So after a very pleasant few days in Montreal and then Quebec, it was
time to go home. Unfortunately, United Airlines had other plans.
They seemed to think we should apply for Canadian citizenship instead.
We
arrived at the airport at zero-dark-thirty (with not even a sip of
coffee to improve the mood since our beautifully renovated hotel (HA!)
did not begin serving coffee till 6am. Um, hellooooooo....no coffee???
Seriously? So you want people to be surly and uncommunicative
when they check out? Job well done.) to stand in a moderately long line
for check-in. (No coffee, no self-check-in. We should have seen where
this was going.)
There were two United flights
leaving at approximately the same time, ours and one to Chicago. There
were three people working at the counter: one for the Chicago flight,
who seemed able to work a computer, deal with customers and chew gum at
the same time; one for our flight, who seemed able to chew gum,
and...nope, that's about it, she could chew gum; and one handling the
"priority" customers, who seemed only slightly more talented than the
woman taking care of our line. Maybe. Apparently, our need for coffee
was even greater than we thought, because Helen Keller would have seen
where this was going.
Now it just so happened that a
fairly large group of people swarmed into the priority line at this
point because they had "oversized" baggage (sports equipment) with them
and claimed they had talked to some employee or other who gave them the
go-ahead to get into the priority line (You can see where this is going, right? Yeah. We still didn't.)
Meanwhile,
the woman working the "Chicago" line finished with her last customer
and.....naturally....only to be expected.....started chatting with
another employee. GRRRRRRR. But then, wonder of wonders, she logged on
to another computer, put up a sign that listed our flight... and then
shut everything down and took her break. Double GRRRRRRRR. (Once
again, we should have seen this coming a mile off. Damn coffee
withdrawl!)
Hey, don't mind us. We've only been standing here for an hour and a half
inching forward like constipated snails pulling a wheel of cheddar.
And we really appreciated the game of "got your nose" that you just
played with us. What a fun way to start off the day before being
stripped searched, then herded into a metal tube with a hundred of our
closest friends, strapped into a seat designed for one of Santa's
undersized elfs, unloaded through a shoot narrower than a livestock pen
to claw our way through a mob to reclaim our bags only to stand in another line. (And we still didn't see where this was going.)
"I'm
sorry, we've overbooked the flight and there are no more seats
available," the woman tried to fake sincerity for our plight. "We can
see if someone with a seat would be willing to give up their tickets for
compensation."
Oh. Yeah. Right. Labor Day weekend, and you think that three people are going to give up their seats. What drugs did you put in your coffee this morning?
"What's
the next flight you can get us out on?" I asked, trying to hold Tim
back from hurdling the counter and making her one with her computer.
How could she not see where this was going?
Rose just pretended she didn't know us.
"Well..." Tap, tap, tap. "I see a flight to Montreal with a five hour layover and then a late afternoon flight to DC."
So,
let me get this straight. Montreal has hotels where you can actually
fit into the bathrooms, cab drivers who don't mess with your heads, and
now the only flights home? If only we had seen where this was going
three days ago.
"Fine, we'll take it."
Twenty minutes later, she was still tapping on her computer with not a ticket in sight.
Um, I hate to interrupt the copy of War and Peace that you are clearly typing out, but any chance we are going to get our tickets before we miss the flight?
"Oh.
You have to go to the window down there," gesturing the counter
furthest away in the airport, "for the tickets. I am working on
compensation for you."
Now Tim was holding me back.
"Give us our passports NOW." I channelled the Great and Powerful Oz. This was going to a very bad place, very quickly.
"Here are the passports for Tim and Rose," she offered.
Yup. She could just about manage to chew gum on a good day.
They
took off for the other counter, while the tapping continued. After
another eternity, she upped the degree of difficulty and got on the
phone as well.
Oh, goody. Now it can take you eight times as long. Going downhill on skates.
Rose came rushing back.
"They are closing the window now," she panted. "If you don't get down there, you'll miss the flight."
The girl behind the counter still tapped and whispered into the phone, unperturbed.
"I need my passport. Now." I snapped.
"But I'm still working on your compensation. Don't you want your $100 coupon toward another flight?"
She should have seen where that was going before she even opened her mouth.
Showing posts with label air travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label air travel. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Call of the Wild
Tim and I love animals. We've been kissed by dolphins, hugged koala bears and even petted stingrays. And then we go home and leave the animals where they belong...far away from us. This past weekend though, there was to be no escape.
It all started when we checked into a desert resort in Arizona. Instead of the rooms being attached to the main lodge, they were scattered throughout acres of desert in little clusters of four or five joined by long winding paths lined with every possible desert plant and animal imaginable.
Upon arrival, we were enchanted by the sight of dozens of cute, furry little jackrabbits hippity-hopping among the cacti. We thrilled to a pair of Gila monsters sunning themselves on a somewhat distant rock. We didn't even flinch when a random little lizard scurried across the path in front of us. Our room had huge sliding glass doors onto a balcony, all the better to view the desert set against the dramatic backdrop of a mountain of boulders.
It was perfect...until we stepped outside later that evening to hear the peaceful desert night shattered by the loudest, most ear-piercing screams I have ever heard. Concerned that someone was being murdered, we asked the staff if they shouldn't be calling 911 instead of standing around idly chatting with guests. They assured us it was nothing to worry about, just the resident owl on his nightly quest for a duck dinner. He had already eaten eighteen of the twenty on the grounds and was gunning for the other two. Ewwww. Looking up, we saw the huge behemoth in question perched atop one of the boulders (living proof that duck is not a low-calorie meal). Great. That sound ought to soothe us to sleep. Turns out, he was only the opening act.
At approximately 5:30 am, we were woken up by what sounded like a small rhino scuttling back and forth across our roof. This continued for several moments until a sudden period of silence which was then followed by something even bigger tip-tapping its way back and forth. We weren't sure if Mr. Tip-tap scared off the first fellow or ate him, but we were afraid to go out on our balcony and look up. Our main concern at that point was whether the ceiling beams would hold.
About this time, every bird in the southwest woke up and visited the resort to compete in the all-aviary version of American Idol. They each tried to out-chirp, out-sing and out-squawk each other all at the same time.
Giving up hope of ever sleeping again in the near future, we decided to have breakfast. Tim sensibly opted to eat his in the more civilized way...sitting on a comfy leather chair in front of the TV. I, on the other hand, seemed to have lost my mind and decided to have mine on our balcony (I was really hoping whatever horrific creature had been terrorizing us earlier did not suffer the light of day gladly).
I had just finished my lovely fruit and yogurt plate and was reaching for the silver lid to put back on the plate (some of those noisy little birds looked kinda hungry) when suddenly, out of nowhere, an enormous cardinal came swooping in to land in my yogurt and finish my slice of date bread. Lifting the lid like a shield to protect myself from this clearly deranged and possibly dangerous wild animal, I yelled for Tim while the cardinal hoovered the bread into himself all the while having the nerve to scold me at the top of his lungs for not leaving some of the banana bread as well. (FYI, he did not respond to "shoo", "get", or "go away", and he looked really mean, or ticked off.)
Tim, of course, safe and secure inside was not about to come to my rescue. This apparently was better than watching Jack Hanna getting peed on by some kind of giant rodent on the Tonight Show.
Eventually, the bird had his fill and I was able to escape back into the safety of our room and berate Tim for his failure to ride his white horse to my rescue.
Ah, but I did manage to get the last laugh though when Tin had a close encounter of his own on the golf course.
While on the eighth hole, he hit his ball into a gully near an area of dense desert "forest". Going down to take his shot, he apparently came a bit too close to where a family of wild pigs had set up housekeeping. Believing Tim was a threat to his new little baby, the very large, very angry daddy Havalina let out an ear-splitting shriek and charged out of the underbrush.
Seeing this prehistoric-looking pig barrelling toward him, Tim made the split second decision to abandon his ball and scrambled up out of that gully with all the speed and agility of a racehorse in the final stretch at the Kentucky Derby.
Fortunately for him, the pig abandoned the chase, but the next morning when we were again awakened by a cacophony of assorted wild animal calls, we looked out our window and there, right off our balcony, was an entire herd of the Havalinas.
I don't know how they found him, but we got the message. We packed our bags and took the first plane out of town back to the city where it is quiet.
It all started when we checked into a desert resort in Arizona. Instead of the rooms being attached to the main lodge, they were scattered throughout acres of desert in little clusters of four or five joined by long winding paths lined with every possible desert plant and animal imaginable.
Upon arrival, we were enchanted by the sight of dozens of cute, furry little jackrabbits hippity-hopping among the cacti. We thrilled to a pair of Gila monsters sunning themselves on a somewhat distant rock. We didn't even flinch when a random little lizard scurried across the path in front of us. Our room had huge sliding glass doors onto a balcony, all the better to view the desert set against the dramatic backdrop of a mountain of boulders.
It was perfect...until we stepped outside later that evening to hear the peaceful desert night shattered by the loudest, most ear-piercing screams I have ever heard. Concerned that someone was being murdered, we asked the staff if they shouldn't be calling 911 instead of standing around idly chatting with guests. They assured us it was nothing to worry about, just the resident owl on his nightly quest for a duck dinner. He had already eaten eighteen of the twenty on the grounds and was gunning for the other two. Ewwww. Looking up, we saw the huge behemoth in question perched atop one of the boulders (living proof that duck is not a low-calorie meal). Great. That sound ought to soothe us to sleep. Turns out, he was only the opening act.
At approximately 5:30 am, we were woken up by what sounded like a small rhino scuttling back and forth across our roof. This continued for several moments until a sudden period of silence which was then followed by something even bigger tip-tapping its way back and forth. We weren't sure if Mr. Tip-tap scared off the first fellow or ate him, but we were afraid to go out on our balcony and look up. Our main concern at that point was whether the ceiling beams would hold.
About this time, every bird in the southwest woke up and visited the resort to compete in the all-aviary version of American Idol. They each tried to out-chirp, out-sing and out-squawk each other all at the same time.
Giving up hope of ever sleeping again in the near future, we decided to have breakfast. Tim sensibly opted to eat his in the more civilized way...sitting on a comfy leather chair in front of the TV. I, on the other hand, seemed to have lost my mind and decided to have mine on our balcony (I was really hoping whatever horrific creature had been terrorizing us earlier did not suffer the light of day gladly).
I had just finished my lovely fruit and yogurt plate and was reaching for the silver lid to put back on the plate (some of those noisy little birds looked kinda hungry) when suddenly, out of nowhere, an enormous cardinal came swooping in to land in my yogurt and finish my slice of date bread. Lifting the lid like a shield to protect myself from this clearly deranged and possibly dangerous wild animal, I yelled for Tim while the cardinal hoovered the bread into himself all the while having the nerve to scold me at the top of his lungs for not leaving some of the banana bread as well. (FYI, he did not respond to "shoo", "get", or "go away", and he looked really mean, or ticked off.)
Tim, of course, safe and secure inside was not about to come to my rescue. This apparently was better than watching Jack Hanna getting peed on by some kind of giant rodent on the Tonight Show.
Eventually, the bird had his fill and I was able to escape back into the safety of our room and berate Tim for his failure to ride his white horse to my rescue.
Ah, but I did manage to get the last laugh though when Tin had a close encounter of his own on the golf course.
