It gets worse....
Hell has a name in my universe this evening, and it's Dulles. Satan happens to live here, his name is United. The actual flight from Frankfurt to D.C., once airborne was fine. I managed to do a lot of writing and most importantly stay awake. I'm doing my best to get back on to PST ASAP. Deplaning in Dulles began the odyssey I'm currently in the middle of.
After making my way through customs without incident, I proceeded to baggage claim. You must collect your bags in customs and recheck them through to your final destination in the U.S. Waiting, waiting, waiting, I start to feel the burn, the invisible hand of my arch nemesis, flying karma, hot on my shoulder. The last bags are removed from the conveyor, and none of them is mine. Shocking. I see the lone service agent located within customs expecting the worst. What's this though? A glimmer of hope. A scan of my baggage claim check indicates that my bag has indeed made it to the airport. Whoo hoo! Right? Wrong, Loser! Yeah, it's in the airport, it's just that no one seems to know exactly where. After 30 minutes of searching, my bag remains somewhere amongst the hundreds of lost and unclaimed luggage. My biggest fear now is that my collection of very unique Belarussian vodka will be removed for me. The agent tells me to get on my flight and file a lost bag claim in San Francisco at which point my bag will be forwarded to me. Whatever, I'm much too tired to argue. It is roughly 8 o'clock when I exit customs sans bags. It is 87 degrees and probably an equal amount of humidity. Dulles isn't exactly being generous with the A/C, the airport is a sauna. On my way through the baggage recheck area (bags claimed in customs MUST be rechecked to the final destination), I have to explain to the crack security staffer that my checked bag has been lost. She notices a claim check attached to one of my carry ons and insists that I check it. No amount of explaining that it is simply an old tag I forgot to remove does anything to change this point of view. A simple examination of the tag indicates that the destination is Minsk, not Dulles, and the date is from July 15th. I'm forced to repeat this scenario with a supervisor who decides to get snippy with me about removing the tags when I'm done. Thank you so much for the serial abuse, welcome to America.
I exit customs and check the tote board to find my next flight, scheduled to leave at 9:30 p.m. I find the flight number and gate and begin the long walk through what now seems like a rain forest. The terminal is packed and steamy the humidity created by a combination of the weather and the collective perspiration of the multinational multitudes. I fight my way around the "mall walkers" (people walking half in a daze who seem to be able to take up an entire walkway) and reach my gate. For an as-yet-unknown reason, my gate is empty. Suffering from occasional dyslexia, I recheck the tote board thinking that perhaps I've transposed a number or flipped a 9 for a 6. No, flight 225, gate C19, departs at 12:05 a.m. Jesus H Christ on a popsicle stick, am I reading that right? 3 hours late?! I turn around to see the line at the lone customer service desk stretching far over the horizon. I deflate, I'd like to die now please. This would be a really handy time to have not lost my cell phone. What a moron I am. I wonder if my insurance covers stupidity, hmmm. I find a pay phone with a credit card reader. After dialing, I figure out that the readers are for decoration only and do not function. I attempt 1800 Collect to Jody, no answer. I hang out for a little while with a Russian woman from my flight also stranded and try Jody again. No answer, but I've scrounged enough change together to be able to leave a voicemail and after doing so I begin the death march back to the growing customer service line. Shortly after joining the queue, I meet a British transplant who now resides in Maine. He has been at the airport since 11 a.m. and has been booked on and bumped from 3 flights. Currently the best they can do is promise to get him home by Saturday. He hangs around for a bit but realizing we have moved probably 10 feet in 20 minutes, he gives up and heads out on a search for alternatives. The gentleman in front of me strikes up a conversation. His name is Georgio, he's from Newark and his flight home has been cancelled. Georgio is a pastor returning from a 2 day workshop in Niagara Falls. He's a really sweet guy with what would seem to be 3 fantastic kids, all of whom have flown the nest for very successful careers as an architect, a shipping container expert, and a pediatrician. Wow. Behind us, there is a tiny Indian man who speaks little english. For what he lacks in vocabulary he makes up for with his ass. This guys is cracking off farts that would bring down a rhino. The kind that sneak up on you and burn your nose hairs. The people around us all recoil involuntarily as they are hit with the nerve gas not bothering to hide the reaction in the hope that the silent attacks will stop. My little man is undeterred, as he continues to sit cross legged on the ground fumigating the premises at will. It's just the perfect accent to our already stifling environment.
After 2 hours in line, I'm 2 deep in the queue to reach an agent when I notice that my gate, which is directly across from the customer service desk. Georgio offers to hold my place in line so that I might attempt to check in at the gate. Turns out I can, I give G the thumbs up from across the terminal and present my ID to the gate agent. She informs me that I'm already checked into the flight as she hands me my pre-printed boarding pass. So, aside from the wonderful conversation with the Pastor, I've just wasted 2 hours in line shrouded in the haze of what can only be described as an Indian bioterror weapon. I cross back over to the queue one last time where Georgio has finally reached the front to bid him farewell and good luck in his efforts to get home. Once in my gate area I find a place to steal some power to charge my laptop and do some stretching.
