I suppose we all have different ways of marking the seasons. For me, summer means time off, learning new repertoire, and outdoor concerts. Winter means performing at a whirlwind pace, complaining about the weather, and above all, catastrophic travel. For years, I’ve been entertaining friends with the most egregious of these stories. (The more miserable I am, the more amused they seem to be. Something to think about…) In that spirit, I offer you, Dear Reader, my two most exciting December escapades:

1) I had been visiting my brother and his wife in Chicago for a few days; it was probably the only entirely non-music-related trip I took all year. (In retrospect, this seems like already asking for trouble. I mean, do I really need to spend more time on planes than is absolutely necessary? This last year, I was twice - twice! - recognized by a check-in agent at LaGuardia, so frequent have my visits there been. Perhaps I should be paying rent…)

I arrived at the airport, went with my bag to the check-in counter, and told the woman there what my destination was (LaGuardia, naturally), to which she replied, “what are you doing here?” Perhaps this goes without saying, but I did not regard this as a good sign. By my rough estimate, there is approximately one reason to be at an airport, so her remark, while a bit vague, didn’t leave much to the imagination. The weather was bad in New York, it turned out. Why had the airline not notified me? They had the wrong number. This is fairly remarkable, as I have had the same telephone number for years, and I could have flown to the moon and back a few times with all the miles I’ve accumulated on the airline in question. (The airline wishes to remain anonymous, but is named after my country of residence and origin, begins with an A, and has its hub in Dallas, Texas.) Had I known, I could have made the earlier flight, which arrived on time in New York…

As the weather was quickly deteriorating, my options were limited. I was just considering a flight to Philadelphia when the agent noticed that there was a flight leaving for White Plains, in Westchester, in 30 minutes. I began to ask a question, and she interrupted me, saying “No time to think about it!” Fearless (=foolish) man that I am, I decided to take it. The bag was tagged and sent down the conveyor belt, at which point she said, “by the way, you’re standby, as the flight is full.” Again, not the news I was hoping for, nor the time I would have expected to receive it. I regarded her with displeasure, and she returned my stare with a look that was 50% “I did the best I could,” and 50% “I am profoundly disinterested in you and your petty little problems.”

So I trudged off to the gate, where the agent was announcing that he needed volunteers to not take the flight, as it was full, and there was some sort of problem to do with fuel and the weight of the plane - reassuring. I went and explained my situation to him, and he gave me a look that was 20% “it’s not my fault you made a stupid decision,” 20% “there’s no chance in hell you will get on this flight,” and 60% “Go away.” After that flight left - my luggage in tow - I was given a boarding pass for the next White Plains flight, two hours later.

The flight was delayed an hour, but it did leave. All progressed smoothly until about a half hour before what should have been our arrival, when the pilot announced that the weather made it currently impossible to land, leaving us in a holding pattern. (He did not announce that the plane’s sole lavatory was not working, but then again, he did not really need to…)

The good news was that we only held for one hour. The bad news was that when we stopped holding, we prepared to land not in White Plains, New York, but in Richmond, Virginia. The decision to divert the flight to an airport that was hundreds of miles to the south could probably only be explained properly by someone who works in aviation, or perhaps the Federal Bureau of Absurdity. Before proceeding with the narrative, however, I’d like to offer a brief scorecard:

* Point of departure: Chicago, O’Hare Airport.
* Intended destination: New York, LaGuardia Airport
*Scheduled flight time: 2 hours, 10 minutes
* Time elapsed since scheduled flight time: 8 hours, 20 minutes.
* Present position (passenger): Richmond, Virginia
* Present position (luggage): White Plains, New York

After about an hour at the Richmond airport - which, if I may offer a public service announcement, is not exactly a vacation spot - we were informed that flying to White Plains was still impossible, that it was unclear when it might become possible, and that therefore we were going back to Chicago.

Now, I realize, Dear Reader, that the “therefore” in the previous sentence seems a bit presumptious: why would it possibly make sense to fly us in the nearly exact opposite direction of our destination? Here, it becomes necessary to state the Suspension of Disbelief and Desire for Reason for the Sake of Sanity in the Frequent Traveler principle (SoDaDfRfrSoSinFT). This has prevented numerous ulcers, and perhaps even coronaries, over the years. How is it possible that our plane is delayed due to the lack of a crew, when the incoming flight just arrived, crew in tow? Invoke SoDaDfRftSoSinFT. How can the airline have lost your reservation when you are showing them an actual, paper ticket that they issued? SoDaDfRftSoSinFT to the rescue. And so on.

