The Airlines Hate Me
I had a lovely vacation in the Dominican Republic. I will save that story for the next entry, since it deserves its own space. This entry is the saga of how I missed my connection in Miami by less than 30 seconds.
My flight from Santo Domingo to Miami departed 45 minutes late. I knew I only had 90 minutes between flights, and I had to clear customs in Miami before boarding my next plane. Thinking it would be better to rebook myself onto a later flight, I stood in line at the ticket counter, practicing some of my seldom-used Spanish words for "flight" and "customs". When I reached the agent, he said that yes, the delay could be a problem in making my connection. I waited patiently while he checked with another agent. He returned saying that his supervisor said it wasn't an issue, and that they would take care of me in Miami, if need be. Dubious, I turned to sit down again, but someone had taken my spot. I loitered near the gate instead.
When we finally boarded and were on our way, the captain said we would only be arriving about 15 or 20 minutes late to Miami to gate E7. Fantastic, I thought. I can still make my connection!
Unfortunately, when we arrived in Miami, the gate was already occupied, and we sat on the runway for 10 minutes... just waiting. Normally, 10 minutes isn't such a big deal, but I only had 90 to start with... and the pilot had previously taken away 20. Then, plus another 10 minutes for the gate to free up, and another 15 minutes for everyone in the front of the plane to get a move on... well, I was really pushing the clock to the limit.
90 - 20 - 10 - 15 = 45 minutes
When the boisterous children in front of me had cleared the way, I practically leaped off of the plane and scampered in the direction of customs. I flew through the passport line with record speed and found the baggage carousel assigned to the flight. I was down to 30 minutes; my next flight was currently boarding, but I maintained a positive attitude. I can so make it in 30 minutes! I waited for the belt to start turning and deliver my bag to me. And waited. And waited. And swore under my breath. And waited some more. I considered taking off without it and having American Airlines mail it to me, but thought better of it. If they couldn't even get me somewhere on time, how long would it take to receive my bag if I left it behind? Eventually, the moving belt delivered, and I went running off in the direction of the customs officials. More boisterous children in line ahead of me! Only 15 minutes left!
Five minutes later, I was off and running to recheck the bag. The woman at the rechecking station looked at me and said, "San Francisco?" (Side note: How did she know? Do I look like a gay hippy?) I nodded frantically. "Sorry, honey," she lamented, "that one's done."
Nooooooo! I promised to get to the gate really fast. I jumped up and down rapidly... likely to prove my stamina, but I couldn't tell you for sure. Apparently, she bought it. "Okay," she said, "you have 10 minutes to get to gate D46. Run!" She pointed like a sentinel from behind her checking station.
I took off dragging two suitcases behind me, stopping everyone once in a while to glance around at my surroundings, then taking off again. I felt cartoonish. I imagined dust churning up behind my heals as I sped away.
I ran and ran and ran. My arms ached from hauling the bags. My legs buckled from the unplanned sprinting inserted into my lazy, plane-riding day. My lungs burned from this sudden abuse. I was thwarted many times along the way by long lines, officials asking me to remove my shoes, and people eating ice cream in the middle of narrow hallways. I almost knocked over an old, foreign-looking lady. Welcome to America where we trample our visitors.
I had been running for what felt like miles and miles, when I rounded the corner and saw gate D37. "You have got to be f*cking kidding me!" I blurted loudly. As a bounded passed, I saw a woman with two young children scowl at my foul language. Bite me, lady. I'm late.
As I neared the final stretch, I could see gate D46 far ahead, but my arms were numb from lugging my bags and would likely fall off at any moment. I dashed up behind a random passerby, and blurted, "Excuse me, sir, can you help me? I need to get to my gate, and I might die!" I left one of my bags and ran on without even wondering if he was following. Thankfully, he was.
"When does your plane leave?" I heard him yell from somewhere far behind me.
"Now!" I yelled back. "Don't leave! Don't leave! Don't leave!" I chanted loudly as I tore down the corridor.
I reached the gate just as they closed the airport door to the jetway. The man behind the counter looked up and said, "Sorry. You just missed it." He was so nonchalant about it. I was devastated!
"But," I stammered, standing there with my shoes still untied, my jeans tucked up accidentally into one of my socks, my damp hair sticking out of its thrashed ponytail at awkward angles, disheveled and disappointed, "I ran so far! I'm never late to anything! It wasn't even my fault!" I paused for a breath. "I ran so far!"
He was unmoved. He began typing into his computer without looking up. I leaned over the counter, gasping for breath like a dying fish and sweating little pools onto the cool, orange surface. I burst into giant, crocodile tears. I lay there sobbing and panting with my torso draped across the check in desk. It wasn't pretty.
When I had calmed down a bit, the man behind the desk said, unsmilingly, that he could book me on a flight connecting through Dallas to San Francisco, where it was schedule to arrive at 11:19pm. I had expected to be home by 8:45pm, but I took it, knowing I didn't want to spend the night sleeping under the plastic chairs in the lobby.
He handed me two new boarding passes. I looked at the boarding time on the first ticket. 5:56pm. Hmmm... I looked at the clock on my phone. It said 3pm. That's California time. Let's see, in Miami, that makes it... 6pm! Augh I cannot miss two flights in one day! What gate?!
E7.
No really. This time, you have got to be kidding me. I kicked my adrenaline back into gear and took off toward where I began almost an hour ago. I made it to the gate just as they were doing the final boarding call. The flight was relatively empty, so I spread out across three seats and gazed out at the sunset. I had made peace with the rerouting my trip had incurred, and decided I would buy something in Texas that I could wear out two-stepping. I deserved it, damnit.
And then, once I stopped sweating so profusely, I exchanged smiles with the cute cowboy in the seat behind me. Texas ain't so bad.