We board the plane on time, the cabin is sparsely populated, I have an entire row to myself, finally some respite from the series of unfortunate events. We're all on board but the door remains open. We are soon informed by el capitan that we're all set to go except for one small detail; gas. We have no gas. The airport is down to it's overnight skeleton crew and we are unable to locate the necessary crew for refueling. Our delayed flight was scheduled to leave at 12:05 a.m. We get the wheels up at 1:10 a.m. The fun just never stops. Finally we are airborne as I write this. I'm waiting for the beverage cart so that I can fire down and Ambien and wake up in San Francisco, albeit at 3:15 a.m.
I will say that the one thing I really do enjoy about flying is listening to the chatter between air traffic control (ATC) and the pilots. The combination of efficient jargon and common purpose create this environment that for whatever reason is completely fascinating to me. I understand most of it, but I must remember to ask Jody what a squawk is. The difference in ATC's is pretty dramatic, each with his or her own style. The ground controller in Germany was pretty hilarious and clearly not a fan of Air India, at least on this day. The best guy I've ever heard was an approach guy at Love Field in Houston. Approach, I think, is probably the most stressful of all roles in ATC. Approach is the role depicted in the film Pushing Tin starring Billy Bob Thornton and John Cuzak. Approach is responsible for orchestrating the orderly sequence of all aircraft destined to land at a particular airport. Houston is very busy and has unpredictable wind patterns. I swear that this guy can talk without breathing for minutes on end. You can spot the rookies a mile away as they aren't able to keep up with his cadence. You can hear the irritation in his voice when asked to repeat an instruction because this disrupts his rhythm, his groove, threatening to bring chaos into the world he has so carefully ordered. Entropy is his enemy and he won't be defeated by the inattention of some bush pilot. Should I ever have the time, I'd like to become licensed as an ATC. Not to work as one, just to be able to be one.
As I end another in what has become a string of rather lengthy posts, I think it's time to face facts. Sure the delays were caused by sever weather around the midwest, but I'd say the sum total of all other evidence indicates that United is out to get me. It's probably time to commit to another carrier, or maybe we should figure out how to get Jody's license current again so that she can chauffeur me around the country, kids in tow. :-)
Did I mention that on the flight over, the Lufthansa steward rammed me with the drink cart sending my full cup of coffee onto my right pant leg?
I didn't think so.
Out.
Hell has a name in my universe this evening, and it's Dulles. Satan happens to live here, his name is United. The actual flight from Frankfurt to D.C., once airborne was fine. I managed to do a lot of writing and most importantly stay awake. I'm doing my best to get back on to PST ASAP. Deplaning in Dulles began the odyssey I'm currently in the middle of.
After making my way through customs without incident, I proceeded to baggage claim. You must collect your bags in customs and recheck them through to your final destination in the U.S. Waiting, waiting, waiting, I start to feel the burn, the invisible hand of my arch nemesis, flying karma, hot on my shoulder. The last bags are removed from the conveyor, and none of them is mine. Shocking. I see the lone service agent located within customs expecting the worst. What's this though? A glimmer of hope. A scan of my baggage claim check indicates that my bag has indeed made it to the airport. Whoo hoo! Right? Wrong, Loser! Yeah, it's in the airport, it's just that no one seems to know exactly where. After 30 minutes of searching, my bag remains somewhere amongst the hundreds of lost and unclaimed luggage. My biggest fear now is that my collection of very unique Belarussian vodka will be removed for me. The agent tells me to get on my flight and file a lost bag claim in San Francisco at which point my bag will be forwarded to me. Whatever, I'm much too tired to argue. It is roughly 8 o'clock when I exit customs sans bags. It is 87 degrees and probably an equal amount of humidity. Dulles isn't exactly being generous with the A/C, the airport is a sauna. On my way through the baggage recheck area (bags claimed in customs MUST be rechecked to the final destination), I have to explain to the crack security staffer that my checked bag has been lost. She notices a claim check attached to one of my carry ons and insists that I check it. No amount of explaining that it is simply an old tag I forgot to remove does anything to change this point of view. A simple examination of the tag indicates that the destination is Minsk, not Dulles, and the date is from July 15th. I'm forced to repeat this scenario with a supervisor who decides to get snippy with me about removing the tags when I'm done. Thank you so much for the serial abuse, welcome to America.