Back in Chicago, after a 30 minute wait for a gate agent to appear and give us instructions/assistance, and a short but ugly interlude where the airline (anonymous, you’ll remember) tried to avoid providing hotel rooms, which led to a sort of hyper-effective mob rule, I was booked on a flight to LaGuardia for the next morning. At this point, I went to deal with my luggage, and was told that I couldn’t file a claim for a missing bag until I reached my final destination. This led to the following exchange, reproduced here verbatim:

JB: Which final destination, LaGuardia or White Plains?
Agent: …
JB: Because as you can see, my flight tomorrow is to LaGuardia.
A: Then LaGuardia.
JB: But my bag is tagged to White Plains.
A: Then White Plains.
JB: …
A: Sir, I can’t help you.
JB: I don’t understand. Either the bag is still here, in which case you should give it to me, or it’s in White Plains, where I will not be going, in which case it’s just as easy for you to file the claim now as it would be tomorrow.
A: Sir, I can’t help you.
JB: Can you explain why not?
A: No.

And SoDaDfRftSoSinFT was invoked, for the second time that day. Perhaps we are ready for another scorecard:

* Point of departure: Chicago, O’Hare Airport.
* Intended destination: New York, Laguardia Airport
* Scheduled flight time: 2 hours, 10 minutes
* Time elapsed since scheduled flight time: 13 hours, 0 minutes
* Present position (passenger): Chicago, O’Hare Airport
* Present position (luggage): White Plains, New York.

Early the next morning, I flew to LaGuardia, and after a brief exchange with an understandably confused baggage representative, filed the claim for the missing luggage. A few hours later, I called: no news.

Later that afternoon: no news.

A third time that day: no news.

The next morning, I called again, and asked for all of the notes that had been entered into my file. After all of the customary information, was a curious remark: “Luggage handle broken, not liability of A_____ Airlines.”

After taking a deep breath, I asked, “Leaving aside, just for the moment, the fact that my luggage handle was not broken when I left it, can you tell me when and where that note was made?”

Dear Reader, it had been made the previous morning - after I had returned home. The person making the note, however, had not condescended to mention where the bag was.

Summoning my last vestiges of calm, I asked the woman on the other end of the line, “So, someone from the airline broke my luggage, noted their un-liability in your computer system, and then declined to provide the one piece of information that would be useful to me?” To her credit, she did not disagree with this view of events, though that did little to improve my mood…

A few hours later, I made Call Number 5: no news. In a fit of pique (understandable, I might suggest?) I announced that I was not getting off the phone until I heard something more interesting. First of all, I demanded, she should call the White Plains Airport.

I was put on hold for approximately one minute, at which point she came back on the line, and said, “What do you know, your bag is in White Plains. It was probably there the whole time!”

Oh, the things it must have seen…

2) Towards the end of the month, I flew with my brother to Israel. Or rather, I flew from New York to London, he from Chicago to London, and we were to proceed from there to Israel. In a brief, highly uncharacteristic, and as it turns out, ill-advised moment of generosity, I had bought him a mileage ticket. This story, as you might imagine, is shortly to take on a decided “no good deed goes unpunished” flavor.

At Heathrow, we met at the gate, and when boarding was announced, handed the gate agent our passports/boarding passes, then proceeded down the jet bridge. No sooner had I remarked to him how unusual it was for me to be traveling with someone, than the agent came barreling down the ramp, and asked to take another look at his passport. We were then told to head back to the gate and wait, which we did, trepidatiously.

Five minutes later, a supervisor came back, informed us that to enter Israel, one’s passport needs to be valid for six months, and that since his was due to expire in May, he was not going to be able to take the flight. At this point, intrafamilial differences began to reveal themselves: my brother calmly expressed his surprise at various aspects of this story, and I became hysterical.

(In my defense, I was looking for any way to make this situation go away. But nothing I did seemed to have much positive influence on the agent for the airline, which, again, wishes to remain anonymous, but is the flagship carrier of a European island nation which is not Ireland, nor Cyprus nor Malta, and whose capital is London.)

Given that someone else’s welfare, rather than my own, was at stake here, SoDaDfRftSoSinFT did not, and does not apply, and so I will compress the conversation, to keep that ulcer at bay. Suffice it to say that I suggested that given that the airline was being paid to facilitate the trip, it didn’t seem too much to ask that it inform its passengers of the documents needed at the destination. (Or, failing that, raise the issue at the point of departure, not 4500 miles later.) His response was that the airline’s only responsibility was to get us from point A to point B. This, it seemed to me, begged just the response I gave: “In that case, you don’t seem to be doing a very good job of it.”

It is difficult to remember if that is the precise moment that he declared the conversation over and walked away. What is very easy to remember is that given that it was Christmas, and that the embassy was closed, my brother had no choice but to board a plane straight back to Chicago. Leaving Chicago, it seems, is hard to do. Or else we are brothers: my suitcase, after all, left the city with no difficulty whatsoever.

This entry was posted on Monday, January 14th, 2008 at 5:55 pm and is filed under Blog, Travel. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.