My flight from Santo Domingo to Miami departed 45 minutes late. I knew I only had 90 minutes between flights, and I had to clear customs in Miami before boarding my next plane. Thinking it would be better to rebook myself onto a later flight, I stood in line at the ticket counter, practicing some of my seldom-used Spanish words for "flight" and "customs". When I reached the agent, he said that yes, the delay could be a problem in making my connection. I waited patiently while he checked with another agent. He returned saying that his supervisor said it wasn't an issue, and that they would take care of me in Miami, if need be. Dubious, I turned to sit down again, but someone had taken my spot. I loitered near the gate instead.
When we finally boarded and were on our way, the captain said we would only be arriving about 15 or 20 minutes late to Miami to gate E7. Fantastic, I thought. I can still make my connection!
Unfortunately, when we arrived in Miami, the gate was already occupied, and we sat on the runway for 10 minutes... just waiting. Normally, 10 minutes isn't such a big deal, but I only had 90 to start with... and the pilot had previously taken away 20. Then, plus another 10 minutes for the gate to free up, and another 15 minutes for everyone in the front of the plane to get a move on... well, I was really pushing the clock to the limit.
90 - 20 - 10 - 15 = 45 minutes
When the boisterous children in front of me had cleared the way, I practically leaped off of the plane and scampered in the direction of customs. I flew through the passport line with record speed and found the baggage carousel assigned to the flight. I was down to 30 minutes; my next flight was currently boarding, but I maintained a positive attitude. I can so make it in 30 minutes! I waited for the belt to start turning and deliver my bag to me. And waited. And waited. And swore under my breath. And waited some more. I considered taking off without it and having American Airlines mail it to me, but thought better of it. If they couldn't even get me somewhere on time, how long would it take to receive my bag if I left it behind? Eventually, the moving belt delivered, and I went running off in the direction of the customs officials. More boisterous children in line ahead of me! Only 15 minutes left!
Five minutes later, I was off and running to recheck the bag. The woman at the rechecking station looked at me and said, "San Francisco?" (Side note: How did she know? Do I look like a gay hippy?) I nodded frantically. "Sorry, honey," she lamented, "that one's done."
Nooooooo! I promised to get to the gate really fast. I jumped up and down rapidly... likely to prove my stamina, but I couldn't tell you for sure. Apparently, she bought it. "Okay," she said, "you have 10 minutes to get to gate D46. Run!" She pointed like a sentinel from behind her checking station.
I took off dragging two suitcases behind me, stopping everyone once in a while to glance around at my surroundings, then taking off again. I felt cartoonish. I imagined dust churning up behind my heals as I sped away.
I ran and ran and ran. My arms ached from hauling the bags. My legs buckled from the unplanned sprinting inserted into my lazy, plane-riding day. My lungs burned from this sudden abuse. I was thwarted many times along the way by long lines, officials asking me to remove my shoes, and people eating ice cream in the middle of narrow hallways. I almost knocked over an old, foreign-looking lady. Welcome to America where we trample our visitors.
I had been running for what felt like miles and miles, when I rounded the corner and saw gate D37. "You have got to be f*cking kidding me!" I blurted loudly. As a bounded passed, I saw a woman with two young children scowl at my foul language. Bite me, lady. I'm late.
As I neared the final stretch, I could see gate D46 far ahead, but my arms were numb from lugging my bags and would likely fall off at any moment. I dashed up behind a random passerby, and blurted, "Excuse me, sir, can you help me? I need to get to my gate, and I might die!" I left one of my bags and ran on without even wondering if he was following. Thankfully, he was.
"When does your plane leave?" I heard him yell from somewhere far behind me.
"Now!" I yelled back. "Don't leave! Don't leave! Don't leave!" I chanted loudly as I tore down the corridor.
I reached the gate just as they closed the airport door to the jetway. The man behind the counter looked up and said, "Sorry. You just missed it." He was so nonchalant about it. I was devastated!
"But," I stammered, standing there with my shoes still untied, my jeans tucked up accidentally into one of my socks, my damp hair sticking out of its thrashed ponytail at awkward angles, disheveled and disappointed, "I ran so far! I'm never late to anything! It wasn't even my fault!" I paused for a breath. "I ran so far!"
He was unmoved. He began typing into his computer without looking up. I leaned over the counter, gasping for breath like a dying fish and sweating little pools onto the cool, orange surface. I burst into giant, crocodile tears. I lay there sobbing and panting with my torso draped across the check in desk. It wasn't pretty.
When I had calmed down a bit, the man behind the desk said, unsmilingly, that he could book me on a flight connecting through Dallas to San Francisco, where it was schedule to arrive at 11:19pm. I had expected to be home by 8:45pm, but I took it, knowing I didn't want to spend the night sleeping under the plastic chairs in the lobby.
He handed me two new boarding passes. I looked at the boarding time on the first ticket. 5:56pm. Hmmm... I looked at the clock on my phone. It said 3pm. That's California time. Let's see, in Miami, that makes it... 6pm! Augh I cannot miss two flights in one day! What gate?!
E7.
No really. This time, you have got to be kidding me. I kicked my adrenaline back into gear and took off toward where I began almost an hour ago. I made it to the gate just as they were doing the final boarding call. The flight was relatively empty, so I spread out across three seats and gazed out at the sunset. I had made peace with the rerouting my trip had incurred, and decided I would buy something in Texas that I could wear out two-stepping. I deserved it, damnit.
And then, once I stopped sweating so profusely, I exchanged smiles with the cute cowboy in the seat behind me. Texas ain't so bad.
posted by Bert at 10:05 PM
1 Comments:
Jeebus! That reminds me of the plane scene in "Meet the Parents". Not quite the same, but the idea is still the same - airport people have too much power. :-P
Watch out for those cowboys, btw. ;-)
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