I exit customs and check the tote board to find my next flight, scheduled to leave at 9:30 p.m. I find the flight number and gate and begin the long walk through what now seems like a rain forest. The terminal is packed and steamy the humidity created by a combination of the weather and the collective perspiration of the multinational multitudes. I fight my way around the "mall walkers" (people walking half in a daze who seem to be able to take up an entire walkway) and reach my gate. For an as-yet-unknown reason, my gate is empty. Suffering from occasional dyslexia, I recheck the tote board thinking that perhaps I've transposed a number or flipped a 9 for a 6. No, flight 225, gate C19, departs at 12:05 a.m. Jesus H Christ on a popsicle stick, am I reading that right? 3 hours late?! I turn around to see the line at the lone customer service desk stretching far over the horizon. I deflate, I'd like to die now please. This would be a really handy time to have not lost my cell phone. What a moron I am. I wonder if my insurance covers stupidity, hmmm. I find a pay phone with a credit card reader. After dialing, I figure out that the readers are for decoration only and do not function. I attempt 1800 Collect to Jody, no answer. I hang out for a little while with a Russian woman from my flight also stranded and try Jody again. No answer, but I've scrounged enough change together to be able to leave a voicemail and after doing so I begin the death march back to the growing customer service line. Shortly after joining the queue, I meet a British transplant who now resides in Maine. He has been at the airport since 11 a.m. and has been booked on and bumped from 3 flights. Currently the best they can do is promise to get him home by Saturday. He hangs around for a bit but realizing we have moved probably 10 feet in 20 minutes, he gives up and heads out on a search for alternatives. The gentleman in front of me strikes up a conversation. His name is Georgio, he's from Newark and his flight home has been cancelled. Georgio is a pastor returning from a 2 day workshop in Niagara Falls. He's a really sweet guy with what would seem to be 3 fantastic kids, all of whom have flown the nest for very successful careers as an architect, a shipping container expert, and a pediatrician. Wow. Behind us, there is a tiny Indian man who speaks little english. For what he lacks in vocabulary he makes up for with his ass. This guys is cracking off farts that would bring down a rhino. The kind that sneak up on you and burn your nose hairs. The people around us all recoil involuntarily as they are hit with the nerve gas not bothering to hide the reaction in the hope that the silent attacks will stop. My little man is undeterred, as he continues to sit cross legged on the ground fumigating the premises at will. It's just the perfect accent to our already stifling environment.
After 2 hours in line, I'm 2 deep in the queue to reach an agent when I notice that my gate, which is directly across from the customer service desk. Georgio offers to hold my place in line so that I might attempt to check in at the gate. Turns out I can, I give G the thumbs up from across the terminal and present my ID to the gate agent. She informs me that I'm already checked into the flight as she hands me my pre-printed boarding pass. So, aside from the wonderful conversation with the Pastor, I've just wasted 2 hours in line shrouded in the haze of what can only be described as an Indian bioterror weapon. I cross back over to the queue one last time where Georgio has finally reached the front to bid him farewell and good luck in his efforts to get home. Once in my gate area I find a place to steal some power to charge my laptop and do some stretching.
We board the plane on time, the cabin is sparsely populated, I have an entire row to myself, finally some respite from the series of unfortunate events. We're all on board but the door remains open. We are soon informed by el capitan that we're all set to go except for one small detail; gas. We have no gas. The airport is down to it's overnight skeleton crew and we are unable to locate the necessary crew for refueling. Our delayed flight was scheduled to leave at 12:05 a.m. We get the wheels up at 1:10 a.m. The fun just never stops. Finally we are airborne as I write this. I'm waiting for the beverage cart so that I can fire down and Ambien and wake up in San Francisco, albeit at 3:15 a.m.
I will say that the one thing I really do enjoy about flying is listening to the chatter between air traffic control (ATC) and the pilots. The combination of efficient jargon and common purpose create this environment that for whatever reason is completely fascinating to me. I understand most of it, but I must remember to ask Jody what a squawk is. The difference in ATC's is pretty dramatic, each with his or her own style. The ground controller in Germany was pretty hilarious and clearly not a fan of Air India, at least on this day. The best guy I've ever heard was an approach guy at Love Field in Houston. Approach, I think, is probably the most stressful of all roles in ATC. Approach is the role depicted in the film Pushing Tin starring Billy Bob Thornton and John Cuzak. Approach is responsible for orchestrating the orderly sequence of all aircraft destined to land at a particular airport. Houston is very busy and has unpredictable wind patterns. I swear that this guy can talk without breathing for minutes on end. You can spot the rookies a mile away as they aren't able to keep up with his cadence. You can hear the irritation in his voice when asked to repeat an instruction because this disrupts his rhythm, his groove, threatening to bring chaos into the world he has so carefully ordered. Entropy is his enemy and he won't be defeated by the inattention of some bush pilot. Should I ever have the time, I'd like to become licensed as an ATC. Not to work as one, just to be able to be one.
As I end another in what has become a string of rather lengthy posts, I think it's time to face facts. Sure the delays were caused by sever weather around the midwest, but I'd say the sum total of all other evidence indicates that United is out to get me. It's probably time to commit to another carrier, or maybe we should figure out how to get Jody's license current again so that she can chauffeur me around the country, kids in tow. :-)
Did I mention that on the flight over, the Lufthansa steward rammed me with the drink cart sending my full cup of coffee onto my right pant leg?
I didn't think so.
Out.
posted by Jaybeau at
4:02 AM
1 Comments:
Dude, sorry to hear about the flight delay. You made it home still alive, though, so be of good cheer. See you Monday.
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