Proposition: Stop Flying

Well, not entirely. I mean, I'm not afraid of flying. But given that the last three times I have flown from Chicago to Charlottesville have been unmitigated founts of sheer frustration, I really am considering alternative travel options for the next mom visit. It doesn't matter what airline you fly. It doesn't matter how much time you allot to make your connection. Either you will miss your connection or face customer "service" incompetence and/or lack of concern so egregious that it defies human comprehension. Or all of the above.

That was the perfect storm that awaited as I left work about one or so last Thursday afternoon to visit my mom and take in Waynesboro's famed Fall Foliage Festival (this year, sans much fall foliage... but more on that in the next post).

I arrived at O'Hare to find that my flight to Charlotte, where I was connecting to Charlottesville, was delayed more that two hours. Which made it certain that I would miss the connection. So... I trundled off to the United customer service counter to see what could be done. At least United HAS a customer service counter at O'Hare, with real live breathing (but perhaps not adequately cogitating) humans working there... unlike American and their disconnected phones. (See trip to the Bahamas, back in June.)

Since my connecting flight was on US Airways, the rep could not just shift my reservation to the only other flight into C'ville that evening: a 10:00 departure. But she did make a big show of putting me on the standby list. At this point, I'm thinking that I might have to stay overnight in Charlotte and just fly out first thing in the morning... But then, after I've been sitting and reading the Beatles bio for an hour or so, it occurs to me that there might be another flight that will get me within striking distance of Waynesboro: Shenandoah Valley, maybe? So I trundle back to the customer service desk, and end up talking to a different rep. Who lets me know that no... there is no record of my being put on the standby list. But she'll do it for me. And no, she can't put me on a flight to any other destination than C'ville because I checked a bag through to there. Hmm.

The flight to Charlotte finally takes off two-and-a-half hours late. At least it is uneventful, although we were on approach to the airport for half the time of the flight, I swear. Sigh.

Upon arrival, I head to the US Airways customer service desk to check on my standby status, only to be told that the 10:00 flight to C'ville (which has now been delayed to 10:30, making the chances of the rental car counters being open upon arrival in Mr. Jefferson's own city iffy, to say the least...) has almost checked in full. Ah well. I'll just book a hotel room, and the agent can shift me to the first flight out in the morning.

"Oh, no," says the Sally Jesse Raphael look-alike who is "helping" me. "I don't think there are any hotel rooms available. It's NASCAR week here in Charlotte, you know."

No. I did not know.

"Well, there might be something." She hands me a slip of paper with a hotel clearinghouse number on it. I trundle off to call it. My first mistake. I should have at least had HER call it. But as you already have sussed, there were no rooms to be had in Charlotte. NASCAR-obsessed bastards.

I head back to customer service, where this time I am "served" by some Drew Carey wannabe with a shaved head. He's no help either. While I am trying to figure out what to do (rent a car in Charlotte and drive five hours or more to Waynesboro?), I overhear Sally Jesse giving the person SHE is "serving" a hotel voucher and explaining to him how to catch the shuttle thereto.

"Wait just a minute," I say. "You told me there were no hotel rooms."

"He gave up his seat on an overbooked flight."

"So, you DO have some hotel rooms reserved."

"Yes, but only for those who give up their seats."

"What about for those who lose their seats to missed connections?"

"That was United's flight. It has nothing to do with us." (And yes, I had gone down this avenue in Chicago: United claimed that the delay was caused by air-traffic control, and so was not *their* fault.)

"Look, I'm not asking you to pay for my room. I'll pay for my room. If you could just arrange for me to HAVE a room for the night?"

"Nope. Sorry."

"I'm sure you are. So... does the airport have some kind of accommodations for stranded travelers?"

"Nope. Sorry."

"So, you're telling me that I have to sleep on the floor or sitting up in a chair..."

"Yep. Sorry."

Oh, yeah. And in the midst of all this, he suggests that I can get my bags so that I will at least have a change of clothes.

I'm game.

Then, after he has called to arrange for my bag to be sent to Charlotte baggage claim... and ONLY THEN... does he tell me that it will take about 45 minutes. I blew a gasket--because if I was going to rent a car there, I wanted to make sure I could get on the road fast (by this time, it's about 9:30... and if by some miracle someone has a mishap on their way to the precious flight, I just MIGHT get on board...I'm way past thinking straight...). I make chrome dome call and have my bag restored to the flight to C'ville... but now I'm not all that sure where it may end up.

