ELLIOTT ADVOCACY

Te Pae Christchurch, the city's new carbon zero certified convention center.

From earthquake rubble to carbon zero: Here’s how Christchurch is building a greener city

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To understand how Te Pae Christchurch became a carbon zero certified convention center, you need to meet Oscar. He is about the size of a commercial dryer, but instead of laundry he dries hundreds of pounds of food waste, heating, mixing, and shredding scraps across a 30-hour cycle until what comes out looks like coffee grounds. Oscar lives in the back of house, a rugged gray box with a heavy lid and caution stickers, entirely indifferent to the awards the building collects. He is also a fair symbol of the city above him. The earthquakes of 2010 and 2011 took roughly a third of Christchurch’s buildings, and what rose in their place was designed to a different standard: a compact center built for walking and biking, a library designed around energy, a former residential red zone turning into wetlands and native forest, an airport that has spent two decades cutting its own emissions. Most of it happens where no visitor will ever see it, which raises a question worth asking about the whole idea of green travel.

Cartoon of a woman in pajamas staring in shock at a laptop showing a $179 Furnished Finder charge, her cat asleep beside her on the bed.

My Furnished Finder subscription auto-renewed. Why can’t I get a refund?

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Debbie McNulty had listed her vacation home on Furnished Finder for three years and never once received a booking through it. She paid the annual fee anyway. Now that she was renting short term again, the platform was no use to her at all. Her membership was set to auto-renew, and the company sent a reminder email the month before. She missed it, back from a two-week trip and buried under the same avalanche of email everyone else is buried under. Then she woke up to a $179 charge. She contacted the company that same day, asked to cancel, and requested her money back. What came back was a form response: fees are nonrefundable, it is in the terms you agreed to. She did not dispute that she had missed the deadline. Her question was different, and it is one worth sitting with. When a customer cancels on the very day the charge goes through, and has just told you plainly that she will not use a single day of the year she has been billed for, is keeping the money really the right call?

Cartoon of a woman photographing the front of a rental car with her phone in a parking lot, a Turo sign behind her.

Turo charged me $2,338 for damage I didn’t cause. Can I get a refund?

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Georgina Montalvan rented a car through Turo in Los Angeles and dropped it off a day early so she could catch an earlier flight home. The next day a text arrived: the owner said she had damaged it. Turo sent photos showing a scratch on the fender and a small hole in the bumper. But Montalvan had done the one thing that should end an argument like this. She had photographed the car when she picked it up, and her pictures showed the scratch was already there. She sent them in, Turo reviewed the evidence, and the claim was dropped as normal wear and tear. That should have been the end of it. A week later Turo reopened the claim and charged her credit card $660, with no itemized bill. Then came a second invoice, this one for $1,678, for what the company described as hidden damage, illustrated with a photo of a larger hole she says she had never laid eyes on.

Cartoon of a dismayed traveler with a suitcase pleading at a reception desk while an unsmiling clerk stands with his arms folded.

Is this the worst check-in policy in the history of travel?

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Alison Palkhivala was ready for pretzels, polka, and a pint. She had booked a Munich apartment through Booking.com for Oktoberfest, and three days before her arrival she noticed the line she had skimmed past. Check-in was strictly between 7 a.m. and 9 a.m. Read that again. Not 7 p.m. Not “after 3 p.m.” A two-hour window first thing in the morning, when most travelers are either asleep or looking for coffee. Her flight did not land until 10. She messaged the host and offered everything she could think of, a lockbox, a later handover, even collecting the key the next morning and writing off the first night entirely. The answer was no. The host canceled the booking outright and kept roughly $1,000 under the cancellation penalty. Booking.com declined to intervene, saying the policy was valid. So she stood in a foreign city during its busiest week of the year with no room and no money, holding a reservation she had agreed to in every respect except the one nobody could have met.

artoon of a huge crowd of tourists with rolling suitcases stampeding down a narrow tiled European street at night as residents watch in alarm from windows and doorways.

Why you should be a tourist, not a local, this summer

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Damien Zouaoui used to believe in living like a local. He hunted for authentic-looking apartments in up-and-coming neighborhoods, shopped the local markets, and did his best to blend in. Then came Lisbon. The bakery on his street was gone. So was the barbershop, replaced by boutique rentals and brunch spots catering, as he puts it, to people like him. Then he watched his host get into a shouting match with a neighbor over yet another guest’s rolling suitcase clattering down the cobblestones, and something clicked. He was not a visitor. He was part of an invading force. For a decade now, the travel industry’s golden rule has been to shun the tourist traps, skip the hotels, and embed yourself in a residential neighborhood in search of something real. But there is a simple arithmetic problem buried in that advice, and it is starting to show up in the streets of the cities we say we love: when everyone insists on living like a local, who is left to actually be one?