While on the eighth hole, he hit his ball into a gully near an area of dense desert "forest". Going down to take his shot, he apparently came a bit too close to where a family of wild pigs had set up housekeeping. Believing Tim was a threat to his new little baby, the very large, very angry daddy Havalina let out an ear-splitting shriek and charged out of the underbrush.
Seeing this prehistoric-looking pig barrelling toward him, Tim made the split second decision to abandon his ball and scrambled up out of that gully with all the speed and agility of a racehorse in the final stretch at the Kentucky Derby.
Fortunately for him, the pig abandoned the chase, but the next morning when we were again awakened by a cacophony of assorted wild animal calls, we looked out our window and there, right off our balcony, was an entire herd of the Havalinas.
I don't know how they found him, but we got the message. We packed our bags and took the first plane out of town back to the city where it is quiet.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Doomed From the Start
You know how they have those ads showing some poor unfortunate soul who has just had some horrendous misfortune befall them, and the slogan warns, "Don't let this happen to you"?
Well, meet the poster child for airline travel.
Over a month ago we purchased tickets for an Easter trip to Florida. Less expensive, non-refundable tickets. And excuse us for trying to save some money. Next time, I'll just borrow a cannon from the circus, aim it south and climb in. I would be better off.
As usual, I received confirmation via snail mail for our e-tickets a few days after purchasing them, but when I looked, there were no seat assignments. Hmmm. Puzzling. I always have seat assignments.
So I called the agent and was told that per the "new" policy, the airlines are not offering seat assignments to anyone purchasing the less expensive non-refundable tickets.
Okay, let me get this straight. I am being punished for not spending the extra $100 per ticket to get a fully refundable seat on an over-sold flight. I get to show up at the airport the day of travel -- holiday travel-- and fight it out with the other "non-refundables" and "standbys" who also don't have seats. In addition to that, you are charging me $25 to check a bag, and two bucks for a crummy bottle of water. What's next? An additional $15 to breathe oxygen instead of carbon monoxide during the flight? How about pay toilets or a fee for the life vests?
Left with no recourse because I had non-refundable tickets (which leads me to ask, what about those people who purchased the "deals" like $29 round trip? Do they even get to board the plane, or are they just strapped to the wings?), I waited until the day before and went online to see if I could print out boarding passes with seat assignments. Nope. The airline thought of that too, and put the whammy on it.
So I called the airline directly and asked if there was anything I could do, up to and including offering my first-born to secure seats. Well...I could pay now over the phone for seats, but there weren't any together anymore (like I even cared at that point who I was sitting next to!), or I could just show up really, really early to make sure I got seats. Well, thanks for all your help! I began to seriously wonder what the range on those circus cannons was.
As if the whole seating issue wasn't causing enough stress in my life, two hours before the flight was scheduled to take off, I got a call from the airline telling me it had been delayed by ninety minutes. Goody. More uncertainty. I wondered where I could buy I helmet for my cannon flight. Something in a nice shade of pink maybe.
But eventually, we got up and off. Which is more than I can say for the return flight.
We got to the airport early, boarded on time, closed the doors, and began barrelling down the runway only to have the pilot slam on the breaks. Apparently, the "check engine" light had gone on. So, back to the terminal we went and waited for the mechanic.
And waited. And waited. And then got off the plane and waited some more. After three hours of sitting at the gate (and really, who doesn't enjoy lounging comfortably in a vinyl and metal chair joined at the hip to a perfect stranger while munching on some delicious airport food that even a starving dog would turn its nose up at), they told us that the plane needed a part that wouldn't be there for another three hours. But once it got there, well, they were pretty sure the plane would take off. Eventually. If it was the right part. And if it fit. And if the flight crew didn't "time out". And if all the planets lined up. And if pigs sprouted wings and started to fly.
I began googling circus cannons on my blackberry.
Twelve hours after first arriving at the airport, we made it home, with seats even. And before I book my next flight, I might try looking into a giant slingshot or maybe even a catapult. It couldn't be any worse than flying commercial.
Well, meet the poster child for airline travel.
Over a month ago we purchased tickets for an Easter trip to Florida. Less expensive, non-refundable tickets. And excuse us for trying to save some money. Next time, I'll just borrow a cannon from the circus, aim it south and climb in. I would be better off.
As usual, I received confirmation via snail mail for our e-tickets a few days after purchasing them, but when I looked, there were no seat assignments. Hmmm. Puzzling. I always have seat assignments.
So I called the agent and was told that per the "new" policy, the airlines are not offering seat assignments to anyone purchasing the less expensive non-refundable tickets.
Okay, let me get this straight. I am being punished for not spending the extra $100 per ticket to get a fully refundable seat on an over-sold flight. I get to show up at the airport the day of travel -- holiday travel-- and fight it out with the other "non-refundables" and "standbys" who also don't have seats. In addition to that, you are charging me $25 to check a bag, and two bucks for a crummy bottle of water. What's next? An additional $15 to breathe oxygen instead of carbon monoxide during the flight? How about pay toilets or a fee for the life vests?
Left with no recourse because I had non-refundable tickets (which leads me to ask, what about those people who purchased the "deals" like $29 round trip? Do they even get to board the plane, or are they just strapped to the wings?), I waited until the day before and went online to see if I could print out boarding passes with seat assignments. Nope. The airline thought of that too, and put the whammy on it.
So I called the airline directly and asked if there was anything I could do, up to and including offering my first-born to secure seats. Well...I could pay now over the phone for seats, but there weren't any together anymore (like I even cared at that point who I was sitting next to!), or I could just show up really, really early to make sure I got seats. Well, thanks for all your help! I began to seriously wonder what the range on those circus cannons was.
As if the whole seating issue wasn't causing enough stress in my life, two hours before the flight was scheduled to take off, I got a call from the airline telling me it had been delayed by ninety minutes. Goody. More uncertainty. I wondered where I could buy I helmet for my cannon flight. Something in a nice shade of pink maybe.
But eventually, we got up and off. Which is more than I can say for the return flight.
We got to the airport early, boarded on time, closed the doors, and began barrelling down the runway only to have the pilot slam on the breaks. Apparently, the "check engine" light had gone on. So, back to the terminal we went and waited for the mechanic.
And waited. And waited. And then got off the plane and waited some more. After three hours of sitting at the gate (and really, who doesn't enjoy lounging comfortably in a vinyl and metal chair joined at the hip to a perfect stranger while munching on some delicious airport food that even a starving dog would turn its nose up at), they told us that the plane needed a part that wouldn't be there for another three hours. But once it got there, well, they were pretty sure the plane would take off. Eventually. If it was the right part. And if it fit. And if the flight crew didn't "time out". And if all the planets lined up. And if pigs sprouted wings and started to fly.
I began googling circus cannons on my blackberry.
Twelve hours after first arriving at the airport, we made it home, with seats even. And before I book my next flight, I might try looking into a giant slingshot or maybe even a catapult. It couldn't be any worse than flying commercial.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Messing With My Head
Since Sunday's attempt to get home had been such a charming and fun-filled experience, I decided to try and plan for the unexpected on Monday.
First, I printed out my boarding pass, although not without a bit of trouble, thanks to the airline.
Knowing that they would have over-booked the flight (is there any flight, anywhere these days that isn't?) and that the security lines would be long, I got online as soon as I got back to the condo on Sunday night. After squinting at the scrap of paper they had given me at the airport for about twenty minutes and still not being able to find the confirmation code because I did not hold a doctorate in computer programming, I called the 800 number for help (and I use the term loosely).
After listening to the usual litany of choices that you get whenever you call anywhere anymore, and pressing the numbers 1,2 and 3 in various combinations for fifteen minutes, I finally got through to a real, live person--Michael.
I explained that my flight had been cancelled, I had re-booked, and that I was trying to figure out my confirmation code so I could print my boarding pass.
"Oh, sure," he said, "I'll help you. Just let me transfer your call."
Which he did. Right back to the main menu asking me to press numero dos por espanol!!
Oh. My. God. Now I know where the customer service reps from Comcast go when they get fired.
Gritting my teeth and creating various scenarios in my head involving Michael and heavy farm equipment running amok, I sat through the interminably long list of options...again. This time, I got Susan, who seemed genuinely concerned over what Michael had done and wanted to help me, but we kept getting cut off. And now I know where the people from Verizon go when they are fired.
Why were these people messing with my head? Did they not realize how close to postal I was?
Eventually though, I got my pass and continued to plan for my return trip.
I didn't strip the bed or pack away my jammies since my mother was convinced that's what jinxed me the day before. I left for the airport waaaaaay earlier than the previous day and chose a playlist on my ipod that had 413 songs, which I figured I could get through seven or eight times while standing in the security line. And finally, I ate a really big lunch and brought lots of chocolate.
I arrived at the airport to find that all of my precautions were completely unnecessary. There was a grand total of exactly four people ahead of me in the security line and three x-ray machines. Helloooo? Wasn't this supposed to be a Holiday Weekend????? Where were all the people that should have been in front of me, making me crazy? This confirmed it. The airlines were trying to mess with my head. I kept looking around expecting the crowd to jump out any minute and yell, "surprise!"
Not about to look a gift horse in the mouth though, I headed for the nearest x-ray machine... and promptly got flagged for something in my carry-on. The same carry-on that I had breezed through with the day before. The same carry-on I had breezed through with the week before. What was the suspicious item? Turns out my cell phone charger which didn't look the least bit suspicious on Sunday suddenly looked like a weapon of mass destruction on Monday. (Meanwhile, two days later I found my Swiss army knife rolling around the bottom of my purse which I had completely forgotten was there. I guess two prongs and a cord looked dangerous, but the 2-inch blade was fine. Good to know.)
Once I got cleared of all charges by the gestapo, I went straight to the gate only to find the pizza place nearly deserted, lots of seats at the gate and the plane ready and waiting, complete with all the small rubber rings it needed.
Ahhh. But the airlines were not done yet. Yes, we took off on time. But they couldn't let it go. They had to mess with me one more time. As we approached the airport, they made the announcement that we had to turn off all electronic, portable devices, blah, blah, blah...
And then, instead of landing, we circled the airport again, and again, and again.
Finally, I had found the crowd.
First, I printed out my boarding pass, although not without a bit of trouble, thanks to the airline.
Knowing that they would have over-booked the flight (is there any flight, anywhere these days that isn't?) and that the security lines would be long, I got online as soon as I got back to the condo on Sunday night. After squinting at the scrap of paper they had given me at the airport for about twenty minutes and still not being able to find the confirmation code because I did not hold a doctorate in computer programming, I called the 800 number for help (and I use the term loosely).
After listening to the usual litany of choices that you get whenever you call anywhere anymore, and pressing the numbers 1,2 and 3 in various combinations for fifteen minutes, I finally got through to a real, live person--Michael.
I explained that my flight had been cancelled, I had re-booked, and that I was trying to figure out my confirmation code so I could print my boarding pass.
"Oh, sure," he said, "I'll help you. Just let me transfer your call."
Which he did. Right back to the main menu asking me to press numero dos por espanol!!
Oh. My. God. Now I know where the customer service reps from Comcast go when they get fired.
