredible French chef — no pool, sundeck, air con, shopping, gym or cabin service.

The Polynesian crew and 28 passengers of various nationalities (mostly European) communicated in French and some English. As a single traveler, I arbitrarily shared a cabin with a German woman.

We docked only a few times. We climbed down a scary narrow metal ladder flung over the side of the ship, into the boats that ran up the beach, and out you jumped. The muscled, tattooed crew carried women to the shore.

Time spent on each island was generally dependent on cargo size — cars, building materials, machinery, fuel, food, staples and even livestock (horses were lowered into the surf to swim to shore) all unloaded in rope hammocks.

Our boat was always greeted by islanders, but not to sell trinkets; we were their amusement. For our small group, there were no organized shore excursions or meals. We just figured it out and walked, hiked, rode bikes, horses, scooters, trucks and tractors around the islands. We were invited into homes, schools and churches and to parades and parties.

We saw tapa made from scratch on verdant Fatu Hiva. My cabin mate bought a huge black pearl from a fisherman for a few dollars on the craggy island of Ua Pou (wish I had); on Hiva Oa, we trekked to Paul Gauguin’s and Jacques Brel’s gravesites; and on Nuka Hiva where a 22-year-old sailor named Herman Melville jumped ship, we sampled popoi (breadfruit poi somewhat less nasty than the Hawaiian version).

In the evenings on Aranui 1, we ate superb dinners with unlimited wine. Then you went to bed or joined the crew in the small lounge where they sang to guitars and ukuleles or danced to cassettes of Polynesian music.

I’m still glad I made the trip back then. No phones, videos, email or TV; just incredible fun and food, sights and smiles and songs.

Sheila Maynes

Beverly Hills

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