I head back to the gate, hoping against hope that maybe, just maybe, there might be some chance. But no... everyone has checked in and anyway, I'm third on the list. As I'm talking to the gate agent, making sure that if I walk away from this connection and drive to Waynesboro, my return flights will still be valid, a confirmed passenger steps forward. Have I considered flying into Lynchburg or Roanoke? The gate agent looks: There are seven seats still available on the Lynchburg flight, which is boarding.... NOW!

The gate agent gets me a boarding pass, I run to the gate and out to the plane... at least Lynchburg is only an hour and a half from Waynesboro, and I'm pretty sure that even if their Avis counter is closed for the night, there will be a hotel room available.

But the Avis counter is open! And I rent a car for only a small amount more than I would have in C'ville (the drop-off charge for returning it to C'ville rather than Lynchburg).

And I am on the road.

I arrive at my mom's doorstep a little after 1:00 am... 11 hours after my adventure began.

It takes all of 14 hours to drive from my door in Chicago to her door in Waynesboro.

And the next day, I drive to C'ville and retrieve my bag--which, miracle of miracles, is THERE!

Really... air travel is beyond frustrating. Amtrak, as it turns out, takes a bit more than 18 hours... And I know from experience that it gets delayed too. But there's something very attractive about moving forward most of the time. And if you get a sleeper, at least you have a bed.

Feh.

Next up, fun in the big W.

Getting to Grand Bahama, or Why American Airlines Sucks

Last week, Jeff and I went to Our Lucaya Resort/Westin-Grand Bahama on an all-expenses paid trip--a reward to Jeff and a number of other of our work colleagues for a job well-done. The resort was lovely--a palm-shaded oasis from the stresses of the day-to-day work world:


Ahhhhhhh!

But first, we had to GET there.

And, since our flight was booked on American Airlines, that was no simple feat.

A delay due to mechanical issues, I can live with. It happens. And I surely want the plane to be in tip-top mechanical order before I sit my kiester down in one of its cramp-inducing seats for a flight to anywhere. I can even forgive a delay that extends for four hours, ensuring that everyone with a connecting flight or a cruise to meet in Miami is hosed for the day. What I can't forgive is the perfect storm of ineptitude and rudeness that characterized nearly every single interaction or attempted interaction with an American Airlines employee throughout the more than 24 hours it took us to get to Freeport.

It all began in the line for security check, after we had obtained our boarding passes from a kiosk. I noticed that the time of departure on my pass had changed from 11 to 1. Hmmm. So had Jeff's. I did some quick math in my head--always taxing for someone as math-impaired as I--and even I could figure out that we wouldn't make our connection. What to do? Return to the long ticket line at the international counter? Or head to the gate and settle the matter there? Not one to tolerate long lines much, we decided to go to the gate.

Where there was no gate agent in evidence. The flight being, now, four hours in the future. (Yes, we're those goofballs who take them at their word when they say to arrive two hours early for your international flight.)

So, we go in search of one of the "Rebooking Centers" touted on big canvas banners strung over the throngs of travelers in H and K concourses. We go to H first.

No agent. Three red rotary desk phones. Not only are they not hooked up to a phone jack, the handsets are not even attached to the phones.

Okay.

On to K concourse.

Where we find the same situation--almost. Here there is ONE operational phone, and line of folks waiting to use it. From the conspicuous way they are checking their watches and sighing, it appears that the person currently on the one phone has been there for, well, a while.

We try one of the red courtesy phones located at intervals along the concourse walls. Actually, we try just about every one we pass on our way back to L concourse, where our gate is. The convenient signs next to the phones instruct us to press "44," upon which we get a busy signal. Every single time.

Then we see it! A banner with an 800 number to call for rebooking, placed above an abandoned gate area. I guess it was just too logical to place these banners AT the completely useless "Rebooking Centers," huh? But, any port in a storm. I bite. I call. I learn that yes, there is a later flight to Freeport this evening, but it is booked solid. Hmmm. No doubt but all of those folks talking to booking agents and causing us to get a busy signal on every red courtesy phone in O'Hare have skunked us in our quest to sit on a Caribbean beach and sip rum-splashed girl-drinks this evening. The friendly phone agent can book us on the 11:35 out of Miami tomorrow morning, though. That's the best she can do. She can't promise anything about a hotel, but not to worry--our luggage will be waiting for us in Miami.

Sigh.

You win some, you lose some.