Gritting my teeth and creating various scenarios in my head involving Michael and heavy farm equipment running amok, I sat through the interminably long list of options...again. This time, I got Susan, who seemed genuinely concerned over what Michael had done and wanted to help me, but we kept getting cut off. And now I know where the people from Verizon go when they are fired.
Why were these people messing with my head? Did they not realize how close to postal I was?
Eventually though, I got my pass and continued to plan for my return trip.
I didn't strip the bed or pack away my jammies since my mother was convinced that's what jinxed me the day before. I left for the airport waaaaaay earlier than the previous day and chose a playlist on my ipod that had 413 songs, which I figured I could get through seven or eight times while standing in the security line. And finally, I ate a really big lunch and brought lots of chocolate.
I arrived at the airport to find that all of my precautions were completely unnecessary. There was a grand total of exactly four people ahead of me in the security line and three x-ray machines. Helloooo? Wasn't this supposed to be a Holiday Weekend????? Where were all the people that should have been in front of me, making me crazy? This confirmed it. The airlines were trying to mess with my head. I kept looking around expecting the crowd to jump out any minute and yell, "surprise!"
Not about to look a gift horse in the mouth though, I headed for the nearest x-ray machine... and promptly got flagged for something in my carry-on. The same carry-on that I had breezed through with the day before. The same carry-on I had breezed through with the week before. What was the suspicious item? Turns out my cell phone charger which didn't look the least bit suspicious on Sunday suddenly looked like a weapon of mass destruction on Monday. (Meanwhile, two days later I found my Swiss army knife rolling around the bottom of my purse which I had completely forgotten was there. I guess two prongs and a cord looked dangerous, but the 2-inch blade was fine. Good to know.)
Once I got cleared of all charges by the gestapo, I went straight to the gate only to find the pizza place nearly deserted, lots of seats at the gate and the plane ready and waiting, complete with all the small rubber rings it needed.
Ahhh. But the airlines were not done yet. Yes, we took off on time. But they couldn't let it go. They had to mess with me one more time. As we approached the airport, they made the announcement that we had to turn off all electronic, portable devices, blah, blah, blah...
And then, instead of landing, we circled the airport again, and again, and again.
Finally, I had found the crowd.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
The Best Laid Plans
After spending a great weekend soaking up some Florida sun, I headed to the airport this past Sunday, patting myself on the back that I had decided to come back the day before the holiday, when everyone else would be flying. Hehehe.
Turns out, it was the airline that had the last laugh.
This was my plan: arrive early for my flight, breeze through security, sit and have a nice cheese or maybe veggie pizza for dinner while reading my book, finish my book on the plane and be home in time for Desperate Housewives .
This was the airline's plan: schedule every flight in terminals B, C and D to take off at the exact same time so that all eight thousand passengers could get chummy while standing in the security line for twelve hours. I guess it's the airline's version of Facebook.
Some people apparently enjoy the bonding experience so much that they do everything in their power to prolong it. Like the ones ahead of me, who decided that despite being told fifty-six thousand times to have their ID out and ready, they would rather wait until they got to the head of the line before trying to remember which pocket they had tucked their wallet into.
Or the guy in front of me at the x-ray machine who placed...each...item...in...the...bins...one...at... a...time...after...carefully...removing...it... Arghhh!!! I've seen constipated slugs move faster!
And as if these fun and games the airlines had kindly provided so far were not enough, they had planned a few more, free of charge.
Like one of my favorites, the ever-popular: "Which disgusting food sold near the gate is the least likely to land you in the hospital?"
Courtesy of their master plan, I arrived at the gate with only ten minutes to spare, and the pizza place was three deep in people trying to avoid the only other two food choices: boxed salads that looked like they had been made fresh...in 1872 or burgers that could be used as hockey pucks and may or may not have contained any actual beef. Yummy, yummy!
Setttling on a burger and a bag of Cheetos, I made it to the gate to find the area only half-full and the plane having just arrived with people coming off. Finally. Something going according to my plan. Hehehe (said the airlines)
As the last person de-planed, they turned all the lights on the aircraft off. Da da da dum (think Beethoven's Fifth)
Five minutes later, they announced that the plane had a "mechanical" problem and they were waiting for a part. Da da da dum.
Ten minutes later, they asked people making connecting flights to come to the counter. Da da da dum, da da da dum, da da da dum.
Fifteen minutes later, their plan for screwing up my night was complete. The flight was cancelled due to an inability to get the part: a small rubber ring.
Were they kidding? A small rubber ring? You mean nowhere in the whole big airport with lots and lots of planes, they couldn't find one extra rubber ring? And what exactly was the function of this ring besides causing me to have a coronary? Did it do something really important like hold the curtain between first class and coach closed, or perhaps allow the beverage cart to roll down the aisle in reverse?
Joining the rest of the disgruntled horde in the mad dash up to the counter to rebook, I could only hope they planned on letting me go home sometime in the near future, or at least that I could get back to the condo in time for Desperate Housewives .
They went with option number two. The only flight available was the same one on Monday.
Yippee. Flying out the evening of the last day of a holiday weekend, along with everyone else from this flight. I'm so glad I planned this trip back in October.
Turns out, it was the airline that had the last laugh.
This was my plan: arrive early for my flight, breeze through security, sit and have a nice cheese or maybe veggie pizza for dinner while reading my book, finish my book on the plane and be home in time for Desperate Housewives .
This was the airline's plan: schedule every flight in terminals B, C and D to take off at the exact same time so that all eight thousand passengers could get chummy while standing in the security line for twelve hours. I guess it's the airline's version of Facebook.
Some people apparently enjoy the bonding experience so much that they do everything in their power to prolong it. Like the ones ahead of me, who decided that despite being told fifty-six thousand times to have their ID out and ready, they would rather wait until they got to the head of the line before trying to remember which pocket they had tucked their wallet into.
Or the guy in front of me at the x-ray machine who placed...each...item...in...the...bins...one...at... a...time...after...carefully...removing...it... Arghhh!!! I've seen constipated slugs move faster!
And as if these fun and games the airlines had kindly provided so far were not enough, they had planned a few more, free of charge.
Like one of my favorites, the ever-popular: "Which disgusting food sold near the gate is the least likely to land you in the hospital?"
Courtesy of their master plan, I arrived at the gate with only ten minutes to spare, and the pizza place was three deep in people trying to avoid the only other two food choices: boxed salads that looked like they had been made fresh...in 1872 or burgers that could be used as hockey pucks and may or may not have contained any actual beef. Yummy, yummy!
Setttling on a burger and a bag of Cheetos, I made it to the gate to find the area only half-full and the plane having just arrived with people coming off. Finally. Something going according to my plan. Hehehe (said the airlines)
As the last person de-planed, they turned all the lights on the aircraft off. Da da da dum (think Beethoven's Fifth)
Five minutes later, they announced that the plane had a "mechanical" problem and they were waiting for a part. Da da da dum.
Ten minutes later, they asked people making connecting flights to come to the counter. Da da da dum, da da da dum, da da da dum.
Fifteen minutes later, their plan for screwing up my night was complete. The flight was cancelled due to an inability to get the part: a small rubber ring.
Were they kidding? A small rubber ring? You mean nowhere in the whole big airport with lots and lots of planes, they couldn't find one extra rubber ring? And what exactly was the function of this ring besides causing me to have a coronary? Did it do something really important like hold the curtain between first class and coach closed, or perhaps allow the beverage cart to roll down the aisle in reverse?
Joining the rest of the disgruntled horde in the mad dash up to the counter to rebook, I could only hope they planned on letting me go home sometime in the near future, or at least that I could get back to the condo in time for Desperate Housewives .
They went with option number two. The only flight available was the same one on Monday.
Yippee. Flying out the evening of the last day of a holiday weekend, along with everyone else from this flight. I'm so glad I planned this trip back in October.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Prophet of Doom
Growing up with my dad, or the "prophet of doom", as we affectionately call him, no activity was ever considered safe.
Horseback riding. Before the words even finished my mouth, he would produce a newspaper article about some Olympic caliber rider who had been sitting on a horse since before she was born and then, one day...Bam! Her horse threw her, stepped on her head and dragged her for sixteen miles back to the barn over cactus strewn terrain.
Bike riding. Did I hear about the kid who was hit from behind by a semi and it took twenty surgeons forty-eight hours to separate him and his bike from the front grill of the truck?
Swimming. Hadn't I seen Jaws ? They didn't just pull that idea from thin air. You know, that was based on fact. Why just the week before, a swimmer was eaten by a shark in New Jersey and spit back out somewhere off the coast of Maine.
Driving. The man could find stories about car accidents that would make those drivers ed scare tactic films look like cheery little feel-good Disney movies.
Nothing was off limits. No activity no matter how big or small was ever safe. The man must have had a disaster file the size of the Matterhorn tucked away somewhere that was alphabetized, cross-referenced and indexed to provide horror stories at the drop of a hat.
It was bad enough when he was an insurance adjuster, but when he became a forensic photographer, things really went from bad to worse.
Danger, death and destruction even lurked in a seemingly harmless everyday activity like mailing a letter. Did I see the story about the woman who got a paper cut on her tongue from licking a stamp and ended up dead because of the infection that set in from the glue that they used? That, of course was after she had had both legs and one arm amputated to try and save her. See? He had pictures.
Not that this stopped anyone in our family, including him. He was the one who first put us up on the the back of a horse and taught us to ride bikes. He even taught us to drive (but that's a whole other repressed memory blog). He just couldn't help himself from sharing grisly stories. It was sort of like an involuntary reaction on his part, like a doctor tapping you on the knee and having your leg kick out.
Announce you were getting out of bed in the morning and he couldn't stop himself from pointing out all the pitfalls associated with letting your feet touch the floor. He just wanted to make sure you understood the risks and possible damage involved in, oh, everything.
During the years that my mother, brother, sister and I all took up skiing, he almost lost his mind. I'm pretty sure he had to work overtime scouring the newspapers and radio and TV news shows looking for deadly ski accidents.
Thank God there was no satellite TV back then. I'm pretty sure he would have been willing to learn Korean just to apprise us of some poor schlub on the other side of the world who had been foolish enough to strap two sticks of wood to his feet and plunge down the side of a mountain taking out dozens of other skiers, shrubs and trees before stopping when he became embedded in the side of a barn.
My sister is still trying to push him over the edge with her hobbies of motorcycle riding and collecting tattoos. He can wax poetic for a good hour or more on either subject without breaking a sweat. The History Channel could come to him if they ever decide to produce a show on the greatest motorcycle crashes ever. He has so many examples, he scoffs at the idea of using Evil Knievel as taking the easy way out.
As for the tattoos...we're waiting for her skin to shrivel up and fall off or for her brain to start seeping blue and green ink, whichever comes first.
Pat just smiles, ignores his predictions of gloom and doom, and moves on to her next hair-raising adventure.
I, on the other hand, still have nightmares of disfigured zombies lurching after me chanting, "see what happens when you wear sneakers with ties instead of velcro?" as I frantically seek the shelter of a padded room.
The only ray of sunshine here though is that I live 250 miles away, so fortunately I don't have to hear those grim tales too often. Or you would think.
Now, Tim has apparently decided to pick up the banner.
Recently, we were on a small plane with only one other passenger and, even knowing of my fear of flying (part my father, part a really, really bad flight 25 years ago, and part watching all the airplane disaster movies in the 70's), Tim turned into my father.
