Out of the thousands of airplane flights each day, most go right but a few go wrong. We seldom praise an airline for doing what they are supposed to do, but we never forget to complain when the flight goes wrong. Almost everyone who flies sooner or later has a story to tell. Here’s mine.
We arrive at the airport, boarding passes in hand, only to find our flight has been cancelled. We had been on vacation in New England and were ready to go home. Not to worry, United Air changed us to Delta. I hate Delta’s self-service kiosks and small, crowded planes without enough room for luggage. I try to avoid them.
The ticket agent had booked us for the last two seats available. How lucky can you get? Not very, as Delta somehow ticketed us to Las Vegas instead of Nashville. Thank goodness, we noticed the tickets were wrong and returned to the Delta service counter.
While the baggage handler made a mad dash to retrieve our checked luggage before it took a trip to Las Vegas without us, we tried to get tickets to the right place. As luck would have it, the final two seats were now gone and there were no more flights to Nashville until tomorrow.
I’ve seen this movie, people spending the night in the airport sleeping on suitcases. No, thanks.
“If you can get to Boston,” says the Delta manager who magically appeared from somewhere to straighten out the mess, “We can get you on a flight from there.”
Boston? Might as well be the moon. We do not know the area, will have to rent a car, figure out our way there during rush hour, all before our flight leaves. It isn’t happening. I’d rather spend the night in the airport than be lost on the freeway looking for Boston.
Clicking her computer, the manager said we could fly to Boston for a mere $40 each on a connector flight. I didn’t want to spend the money, but at least we would not be lost in Boston in the fog and rain. Did I forget to mention it was raining?
“Okay, let’s do it!” I said.
However, there were apparently no seats available on the commuter flight either. By now I am sitting on the baggage counter with my luggage, watching other customers check in and rush off to the security gate. I wondered if they were all going to Las Vegas.
I hate Delta.
“I think they have forgotten us,” I murmur, as computer keys click, and airport staff ignore us.
Eventually, the magic fairy god-manager returns. “This is not policy,” she says, “but I’ve made arrangements to get you to Boston by ground transport. Take this voucher and go to the taxi stand.
I knew it! She has turned a pumpkin into a taxi! I hope this isn’t their way of getting rid of us, I think, as we pull luggage around in the rain and look for a pumpkin.
The taxi driver found us. “Are you the couple I’m taking to Boston?” he asks. So, we are chauffeured in a courtesy car for the hour-long drive to Boston.
I love Delta.
The driver droped us at the door of Logan International Airport. At the ticket counter, they figured out an itinerary and fretted because we were somehow double charged for luggage, probably due to the Las Vegas fiasco. They decide to write off luggage charges.
I love Delta.
Going through security, I got a pat down when I set off the security alarm. The body scanner was on the blink, and they were doing things the old-fashioned way. I guess they thought I was a terrorist instead of an old lady with knee impants. Where was my fairy god-manager when I needed her to turn some security officers into mice?
However, we had plenty of time. The plane was late, delayed by weather and circling the airport for the third time. We were flying through Detroit to get a flight to Nashville. If we missed the Detroit connection, we would be stranded again. Maybe we should have gone to Vegas.
Detroit Metro was a bland, no-nonsense sort of airport. We barely made our connection and finally flew home to Nashville.
Did I mention… I love Delta!
Copyright 2012 Sheila Moss
Previously titled “Airport”