Cartoon of a wide-eyed woman staring at a computer screen while booking a trip, packed luggage stacked beside her.

Airlines want to hide the real price of your ticket. Should the government let them?

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Remember what booking a flight used to be like? You would spot a $99 fare, click it, and then meet the carrier-imposed surcharge. Then the mandatory fuel surcharge. Then, somewhere near the end, the taxes. By checkout, your $99 flight cost $180. In 2011, the Department of Transportation put a stop to it with the full-fare rule, which says the price an airline shows you has to be the price you pay, taxes and fees included, and that the total has to be the most prominent number in the ad. The airlines went to court to kill the rule and lost, and travelers have shopped with confidence ever since. Now that standard is back on the table. The DOT has proposed letting airlines display each piece of a fare just as prominently as the total, and it is separately asking whether the rule should be repealed outright, which would allow advertised fares that leave out taxes and mandatory fees altogether. The department calls the current requirement unnecessarily prescriptive and raises legal questions about it. Consumer advocates answer that a price you cannot actually buy at is not a price.

Cartoon of a green-faced traveler clutching his stomach as he rushes toward a restroom door, a palm-lined resort at dusk behind him.

How an airport sandwich could destroy your next vacation

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It starts with a plate of chilled shrimp at the resort buffet. It looks pink and fine, sitting on a bed of ice, and you feel fine after you eat it. Then, six hours later, your vacation is over and you are on the bathroom floor. Late summer is peak season for exactly this kind of culinary hazard, and this year the risk is sharpened by record heat colliding with a travel industry already in meltdown, delayed flights, understaffed hotels, tarmac waits with the air conditioning broken. While everyone worries about cancellations and lost bags, something more dangerous is brewing quietly in galley carts and buffet lines. Your food depends on a cold chain, a temperature-controlled path from farm to fork, and when the heat spikes, that chain can snap. The bacteria that move in when it does are the kind you cannot see, cannot smell, and cannot taste, which is what makes them so easy to eat.

Cartoon of a distressed mother holding a swaddled newborn at an airport counter while an unmoved agent stands with arms crossed.

Aeromexico rescheduled my flight and expected me to sleep in an airport with a newborn. Can I get a refund?

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Allison Turpen booked a round-trip Aeromexico flight from Washington, D.C. to Oaxaca, and then the airline moved her connection to the next day. The new itinerary had her landing in Mexico City at 9:30 at night, with the onward flight not leaving until 6:15 the next morning, a layover of more than eight hours. She would be traveling with a newborn, and spending the night in an airport with a baby was not something she could do. So she asked to cancel and get her $1,360 back. She called nearly a dozen times. Aeromexico finally answered, and denied her, pointing to a line in its contract that says flights are subject to change. But Turpen was holding a ticket for a flight departing the United States, which raises a question a lot of travelers never think to ask: when an airline is the one that rewrites your trip, can it really hide behind “subject to change,” or do federal rules say something different?

Cartoon of a distressed blonde traveler holding a ticket at an airport counter, gesturing in protest at a giant Russian nesting doll standing in place of an agent.

I paid $500 for an upgrade on Swiss, then the airline kept it

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Elizabeth Webley thought she had found a deal. She bid $500 for an upgrade on a Swiss International Air Lines flight from Zurich to San Francisco, and the airline accepted. Then her plans changed, she rebooked, and she assumed her upgrade would either move to the new flight or come back to her card. It did neither. Swiss told her the bid was gone and that she would have to pay for a new upgrade, calling the original nonrefundable because she had changed the booking voluntarily. There is a name for this: the ghost upgrade, a product you pay for that vanishes the moment you touch your reservation. But Webley had something most travelers do not. She had taken a screenshot of the terms she agreed to at the moment of purchase, and those terms said plainly that if she changed her flight she was entitled to a full refund of the bid amount, as long as her fare allowed rebooking. The airline’s agents kept quoting a different rule, the one about voluntary cancellations, and pointing her to the FAQ. So the standoff came down to a single question with real money riding on it: when the contract you agreed to says one thing and the airline’s FAQ says another, which one is supposed to win?