As we prepared to take off from a small airport in Colorado, Tim and the other gentleman proceeded to discuss, in detail, how, just a few months earlier, at that same airport, on that same runway, in a plane that same size, three pelicans had, er, merged with the plane on take-off and taken out one engine, half the cockpit and one third of the cabin.
Unable to revert to my usual method of dealing with this kind of unwanted information (clapping my hands over my ears, shutting my eyes and babbling, "I can't hear you.Lalalalalala.") in polite company, I simply glared at Tim and asked if maybe the two of them would like to go swimming after the plane landed and maybe discuss the recent spate of shark attacks along the coast.
Some things you can't escape no matter how hard you try.
Horseback riding. Before the words even finished my mouth, he would produce a newspaper article about some Olympic caliber rider who had been sitting on a horse since before she was born and then, one day...Bam! Her horse threw her, stepped on her head and dragged her for sixteen miles back to the barn over cactus strewn terrain.
Bike riding. Did I hear about the kid who was hit from behind by a semi and it took twenty surgeons forty-eight hours to separate him and his bike from the front grill of the truck?
Swimming. Hadn't I seen Jaws ? They didn't just pull that idea from thin air. You know, that was based on fact. Why just the week before, a swimmer was eaten by a shark in New Jersey and spit back out somewhere off the coast of Maine.
Driving. The man could find stories about car accidents that would make those drivers ed scare tactic films look like cheery little feel-good Disney movies.
Nothing was off limits. No activity no matter how big or small was ever safe. The man must have had a disaster file the size of the Matterhorn tucked away somewhere that was alphabetized, cross-referenced and indexed to provide horror stories at the drop of a hat.
It was bad enough when he was an insurance adjuster, but when he became a forensic photographer, things really went from bad to worse.
Danger, death and destruction even lurked in a seemingly harmless everyday activity like mailing a letter. Did I see the story about the woman who got a paper cut on her tongue from licking a stamp and ended up dead because of the infection that set in from the glue that they used? That, of course was after she had had both legs and one arm amputated to try and save her. See? He had pictures.
Not that this stopped anyone in our family, including him. He was the one who first put us up on the the back of a horse and taught us to ride bikes. He even taught us to drive (but that's a whole other repressed memory blog). He just couldn't help himself from sharing grisly stories. It was sort of like an involuntary reaction on his part, like a doctor tapping you on the knee and having your leg kick out.
Announce you were getting out of bed in the morning and he couldn't stop himself from pointing out all the pitfalls associated with letting your feet touch the floor. He just wanted to make sure you understood the risks and possible damage involved in, oh, everything.
During the years that my mother, brother, sister and I all took up skiing, he almost lost his mind. I'm pretty sure he had to work overtime scouring the newspapers and radio and TV news shows looking for deadly ski accidents.
Thank God there was no satellite TV back then. I'm pretty sure he would have been willing to learn Korean just to apprise us of some poor schlub on the other side of the world who had been foolish enough to strap two sticks of wood to his feet and plunge down the side of a mountain taking out dozens of other skiers, shrubs and trees before stopping when he became embedded in the side of a barn.
My sister is still trying to push him over the edge with her hobbies of motorcycle riding and collecting tattoos. He can wax poetic for a good hour or more on either subject without breaking a sweat. The History Channel could come to him if they ever decide to produce a show on the greatest motorcycle crashes ever. He has so many examples, he scoffs at the idea of using Evil Knievel as taking the easy way out.
As for the tattoos...we're waiting for her skin to shrivel up and fall off or for her brain to start seeping blue and green ink, whichever comes first.
Pat just smiles, ignores his predictions of gloom and doom, and moves on to her next hair-raising adventure.
I, on the other hand, still have nightmares of disfigured zombies lurching after me chanting, "see what happens when you wear sneakers with ties instead of velcro?" as I frantically seek the shelter of a padded room.
The only ray of sunshine here though is that I live 250 miles away, so fortunately I don't have to hear those grim tales too often. Or you would think.
Now, Tim has apparently decided to pick up the banner.
Recently, we were on a small plane with only one other passenger and, even knowing of my fear of flying (part my father, part a really, really bad flight 25 years ago, and part watching all the airplane disaster movies in the 70's), Tim turned into my father.
As we prepared to take off from a small airport in Colorado, Tim and the other gentleman proceeded to discuss, in detail, how, just a few months earlier, at that same airport, on that same runway, in a plane that same size, three pelicans had, er, merged with the plane on take-off and taken out one engine, half the cockpit and one third of the cabin.
Unable to revert to my usual method of dealing with this kind of unwanted information (clapping my hands over my ears, shutting my eyes and babbling, "I can't hear you.Lalalalalala.") in polite company, I simply glared at Tim and asked if maybe the two of them would like to go swimming after the plane landed and maybe discuss the recent spate of shark attacks along the coast.
Some things you can't escape no matter how hard you try.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Getting There Is Not Half the Fun
Over the last few weeks, I've logged a lot of air miles. About 15,000 to be exact (sort of). First up, our trip to the Bahamas via Miami.
I'm pretty sure the pioneers crossed the plains in their covered wagons in less time and with less aggravation. Couple hundred Dakota warriors coming at you with bows and arrows? Punishing heat, choking dust, having to hunt for what little food there is? Don't make me laugh.
At least they didn't have to get up before 3am to be at the airport by 4am for a 6am flight to sit for three hours at another airport in Miami to then fly another two hours to stand in a customs line for one hour only to finally, finally get to the hotel to be told that the room wouldn't be ready for another three hours. Hey, no problem, we'll just hang around the pool in our grungy, travel-rumpled clothes and sweat. No, really. It'll be a fun way to kick off the vacation.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. I forgot to mention the absolute ball we had checking in and boarding our flight.
Because it was an international flight, we couldn't do curbside check-in where there were only a dozen people in line. Oh no, we had to go inside with the rest of the four thousand half-asleep people and jostle for position in the line, er lines, at the counters.
American Airlines apparently decided it would be a real hoot to watch everyone try to form lines for the machines with no roped-off maze, no arrows, no signs, not even a measly trail of breadcrumbs for help. It was like trying to find a parking space at the mall two days before Christmas with a final "everything-must-go" blowout sale in progress. It can be done, but it isn't pretty.
Then, you had to drag your bags over to a separate counter for tags which necessitated joining yet another unruly line with even more unruly people. One woman finally appointed herself crossing guard and tried to direct the flow. "This side is baggage check-in, that side is for ticketing. There are three windows open, but only one line." Yeah. She was real popular. It's never wise to tick off a sleep-deprived mob.
But, we finally did make it to the third and final line-- the baggage drop-off line (well, the final line in the checking-in process, not the final, final line. We still had two more lines to go through before that happy event.) We added our bags to the mountain of luggage that continued to grow at an alarming rate since there was only one person putting it on the conveyor belt (Gee-- a Friday in August. Perhaps the airline could have looked into their crystal ball and foreseen that there might have been just a few people going on vacation?), and sprinted for the security line.
By some miracle, we made it to the gate as the plane was boarding and even managed to grab a cup of coffee from one of the stands (no actual food, it was apparently too early to be selling food. Wouldn't want to interrupt anyone's beauty sleep by having them actually be at the airport early when only ninety-seven flights were leaving with no food aboard).
The flight crew evidently didn't realize (or care) that they were dealing with sleep-deprived, hungry, teensy bit cranky people and greeted us with a twenty minute diatribe on the do's and don't's of air travel.
"You must sit down quickly. Do not try to put things into the overhead and hold up the line. Step out of the aisle and wait until their is a break in the line to do so. You must slide your bag in wheels first. If you have two bags, you must put one under the seat in front of you. If you are in a bulkhead seat, you may not have a bag, a purse, a briefcase, a newspaper, a drink, etc. at your seat. It must all be stowed in the bins above. You must fasten your seat belts and leave them fastened even when the captain has turned off the sign. You may not use the lavatory up front if you are in coach. You must use the ones in the rear of the plane."
Well, good morning to you too. Does anyone else remember the days when they actually welcomed you aboard and tried to make you forget that you'd just been herded like cattle and crammed into your six square inches of space like a sardine?
By the time they finished this speech, plus the required, "we'll be flying at an altitude of..." and "Join our sky miles credit card program..." (yeah, like that'll happen), we were getting ready to land. So much for the in-flight entertainment.
Getting off the plane, we made a beeline for the two food places open in the terminal where we had a choice of pizza or hot dogs. Ahhh. Breakfast of champions.
I couldn't wait for the flight back.
I'm pretty sure the pioneers crossed the plains in their covered wagons in less time and with less aggravation. Couple hundred Dakota warriors coming at you with bows and arrows? Punishing heat, choking dust, having to hunt for what little food there is? Don't make me laugh.
At least they didn't have to get up before 3am to be at the airport by 4am for a 6am flight to sit for three hours at another airport in Miami to then fly another two hours to stand in a customs line for one hour only to finally, finally get to the hotel to be told that the room wouldn't be ready for another three hours. Hey, no problem, we'll just hang around the pool in our grungy, travel-rumpled clothes and sweat. No, really. It'll be a fun way to kick off the vacation.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. I forgot to mention the absolute ball we had checking in and boarding our flight.
Because it was an international flight, we couldn't do curbside check-in where there were only a dozen people in line. Oh no, we had to go inside with the rest of the four thousand half-asleep people and jostle for position in the line, er lines, at the counters.
American Airlines apparently decided it would be a real hoot to watch everyone try to form lines for the machines with no roped-off maze, no arrows, no signs, not even a measly trail of breadcrumbs for help. It was like trying to find a parking space at the mall two days before Christmas with a final "everything-must-go" blowout sale in progress. It can be done, but it isn't pretty.
Then, you had to drag your bags over to a separate counter for tags which necessitated joining yet another unruly line with even more unruly people. One woman finally appointed herself crossing guard and tried to direct the flow. "This side is baggage check-in, that side is for ticketing. There are three windows open, but only one line." Yeah. She was real popular. It's never wise to tick off a sleep-deprived mob.
But, we finally did make it to the third and final line-- the baggage drop-off line (well, the final line in the checking-in process, not the final, final line. We still had two more lines to go through before that happy event.) We added our bags to the mountain of luggage that continued to grow at an alarming rate since there was only one person putting it on the conveyor belt (Gee-- a Friday in August. Perhaps the airline could have looked into their crystal ball and foreseen that there might have been just a few people going on vacation?), and sprinted for the security line.
By some miracle, we made it to the gate as the plane was boarding and even managed to grab a cup of coffee from one of the stands (no actual food, it was apparently too early to be selling food. Wouldn't want to interrupt anyone's beauty sleep by having them actually be at the airport early when only ninety-seven flights were leaving with no food aboard).
The flight crew evidently didn't realize (or care) that they were dealing with sleep-deprived, hungry, teensy bit cranky people and greeted us with a twenty minute diatribe on the do's and don't's of air travel.
"You must sit down quickly. Do not try to put things into the overhead and hold up the line. Step out of the aisle and wait until their is a break in the line to do so. You must slide your bag in wheels first. If you have two bags, you must put one under the seat in front of you. If you are in a bulkhead seat, you may not have a bag, a purse, a briefcase, a newspaper, a drink, etc. at your seat. It must all be stowed in the bins above. You must fasten your seat belts and leave them fastened even when the captain has turned off the sign. You may not use the lavatory up front if you are in coach. You must use the ones in the rear of the plane."