After a while, an agent shows up at L10 and starts fielding questions. Now, this gal was the one nice person we talked to during this whole ordeal. She told us that since it was a mechanical delay, it was American's fault. That meant they would foot the bill for the hotel, dinner, and breakfast in Miami. We settled in with magazines and books, and eventually we found ourselves winging our way to south Florida.

Where a fresh hell awaited.

We were told that a gate agent would meet us and lead us to the proper place for hotel and meal vouchers... but of course there was no one at the gate. People started lining up at the nearest counter, where a frazzled, harried employee--who obviously didn't sign up for combat duty--got trapped for a couple of hours trying to sort things out. By the time she got to us, she was snapping and spitting... but trying very hard not to. I actually felt kind of sorry for her. Until she informed us that gee! I was booked on the 11:35 tomorrow, but Jeff was not.

WHAT???

Oh, no problem. I've got him on standby.

That's when I turned into queen bitch of Cathy-World. Not ranting and raving, mind you. None of that. Slowly, with a measured voice just oozing barely suppressed rage and obvious disdain, I informed this woman that if she could not take care of this, I wanted to see her supervisor.

"She's busy," snapped the agent.

Sigh.

"Cowering in the back, leaving you to the pissed off victims of American Airlines' efficient and friendly service, huh?" I asked. And informed her that we were not budging until the problem was fixed.

Several phone calls later, she said she was sure he'd get on the flight, but she "pulled strings" to double book me on the 3:00 p.m. flight--the flight he WAS confirmed on--just in case he didn't. I got a boarding pass. Jeff got a standby pass. Well, I have to hand it to her, she did appear to be advocating for us with whatever tight-ass "tell them I can't do anything" type she managed to reach on these phone calls, if indeed there really WAS anyone on the other end. I wouldn't put anything past American Airlines.

We finally made our way to baggage claim, only to find that our bags were on their way to Freeport... at least, we hoped that was where they were headed.

That's when I yelled at the baggage claim guy. I'm not proud of that--after all, HE didn't personally send our bags winging to Grand Bahama--but I had HAD it.

Now... at the hotel, we found out that American Airlines regularly pays for around hundred guests per night--American Airlines refugees all. You would think that with such a track record, American Airlines would have a SYSTEM down for dealing with stuff like this. But obviously, they do not. The desk clerk at the hotel summed it up nicely: "That's why I never fly American Airlines. Ever."

By the way, the hotel gift shop was open until 11:00 p.m. nightly, doing a land-office business in underwear, socks, and Miami t-shirts, as well as deodorant, mouthwash, etc., etc. The hotel graciously provided us, the luggage-less, with toothbrushes and toothpaste packets. They had the drill down so well that they even had a special menu in the bar where American Airlines orphans could choose one of three voucher-worthy entrees. [sarcasm] Yum! [/sarcasm]

Fast forward to the next day, when we show up two and a half hours before our flight only to find that the line for international flights extends through a Disneyland-esque maze and out all the way down the hallway to the next terminal. Clearly, two hours is not going to be enough...we start to despair of ever getting to the Bahamas, and consider, seriously, just getting back on the next plane to Chicago and chucking the whole thing in. Then we overhear that there is another line for folks who don't have any baggage to check!

Oh joy! Because our bags are (supposedly) already in Freeport, we can go in the other line! Thank you Mr. Baggage Claim guy, and sorry--so sorry--I told you to go fuck yourself!

Now, it takes us some searching and some pestering of several o, so pleasant American Airlines passenger wranglers (let's just say Ilsa of the SS would be perfect for this job), but we soon find ourselves at the counter... and lo and behold... Jeff is confirmed on the flight!! Things are looking up.

At the gate, we meet Jeff's boss (who is also being honored on this trip) and her two daughters--her guests--who--get THIS!--THOUGHT they had been booked on the flight, but are now on the standby list themselves. Wonder of wonders, they DO get on--all three of them--and we wing our way over the azure Atlantic for the short hop to Grand Bahama. And wonder of wonders... our luggage IS waiting for us!

The day is lovely. A soft, cool breeze keeps the humidity down and the temperature balmy. We learn that tropical storm Barry made its way over Grand Bahama yesterday evening, right about the time our original flight was supposed to be en route from Miami. Apparently, it was scary. Scary Barry. The resort lost power for about three hours during the worst of the storm. And there we were, only a short jaunt away, high up in the Airport Marriott, steaming and stewing about the ineptitude and rudeness of American Airlines...

So, we got there. And, despite the travel day and a quarter from hell, we enjoyed ourselves once we arrived.

But that's fodder for the next post.