Well, good morning to you too. Does anyone else remember the days when they actually welcomed you aboard and tried to make you forget that you'd just been herded like cattle and crammed into your six square inches of space like a sardine?
By the time they finished this speech, plus the required, "we'll be flying at an altitude of..." and "Join our sky miles credit card program..." (yeah, like that'll happen), we were getting ready to land. So much for the in-flight entertainment.
Getting off the plane, we made a beeline for the two food places open in the terminal where we had a choice of pizza or hot dogs. Ahhh. Breakfast of champions.
I couldn't wait for the flight back.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Long Day's Journey Into Night
This week, I went to Florida with two friends. Just a quick trip down and back. Well, at least a quick trip down.
Coming back home though was another matter.
We arrived at our departure gate only to find that it had been changed and we had to walk to one further down the corridor.
And so the journey began. Had we known how it was going to progress, we probably would have opted to keep on walking. It would have been faster.
Within minutes, however, they started boarding. First class (not us!), zone 1, zone 2. Then, silence. Uh oh. This was not at all encouraging.
Three. Three. Call zone three. I gripped the handle of my suitcase more tightly, preparing to sprint toward the gate ahead of the unruly gaggle of chatty high-schoolers on a field trip, and the woman with the squalling child. Those kids may have been a lot younger, but I had more experience elbowing people aside. I also had a really big purse, and I wasn't afraid to use it.
Wait. There was something happening at the gate. The crowd there seemed to be getting larger instead of smaller. It almost looked like...But no. I couldn't be. And yet...Were zones 1 and 2 getting off the plane?
Yes, they were. As the ontime sign changed to delayed, there was a mad dash to occupy those oh-so-comfortable vinyl airport chairs. Securing three, we glumly slumped down and broke out the chocolate and cell phones.
A one-hour delay due to weather. Well, it was clear as a bell there so the rain must be in DC, right? Wrong. Sunshine and blue skies there too. So now they were delaying flights due to good weather? Gotta love those airlines.
One hour later, we got to repeat the whole fun-filled boarding process all over again (can't get enough of that ), and this time, they actually let everyone get on, closed the doors and took off.
The pilot filled us in on his flight plan. First, we would fly out over the ocean, then, just before we got to Europe, we would turn around, buzz a few cornfields in the midwest and finally head north. He wasn't kidding.
For the next four hours, we watched the sun set out of the left side of the plane, then the right, then the left and right again as the cast of High School Musical III, Journey to Nowhere, bopped up and down the aisles singing Happy Birthday to their own little Suzie Q eighty-seven thousand times.
Wishing I had asked for something stronger than water the one time the flight attendants had passed by, I prayed for a swift (too late) and merciful end to the torture. But it was not to be.
The pilot announced that there had indeed been a thunderstorm in DC (oh sure, because they had put it out there in the universe) and we were in a line for landing. He had even more good news too. Since we had circled Georgia and the Carolinas so long (seriously, with all this flying time, we could have been deplaning in Paris by now for a lovely meal at an outdoor cafe along the Seine and we were hovering over Georgia? ) we were running low on fuel and needed to land.
This was strictly a fuel and go stop he warned(promised?) us. We would not be deplaning. Then, provided he got clearance, we would fly right into DC (and if he didn't get clearance?)
At this point, we toyed with the idea of taking up a collection and bribing him to land anywhere close to DC if he couldn't land there. Dulles, Baltimore, even New Jersey for God's sake. Just somewhere in the northeast.
Passengers began peppering the flight crew with questions. What about connecting flights (this elicited a pitying look), how many planes were ahead of us in the line (this elicited a dismayed look), would we ever see our loved ones again, or should we look into real estate in Greensboro (this elicited the worst thing of all, an actual answer).
One crew member finally cracked and told us the crew was close to "timing out" on the number of hours they were allowed to work and if that happened...good-bye DC, hello Motel 6. I began googling hotels on my blackberry.
Fate finally smiled upon us though, and after a mere hour trapped inside a metal tube, inhaling jet fuel fumes with two hundred of our closest friends, some of which had thankfully brought along their screaming babies for a diversion, we were once again airborne.
Seven and a half hours after we began our two and a half journey, it finally ended (now I know how Gilligan felt). As we exited the aircraft past a bedraggled and surly crew, I turned on my blackberry and found that I had a message from my good friend in New Jersey asking if I wanted to hop on a plane this weekend for a fast trip down to Florida.
Really. You can't make this stuff up.
Coming back home though was another matter.
We arrived at our departure gate only to find that it had been changed and we had to walk to one further down the corridor.
And so the journey began. Had we known how it was going to progress, we probably would have opted to keep on walking. It would have been faster.
Within minutes, however, they started boarding. First class (not us!), zone 1, zone 2. Then, silence. Uh oh. This was not at all encouraging.
Three. Three. Call zone three. I gripped the handle of my suitcase more tightly, preparing to sprint toward the gate ahead of the unruly gaggle of chatty high-schoolers on a field trip, and the woman with the squalling child. Those kids may have been a lot younger, but I had more experience elbowing people aside. I also had a really big purse, and I wasn't afraid to use it.
Wait. There was something happening at the gate. The crowd there seemed to be getting larger instead of smaller. It almost looked like...But no. I couldn't be. And yet...Were zones 1 and 2 getting off the plane?
Yes, they were. As the ontime sign changed to delayed, there was a mad dash to occupy those oh-so-comfortable vinyl airport chairs. Securing three, we glumly slumped down and broke out the chocolate and cell phones.
A one-hour delay due to weather. Well, it was clear as a bell there so the rain must be in DC, right? Wrong. Sunshine and blue skies there too. So now they were delaying flights due to good weather? Gotta love those airlines.
One hour later, we got to repeat the whole fun-filled boarding process all over again (can't get enough of that ), and this time, they actually let everyone get on, closed the doors and took off.
The pilot filled us in on his flight plan. First, we would fly out over the ocean, then, just before we got to Europe, we would turn around, buzz a few cornfields in the midwest and finally head north. He wasn't kidding.
For the next four hours, we watched the sun set out of the left side of the plane, then the right, then the left and right again as the cast of High School Musical III, Journey to Nowhere, bopped up and down the aisles singing Happy Birthday to their own little Suzie Q eighty-seven thousand times.
Wishing I had asked for something stronger than water the one time the flight attendants had passed by, I prayed for a swift (too late) and merciful end to the torture. But it was not to be.
The pilot announced that there had indeed been a thunderstorm in DC (oh sure, because they had put it out there in the universe) and we were in a line for landing. He had even more good news too. Since we had circled Georgia and the Carolinas so long (seriously, with all this flying time, we could have been deplaning in Paris by now for a lovely meal at an outdoor cafe along the Seine and we were hovering over Georgia? ) we were running low on fuel and needed to land.
This was strictly a fuel and go stop he warned(promised?) us. We would not be deplaning. Then, provided he got clearance, we would fly right into DC (and if he didn't get clearance?)
At this point, we toyed with the idea of taking up a collection and bribing him to land anywhere close to DC if he couldn't land there. Dulles, Baltimore, even New Jersey for God's sake. Just somewhere in the northeast.
Passengers began peppering the flight crew with questions. What about connecting flights (this elicited a pitying look), how many planes were ahead of us in the line (this elicited a dismayed look), would we ever see our loved ones again, or should we look into real estate in Greensboro (this elicited the worst thing of all, an actual answer).
One crew member finally cracked and told us the crew was close to "timing out" on the number of hours they were allowed to work and if that happened...good-bye DC, hello Motel 6. I began googling hotels on my blackberry.
Fate finally smiled upon us though, and after a mere hour trapped inside a metal tube, inhaling jet fuel fumes with two hundred of our closest friends, some of which had thankfully brought along their screaming babies for a diversion, we were once again airborne.
Seven and a half hours after we began our two and a half journey, it finally ended (now I know how Gilligan felt). As we exited the aircraft past a bedraggled and surly crew, I turned on my blackberry and found that I had a message from my good friend in New Jersey asking if I wanted to hop on a plane this weekend for a fast trip down to Florida.
Really. You can't make this stuff up.
Friday, April 25, 2008
The Joys of Air Travel
Once again, this week I was on a plane. And once again, it was an ... experience.
First, we were delayed taking off because our flight crew was coming from another plane that was late landing.
I thought, "Good opportunity to use the restroom." So did everyone else, which is why there was a stampede for the one, tiny, little room that resulted in a line longer than the Great Wall and slower than a herd of turtles walking through quicksand. Oh well, it was just a thought.
Upon boarding, we were all told, in no uncertain terms, to take our seats immediately, so that we could leave ASAP (okay, we were not the ones who were late getting here!). Doing so, we discovered our seats were directly in back of a family with a very, very unhappy child. This kid was hitting notes Whitney Houston could only dream about. Even the flight attendants were shushing him.
As we sat there at the gate waiting for "instructions for the flight" (Instructions?!? The pilot needed instructions ? He didn't know how to fly the plane?), one of the flight attendants took pity on us and offered us two seats up front in the third row.
Before he had even finished explaining where the seats were, we were bolting up the aisle like a couple of racehorses at the Kentucky Derby.
Our new seats were much, much better. Here, the screaming child was one row up and across the aisle. Now we only needed to put our hands over our ears instead of trying to stuff them into them. Well, at least it was near the bathroom, and perhaps I actually had a shot of getting in there this time.
No sooner had we settled in though, than the "fasten seatbelt" sign came on and the crew warned everyone to remain seated. We hadn't actually moved away from the gate yet, but apparently they wanted to be prepared to go as soon as the pilot figured out how to put the plane in reverse.
One poor passenger committed the crime of standing up to get his jacket and was chastised over the PA system before being pounced on by two flight attendants. I decided to remain seated rather than risk public humiliation and having to write a one thousand word essay on why it is important to follow directions.
Finally, Doogie Howser got us airborne. Before I could make my way to the bathroom though, a guy from somewhere behind us came running by and locked himself in there for a nice long stay. Uh oh. Not good.
And it got worse. He had to page the flight attendant for help. When he eventually stumbled out, the bathroom was declared "off limits" for the duration of the flight while those of us up front were enveloped in a cloud of vanilla scented spray deodorizer.
So let's see. So far we had been delayed, had our eardrums pierced, been denied bathroom facilities, and now we were experiencing crop dusting from the bug's point of view.
Thankfully, it was a fairly short flight, and we were able to pamper ourselves in the arrival terminal with luxuries like multiple bathrooms, clean air and a decibel level below four thousand.
Yes, I just love to fly.
First, we were delayed taking off because our flight crew was coming from another plane that was late landing.
I thought, "Good opportunity to use the restroom." So did everyone else, which is why there was a stampede for the one, tiny, little room that resulted in a line longer than the Great Wall and slower than a herd of turtles walking through quicksand. Oh well, it was just a thought.
Upon boarding, we were all told, in no uncertain terms, to take our seats immediately, so that we could leave ASAP (okay, we were not the ones who were late getting here!). Doing so, we discovered our seats were directly in back of a family with a very, very unhappy child. This kid was hitting notes Whitney Houston could only dream about. Even the flight attendants were shushing him.
As we sat there at the gate waiting for "instructions for the flight" (Instructions?!? The pilot needed instructions ? He didn't know how to fly the plane?), one of the flight attendants took pity on us and offered us two seats up front in the third row.
Before he had even finished explaining where the seats were, we were bolting up the aisle like a couple of racehorses at the Kentucky Derby.
Our new seats were much, much better. Here, the screaming child was one row up and across the aisle. Now we only needed to put our hands over our ears instead of trying to stuff them into them. Well, at least it was near the bathroom, and perhaps I actually had a shot of getting in there this time.
No sooner had we settled in though, than the "fasten seatbelt" sign came on and the crew warned everyone to remain seated. We hadn't actually moved away from the gate yet, but apparently they wanted to be prepared to go as soon as the pilot figured out how to put the plane in reverse.
One poor passenger committed the crime of standing up to get his jacket and was chastised over the PA system before being pounced on by two flight attendants. I decided to remain seated rather than risk public humiliation and having to write a one thousand word essay on why it is important to follow directions.
Finally, Doogie Howser got us airborne. Before I could make my way to the bathroom though, a guy from somewhere behind us came running by and locked himself in there for a nice long stay. Uh oh. Not good.
And it got worse. He had to page the flight attendant for help. When he eventually stumbled out, the bathroom was declared "off limits" for the duration of the flight while those of us up front were enveloped in a cloud of vanilla scented spray deodorizer.
So let's see. So far we had been delayed, had our eardrums pierced, been denied bathroom facilities, and now we were experiencing crop dusting from the bug's point of view.
Thankfully, it was a fairly short flight, and we were able to pamper ourselves in the arrival terminal with luxuries like multiple bathrooms, clean air and a decibel level below four thousand.
Yes, I just love to fly.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Information, Please
On Sunday, Tim was scheduled to go to New York on the 6:00 Acela Express Train. Around 2:00, on our way home from running our errands, he decided to call Amtrak and see if he could catch an earlier train.
Using his car's speaker phone, he called information and asked for Amtrak's number.
"Uh, is that a business?" the operator asked after a rather long pause.
Rolling his eyes while Rose and I grinned, Tim expanded on his initial request. "Yes. The Amtrak train station in DC."
"Oh. Trains. Okay," the guy somehow managed to sound both relieved and confused at the same time. He then named several businesses with the word train in the title.
"No, not trains. Amtrak," Tim rolled his eyes and shook his head as Rose and I stifled our giggles.
"Amtrak train," the guy repeated, back to sounding plain old confused. "Do you have an address for that?"
Of course, and we have the number too. Hellooooo. Aren't you supposed to be information?
Gritting his teeth as Rose and I clapped our hands over our mouths to check our guffaws of laughter, Tim replied, "It's at Union Station."
"Union Station?" the guy parroted back, like he was trying to learn a difficult technical term.
"Amtrak train at Union Station in DC." Tim had apparently decided that repeating all the information in one breath at top volume while waving his arms about like a windmill (thankfully, we were stopped at a light at the time) was the key to better understanding here.
"I have an Amtrak office on Mass Ave.," the guy tentatively offered after another painstaking pause.
"Fine," Tim roared with frustration while Rose and I roared with laughter.
A minute later, we were connected to a voice activated system. "If you want to check on train times, say "schedule"," it crooned smoothly.
"Schedule," Tim dutifully repeated, the brilliant red color slowly retreating from his face. The computer seemed a lot smarter than the guy he had just dealt with.
"What is your starting point?" Emerac (the computer from the Hepburn/Tracy movie Desk Set) asked.
"Union Station."
"I heard Durham," Emmy replied.
Uh oh. This was not good. The red tide began to rise again.
"Union Station," the volume rose as well.
Fourteen questions later, with no sign of any actual information forthcoming, Tim tried to cut to the chase. Foolish man.
"Acela Express train," he threw at Emmy. Rose and I exchanged head shakes as we wiped tears from our eyes.
"Please repeat," she sounded as confused as the information guy.
"Acela Express train." It was kind of sweet and a little pathetic the way he was clinging to the hope of actually getting the information he wanted.
Pause.
"Did you say you want to talk to an agent?" Like the information guy, Emmy too was now trying to make Tim somebody else's problem.
And once again, Tim fell for it. "Yes!" he choked out, finally seeing the humor here and joining in our uncontrollable laughter as the sounds of Muzak filled the car.
Next time, we decided, it would probably be easier to just keep the reservation, even if it wasn't nearly so entertaining.
Using his car's speaker phone, he called information and asked for Amtrak's number.
"Uh, is that a business?" the operator asked after a rather long pause.
Rolling his eyes while Rose and I grinned, Tim expanded on his initial request. "Yes. The Amtrak train station in DC."
"Oh. Trains. Okay," the guy somehow managed to sound both relieved and confused at the same time. He then named several businesses with the word train in the title.
"No, not trains. Amtrak," Tim rolled his eyes and shook his head as Rose and I stifled our giggles.
"Amtrak train," the guy repeated, back to sounding plain old confused. "Do you have an address for that?"
Of course, and we have the number too. Hellooooo. Aren't you supposed to be information?
Gritting his teeth as Rose and I clapped our hands over our mouths to check our guffaws of laughter, Tim replied, "It's at Union Station."
"Union Station?" the guy parroted back, like he was trying to learn a difficult technical term.
"Amtrak train at Union Station in DC." Tim had apparently decided that repeating all the information in one breath at top volume while waving his arms about like a windmill (thankfully, we were stopped at a light at the time) was the key to better understanding here.
"I have an Amtrak office on Mass Ave.," the guy tentatively offered after another painstaking pause.
"Fine," Tim roared with frustration while Rose and I roared with laughter.
A minute later, we were connected to a voice activated system. "If you want to check on train times, say "schedule"," it crooned smoothly.
"Schedule," Tim dutifully repeated, the brilliant red color slowly retreating from his face. The computer seemed a lot smarter than the guy he had just dealt with.
"What is your starting point?" Emerac (the computer from the Hepburn/Tracy movie Desk Set) asked.
"Union Station."
"I heard Durham," Emmy replied.
Uh oh. This was not good. The red tide began to rise again.
"Union Station," the volume rose as well.
Fourteen questions later, with no sign of any actual information forthcoming, Tim tried to cut to the chase. Foolish man.
"Acela Express train," he threw at Emmy. Rose and I exchanged head shakes as we wiped tears from our eyes.
"Please repeat," she sounded as confused as the information guy.
"Acela Express train." It was kind of sweet and a little pathetic the way he was clinging to the hope of actually getting the information he wanted.
Pause.
"Did you say you want to talk to an agent?" Like the information guy, Emmy too was now trying to make Tim somebody else's problem.
And once again, Tim fell for it. "Yes!" he choked out, finally seeing the humor here and joining in our uncontrollable laughter as the sounds of Muzak filled the car.
Next time, we decided, it would probably be easier to just keep the reservation, even if it wasn't nearly so entertaining.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
When Life Hands You Lemons
Flying these days is like playing the slots in Vegas. You take your seat hoping for cherries, but you know the odds are against you and it's usually not a surprise when you end up with lemons instead.
And boy, have I gotten some big, old lemons the last few times I've flown down to Florida.
There was the woman with the dog which she smuggled on board (did the TSA not notice her purse walked through the x-ray machine, or perhaps she convinced them it was a guide dog despite the fact that it was a Chihuahua?)
All I know is, somehow I became her accomplice. My job was to keep an eye out for approaching flight attendants and sound the alarm if they got too close. At that point, she would stuff the dog back down in her purse, throw her coat (and mine) over it, and proceed to regale me with her entire lengthy medical history in full technicolor detail beginning with her appendectomy in 1952 right up to her hip replacement last year. Tim, on my other side, pretended he didn't know me and slept through the whole thing. (He always preferred Roulette to slots anyway)
Then there was the guy who apparently didn't get out much.
"You look like you travel a lot," he commented perkily, leaning across the middle seat as I settled into my window seat.
Why, do I have my frequent- flyer miles stamped on my forehead? Sensing that after an opening like that, the conversation could only go downhill, and I was effectively trapped in my seat for the next few hours, I dug out my ipod and opened my book.
"Do you come to Florida often? You're really pale. Don't you tan?" I was right. This lemon was rolling downhill very quickly.
Fortunately (for him), I was saved the necessity of a reply as the tenant of the middle seat arrived.
"My, you're a big girl," the silver-tongued Casanova quipped as she sat down with her McDonald's bag and gave him a look that could have frozen boiling oil.
"I mean, you're tall and big boned," he blithely continued on, not seeming to realize his life was on the line. "Do you play basketball?"
Well, at least he wasn't my lemon anymore.
At Christmas, I got to sit next to Mrs. Clean. Before sitting down, she pulled out a monster-sized pack of anti-bacterial wipes and proceeded to clean her seat, both armrests, the overhead bin handle, the back of the seat in front of her and her hands. She then offered a wipe to all of us around her (I'm not sure whether we were supposed to clean our seats or ourselves from head to toe), sat down, pulled her coat over her mouth and nose (I guess she forgot her hospital mask) and complained (to me) about the temperature on the plane (ironically, it was too cold for her) and how unsanitary the conditions were (if she thought the seats were unsanitary, wait until the first time she sees an airplane bathroom. I'm guessing she will need CPR--after the person administering it uses a wipe, of course).
On my other side, Tim read the paper and dozed while I made lemonade.
This last trip, I was seated next to a woman who was flying for the first time. Between the maintenance problems, lack of fuel and high winds, well, let's just say that this was no cherry either.
Half her time was spent grabbing my arm, demanding "What was that?", at every creak, shimmy and bump (and I wanted to help ease her fears, honestly, but I was a teensy bit busy running around in my head screaming, "We're all going to die!" to do much for her.)
The other half was spent directing me in the use of her camera and trying to get the perfect shot of all the pretty lights on the ground (I hoped she still thought they were pretty when we crashed into them.)
Tim, of course, slept through the bulk of this, which is just as well since he never really liked lemonade anyway.
And boy, have I gotten some big, old lemons the last few times I've flown down to Florida.
There was the woman with the dog which she smuggled on board (did the TSA not notice her purse walked through the x-ray machine, or perhaps she convinced them it was a guide dog despite the fact that it was a Chihuahua?)
All I know is, somehow I became her accomplice. My job was to keep an eye out for approaching flight attendants and sound the alarm if they got too close. At that point, she would stuff the dog back down in her purse, throw her coat (and mine) over it, and proceed to regale me with her entire lengthy medical history in full technicolor detail beginning with her appendectomy in 1952 right up to her hip replacement last year. Tim, on my other side, pretended he didn't know me and slept through the whole thing. (He always preferred Roulette to slots anyway)
Then there was the guy who apparently didn't get out much.
"You look like you travel a lot," he commented perkily, leaning across the middle seat as I settled into my window seat.
Why, do I have my frequent- flyer miles stamped on my forehead? Sensing that after an opening like that, the conversation could only go downhill, and I was effectively trapped in my seat for the next few hours, I dug out my ipod and opened my book.
"Do you come to Florida often? You're really pale. Don't you tan?" I was right. This lemon was rolling downhill very quickly.
Fortunately (for him), I was saved the necessity of a reply as the tenant of the middle seat arrived.
"My, you're a big girl," the silver-tongued Casanova quipped as she sat down with her McDonald's bag and gave him a look that could have frozen boiling oil.
"I mean, you're tall and big boned," he blithely continued on, not seeming to realize his life was on the line. "Do you play basketball?"
Well, at least he wasn't my lemon anymore.
At Christmas, I got to sit next to Mrs. Clean. Before sitting down, she pulled out a monster-sized pack of anti-bacterial wipes and proceeded to clean her seat, both armrests, the overhead bin handle, the back of the seat in front of her and her hands. She then offered a wipe to all of us around her (I'm not sure whether we were supposed to clean our seats or ourselves from head to toe), sat down, pulled her coat over her mouth and nose (I guess she forgot her hospital mask) and complained (to me) about the temperature on the plane (ironically, it was too cold for her) and how unsanitary the conditions were (if she thought the seats were unsanitary, wait until the first time she sees an airplane bathroom. I'm guessing she will need CPR--after the person administering it uses a wipe, of course).
On my other side, Tim read the paper and dozed while I made lemonade.
This last trip, I was seated next to a woman who was flying for the first time. Between the maintenance problems, lack of fuel and high winds, well, let's just say that this was no cherry either.
Half her time was spent grabbing my arm, demanding "What was that?", at every creak, shimmy and bump (and I wanted to help ease her fears, honestly, but I was a teensy bit busy running around in my head screaming, "We're all going to die!" to do much for her.)
The other half was spent directing me in the use of her camera and trying to get the perfect shot of all the pretty lights on the ground (I hoped she still thought they were pretty when we crashed into them.)
Tim, of course, slept through the bulk of this, which is just as well since he never really liked lemonade anyway.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Houston, We Have a Problem
Our trip to Florida started out so well. We arrived at the airport with plenty of time to spare despite it being rush hour. Security lines were short, the flight boarded on time, and we didn't have to fight for overhead bin space. The pilot informed us that we had clearance, and would have an on time departure.
And that is when it all went terribly, terribly wrong. Instead of going up, up and away, we sat. And sat. And sat.
Finally, the pilot came back on the PA and told us that they were having a problem figuring out how much fuel we would need for a full plane. Huh?
They got everyone on board, loaded all the luggage, were cleared to taxi out to the runway, and that is when they decided to worry about the fuel? Was this their first time flying a plane? Ever? What were they going to do, wait until the ground was rushing up to meet us to see if they knew how to operate the landing gear and brakes?
While we were all scratching our heads over that announcement, the pilot came back on and explained that since one of the air conditioning units was broken, we would have to fly at a lower altitude, thereby burning more fuel than usual. The problem was that with a full plane, they couldn't carry enough fuel to get us to our destination. Therefore, we would be landing in Charlotte (NC) to refuel.
Goody. An extra two or three hours to enjoy our spacious and luxurious coach seats, questionable air conditioning, an unscheduled stop and the threat of running out of fuel. Was it too late to change our minds and choose an alternative method of transportation, like, say, walking, that would get us there faster, safer and more comfortably?
As we taxied down the runway fifty minutes late, there was one final announcement: they would try to get us there as quickly as possible, but since we were probably landing in Charlotte...
Wait a minute. Probably? What happened to erring on the side of caution and definitely landing in Charlotte? Let me get this straight. We were taking off and they still didn't know if we had enough fuel? Who was doing those calculations, a chimp with an abacus? When were they going to have an answer, right before we made an emergency landing on I95?
As if things weren't exciting enough, when we finally did take off, the wind was gusting up to fifty miles an hour, so the first half hour of our trip felt more like riding a bucking bronco than an airplane. A really, really mean bronco, with a burr under his saddle.
Despite all of these little problems though, the only truly tense moment came when we were taking off from Charlotte and the flight attendant told everyone to sit back, relax and have a pleasant flight. I believe the boat had sailed on that several hours earlier.
And that is when it all went terribly, terribly wrong. Instead of going up, up and away, we sat. And sat. And sat.
Finally, the pilot came back on the PA and told us that they were having a problem figuring out how much fuel we would need for a full plane. Huh?
They got everyone on board, loaded all the luggage, were cleared to taxi out to the runway, and that is when they decided to worry about the fuel? Was this their first time flying a plane? Ever? What were they going to do, wait until the ground was rushing up to meet us to see if they knew how to operate the landing gear and brakes?
While we were all scratching our heads over that announcement, the pilot came back on and explained that since one of the air conditioning units was broken, we would have to fly at a lower altitude, thereby burning more fuel than usual. The problem was that with a full plane, they couldn't carry enough fuel to get us to our destination. Therefore, we would be landing in Charlotte (NC) to refuel.
Goody. An extra two or three hours to enjoy our spacious and luxurious coach seats, questionable air conditioning, an unscheduled stop and the threat of running out of fuel. Was it too late to change our minds and choose an alternative method of transportation, like, say, walking, that would get us there faster, safer and more comfortably?
As we taxied down the runway fifty minutes late, there was one final announcement: they would try to get us there as quickly as possible, but since we were probably landing in Charlotte...
Wait a minute. Probably? What happened to erring on the side of caution and definitely landing in Charlotte? Let me get this straight. We were taking off and they still didn't know if we had enough fuel? Who was doing those calculations, a chimp with an abacus? When were they going to have an answer, right before we made an emergency landing on I95?
As if things weren't exciting enough, when we finally did take off, the wind was gusting up to fifty miles an hour, so the first half hour of our trip felt more like riding a bucking bronco than an airplane. A really, really mean bronco, with a burr under his saddle.
Despite all of these little problems though, the only truly tense moment came when we were taking off from Charlotte and the flight attendant told everyone to sit back, relax and have a pleasant flight. I believe the boat had sailed on that several hours earlier.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
No Frills Flying...And the Difference Is???
Last week, we boarded a flight to Florida to spend the holiday with my family. A "no frills" flight.
Hmm. "No frills". What could that mean? Let's see. On "regular" flights, you are jammed in like sardines with no elbow, leg, head, butt or carry-on room, and if the person in front of you reclines their seat, you can kiss your breathing room good-bye as well. Who needs eHarmony to meet that special someone when you can just purchase a coach ticket?
There is no food unless you count those box meals that, based on the freshness of the contents, I'm pretty sure were packaged sometime in the seventies. Oh, and let's not forget the one nasty little bathroom for all two hundred plus economy passengers which, since you can't stand and block the four-inch wide aisle, you have to keep hopping up like a jack-in-the-box and trying to beat everyone else with with a small bladder to the back of the plane every time the door opens. Great. Red-light, green-light at thirty-five thousand feet.
Of course, all of this is made bearable by the sub-arctic temperature at which they keep the cabin. Since there are rarely enough, if any, blankets, I've resigned myself to wearing a parka in July or looking like a smurf.
So which "frills" were we giving up? Seats? Pilots? God forbid, bathrooms???
Nope. Luggage. First up, they hit you with an extra charge per bag at check-in for the "luxury" of taking anything more than what you are actually wearing. Then, since a conveyor belt is a "frill", you have to take your luggage over to a designated area and load it onto a cart that may or may not be headed for the cargo hold. Welcome to Hooterville.
Tickets. They don't have them. The "boarding pass" is a register receipt, the thickness of tissue paper, stapled to a flyer of some kind. Okay.
The gate. No fancy-schmancy electronic sign announcing the flight. No non-fancy-schmancy wooden sign. No sign at all. Late? On time? Who knows? At least we knew we were at the right gate because the woman who had given us our boarding passes showed up to work the gate (which meant she ripped your receipt in half...no wasteful ticket machines here! All that technology stuff is overrated anyway.)
When it came time to make the boarding announcements...you guessed it. She yelled, "Zone One boarding". (Well, okay, they did have a P.A. system--kind of--but Betty Jo, or was it Billy Jo, actually did yell. I swear.)
Boarding the plane, I was relieved to see that they had seats. I did, however, keep a close eye on the cockpit, because if Bobby Jo took the pilot's seat, I was outta there! Fortunately, she did not, but only because she probably had to go load the luggage on, then refuel us before heading off to perform maintenance on their other plane.
Water? Soda? Five dollars, please. I didn't dare purchase any because I was afraid I would have to use the bathroom and I didn't know if it was a flat fee or if they charged by the minute.
And thank goodness we were travelling during the day, so I didn't incur any extra charges for turning on the overhead light.
Despite their Mr. Haneyesque (oh, you wanted oxygen in the cabin? Five dollars please) approach to flying though, I was pleasantly surprised to find that we took off and landed on time. I am, however, going to be looking closely at my credit card statement to find out exactly how much the frill of braking and coming to a complete stop before disembarking cost before booking with them again.
Hmm. "No frills". What could that mean? Let's see. On "regular" flights, you are jammed in like sardines with no elbow, leg, head, butt or carry-on room, and if the person in front of you reclines their seat, you can kiss your breathing room good-bye as well. Who needs eHarmony to meet that special someone when you can just purchase a coach ticket?
There is no food unless you count those box meals that, based on the freshness of the contents, I'm pretty sure were packaged sometime in the seventies. Oh, and let's not forget the one nasty little bathroom for all two hundred plus economy passengers which, since you can't stand and block the four-inch wide aisle, you have to keep hopping up like a jack-in-the-box and trying to beat everyone else with with a small bladder to the back of the plane every time the door opens. Great. Red-light, green-light at thirty-five thousand feet.
Of course, all of this is made bearable by the sub-arctic temperature at which they keep the cabin. Since there are rarely enough, if any, blankets, I've resigned myself to wearing a parka in July or looking like a smurf.
So which "frills" were we giving up? Seats? Pilots? God forbid, bathrooms???
Nope. Luggage. First up, they hit you with an extra charge per bag at check-in for the "luxury" of taking anything more than what you are actually wearing. Then, since a conveyor belt is a "frill", you have to take your luggage over to a designated area and load it onto a cart that may or may not be headed for the cargo hold. Welcome to Hooterville.
Tickets. They don't have them. The "boarding pass" is a register receipt, the thickness of tissue paper, stapled to a flyer of some kind. Okay.
The gate. No fancy-schmancy electronic sign announcing the flight. No non-fancy-schmancy wooden sign. No sign at all. Late? On time? Who knows? At least we knew we were at the right gate because the woman who had given us our boarding passes showed up to work the gate (which meant she ripped your receipt in half...no wasteful ticket machines here! All that technology stuff is overrated anyway.)
When it came time to make the boarding announcements...you guessed it. She yelled, "Zone One boarding". (Well, okay, they did have a P.A. system--kind of--but Betty Jo, or was it Billy Jo, actually did yell. I swear.)
Boarding the plane, I was relieved to see that they had seats. I did, however, keep a close eye on the cockpit, because if Bobby Jo took the pilot's seat, I was outta there! Fortunately, she did not, but only because she probably had to go load the luggage on, then refuel us before heading off to perform maintenance on their other plane.
Water? Soda? Five dollars, please. I didn't dare purchase any because I was afraid I would have to use the bathroom and I didn't know if it was a flat fee or if they charged by the minute.
And thank goodness we were travelling during the day, so I didn't incur any extra charges for turning on the overhead light.
Despite their Mr. Haneyesque (oh, you wanted oxygen in the cabin? Five dollars please) approach to flying though, I was pleasantly surprised to find that we took off and landed on time. I am, however, going to be looking closely at my credit card statement to find out exactly how much the frill of braking and coming to a complete stop before disembarking cost before booking with them again.
Friday, September 21, 2007
An Auspicious Start
Our trip to China had finally begun.
Turns out my travelling companion, Beth (our friend who works with Tim), is just as anal as I am, so we were at the airport way early. There were maybe six people in line and security was a breeze, plus they were able to check our bags all the way through to our final distination (we we landed in Beijing, and had to change planes to get to Xi'an to see the terra-cotta soldiers). Could life get any better?
Since we were there so early, we decided to celebrate with coffee at a cafe across from the gate, a major decision for someone who normally sits at the gate anxiously watching every move made by the gate aagents, knowing that the minute I leave, even to go to the bathroom everyone will be hustled aboard and the flight will take off without me (paging Dr. Freud). Either that or all the overhead storage space will be taken, which is worse.
So there we sat, sipping and chatting when we looked up and realized that, oh no, our flight was boarding (early) and the waiting area had completely emptied out (who's crazy now, huh?).
First to arrive, last to board. Not good for someone who makes the Rainman look like a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of guy. Especially when it takes me a good fifteen minutes once I'm actually in the seat to perform my pre-flight checklist (book, ipod, sudoku, blanket, pillow...the list goes on and on and that's just for a two hour domestic flight).
As if it wasn't bad enough, somehow I handed over the wrong ticket which they put through the machine and ripped in half (how was I going to explain that sixteen hours later to someone who spoke Chinese?). Then, I couldn't free my passport holder from the pouch inside my bag, or the passport from the holder. I also managed to get tangled up in my jacket after dropping it twice. This was beyond Lucy. I had become Jerry Lewis! Of course, Beth was a great help, doubled over laughing.
Once on the plane, the comedy of errors continued. Trying to lug my bags up the narrow stairs to the second level (and by bags I mean a suitcase I could live out of for several weeks and a "purse" that could house a family of four -- packing light to me meanns not bringing my out of season clothes) was like trying to wrestle an alligator while juggling jello.
At this point, my jacket was wrapped around my neck and my passport and boarding pass were clenched in my teeth. Concerned for the safety of my fellow passengers and possible personal injury lawsuits, the flight attendant relieved me of my suitcase at the top of the stairs.
Now all I had to do was unpack and settle into what would be my home for the next thirteen and a half hours. Refusing a pre-flight glass of OJ, I leaned forward to open my bag, not realizing that my seatmate had decided that a nice glass of juice would hit the spot and was reaching for it behind my back. Unfortunately, I chose that moment to sit back rather abruptly and the juice hit the spot allright. It hit several on my shirt, my chair, my pillow....
The rest of the flight passed uneventfully, but by then the tone was set. Therefore, it was no surprise when we landed in Beijing and I got patted down by a security agent who got further around the bases than Tim on our fourth date. And then Beth walked into a table, knocking over a soda (karma for laughing at me)...yep, it was going to be an interesting trip.
Turns out my travelling companion, Beth (our friend who works with Tim), is just as anal as I am, so we were at the airport way early. There were maybe six people in line and security was a breeze, plus they were able to check our bags all the way through to our final distination (we we landed in Beijing, and had to change planes to get to Xi'an to see the terra-cotta soldiers). Could life get any better?
Since we were there so early, we decided to celebrate with coffee at a cafe across from the gate, a major decision for someone who normally sits at the gate anxiously watching every move made by the gate aagents, knowing that the minute I leave, even to go to the bathroom everyone will be hustled aboard and the flight will take off without me (paging Dr. Freud). Either that or all the overhead storage space will be taken, which is worse.
So there we sat, sipping and chatting when we looked up and realized that, oh no, our flight was boarding (early) and the waiting area had completely emptied out (who's crazy now, huh?).
First to arrive, last to board. Not good for someone who makes the Rainman look like a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of guy. Especially when it takes me a good fifteen minutes once I'm actually in the seat to perform my pre-flight checklist (book, ipod, sudoku, blanket, pillow...the list goes on and on and that's just for a two hour domestic flight).
As if it wasn't bad enough, somehow I handed over the wrong ticket which they put through the machine and ripped in half (how was I going to explain that sixteen hours later to someone who spoke Chinese?). Then, I couldn't free my passport holder from the pouch inside my bag, or the passport from the holder. I also managed to get tangled up in my jacket after dropping it twice. This was beyond Lucy. I had become Jerry Lewis! Of course, Beth was a great help, doubled over laughing.
Once on the plane, the comedy of errors continued. Trying to lug my bags up the narrow stairs to the second level (and by bags I mean a suitcase I could live out of for several weeks and a "purse" that could house a family of four -- packing light to me meanns not bringing my out of season clothes) was like trying to wrestle an alligator while juggling jello.
At this point, my jacket was wrapped around my neck and my passport and boarding pass were clenched in my teeth. Concerned for the safety of my fellow passengers and possible personal injury lawsuits, the flight attendant relieved me of my suitcase at the top of the stairs.
Now all I had to do was unpack and settle into what would be my home for the next thirteen and a half hours. Refusing a pre-flight glass of OJ, I leaned forward to open my bag, not realizing that my seatmate had decided that a nice glass of juice would hit the spot and was reaching for it behind my back. Unfortunately, I chose that moment to sit back rather abruptly and the juice hit the spot allright. It hit several on my shirt, my chair, my pillow....
The rest of the flight passed uneventfully, but by then the tone was set. Therefore, it was no surprise when we landed in Beijing and I got patted down by a security agent who got further around the bases than Tim on our fourth date. And then Beth walked into a table, knocking over a soda (karma for laughing at me)...yep, it was going to be an interesting trip.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Another Week, Another Airplane
This year, to celebrate our twentieth anniversary, we decided to spend a week in the Bahamas. The stars all seemed to line up for this trip. We got the last room at a really great resort, and first class tickets for less than coach! Ahhh, life was good.
Until we got to the airport. Then it started to suck.
There was only ome line for all international travel. No special, speedy line for first class on this airline. Oh no, just an incredibly long line of cranky people and one ticketing agent. It was ugly.
Wait. They had machines at the counter too. This should really move things along then. Except the machines didn't work for international travel, only domestic. So we got to stand there for an hour watching people from the domestic line cut over, use the machines and happily be on their way in minutes while we ground our teeth down to stumps and watched each other grow old and withered. The mood was getting uglier by the minute.
Finally, a second agent showed up. We'd be through in no tme now. Not! If possible, the line moved even more slowly than before. Were they hand printing the boarding passes using wet clay tablets and papyrus reeds? Maybe they were translating the flight info from ancient Greek texts into Latin and then English.
At this rate, not only would we miss our flight, but it wasn't looking too good for Christmas either.
At last, we were next. Without waiting to be called, I rushed up to the counter where the man informed me that he was taking a break. Trying to keep myself from vaulting over the counter and ripping him apart with my bare hands, I turned to tell Tim not to come up (okay, I yelled from the counter that the guy was leaving).
The mood of the waiting crowd now made the mob that stormed the Bastile look like they were holding a peaceful, non-violent protest. And it was going downhill from there. Needless to say, the poor guy rethought the whole break idea.
Fortunately, we made it to the gate on time. Too bad the plane wasn't on time. Or the flight crew. Did they not realize that we were teetering on the edge of sanity after the ordeal out front. Were they trying to push us over the edge?
Eventually, the boarding call came. First class? Not first on this airline. You are zone 1,2,3 or 4 just like everyone else. No special treatment here. (I was starting to understand why our tickets were such a bargain).
But at last we were up, up and away, looking forward to a nice breakfast (okay, not nice, it was airline food after all...edible).
Half and hour after take-off, the flight attendant came through with a large basket. Fruit, croissants, something with chocolate inside to soothe my nerves? I peered over the edge of the basket, licking my lips in anticipation only to find...bags of potato chips!
"Take as many as you want," he chirped cheerfully. "We've got plenty more!"
Potato chips!!! If we were getting chips, what were the people in coach getting, pictures of food?
To add insult to injury, he then preceeded to get on the intercom and deliver a fifteen minute commercial for the airline touting the many advantages of becoming a prefered customer! Prefered member? Advantages? What did all that mean? Did you get a bag of chips and a bag of peanuts? Maybe you got earplugs to block out the annoying sales pitch.
Finally, we landed in Nassau, got our luggage and began our week-long vacation, which gave us plenty of time to get the one thing we needed in order to get on the flight home...valium (and something chocolate)!
Until we got to the airport. Then it started to suck.
There was only ome line for all international travel. No special, speedy line for first class on this airline. Oh no, just an incredibly long line of cranky people and one ticketing agent. It was ugly.
Wait. They had machines at the counter too. This should really move things along then. Except the machines didn't work for international travel, only domestic. So we got to stand there for an hour watching people from the domestic line cut over, use the machines and happily be on their way in minutes while we ground our teeth down to stumps and watched each other grow old and withered. The mood was getting uglier by the minute.
Finally, a second agent showed up. We'd be through in no tme now. Not! If possible, the line moved even more slowly than before. Were they hand printing the boarding passes using wet clay tablets and papyrus reeds? Maybe they were translating the flight info from ancient Greek texts into Latin and then English.
At this rate, not only would we miss our flight, but it wasn't looking too good for Christmas either.
At last, we were next. Without waiting to be called, I rushed up to the counter where the man informed me that he was taking a break. Trying to keep myself from vaulting over the counter and ripping him apart with my bare hands, I turned to tell Tim not to come up (okay, I yelled from the counter that the guy was leaving).
The mood of the waiting crowd now made the mob that stormed the Bastile look like they were holding a peaceful, non-violent protest. And it was going downhill from there. Needless to say, the poor guy rethought the whole break idea.
Fortunately, we made it to the gate on time. Too bad the plane wasn't on time. Or the flight crew. Did they not realize that we were teetering on the edge of sanity after the ordeal out front. Were they trying to push us over the edge?
Eventually, the boarding call came. First class? Not first on this airline. You are zone 1,2,3 or 4 just like everyone else. No special treatment here. (I was starting to understand why our tickets were such a bargain).
But at last we were up, up and away, looking forward to a nice breakfast (okay, not nice, it was airline food after all...edible).
Half and hour after take-off, the flight attendant came through with a large basket. Fruit, croissants, something with chocolate inside to soothe my nerves? I peered over the edge of the basket, licking my lips in anticipation only to find...bags of potato chips!
"Take as many as you want," he chirped cheerfully. "We've got plenty more!"
Potato chips!!! If we were getting chips, what were the people in coach getting, pictures of food?
To add insult to injury, he then preceeded to get on the intercom and deliver a fifteen minute commercial for the airline touting the many advantages of becoming a prefered customer! Prefered member? Advantages? What did all that mean? Did you get a bag of chips and a bag of peanuts? Maybe you got earplugs to block out the annoying sales pitch.
Finally, we landed in Nassau, got our luggage and began our week-long vacation, which gave us plenty of time to get the one thing we needed in order to get on the flight home...valium (and something chocolate)!
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