Part two. When we left our hero, he was gallantly arriving at the required waiting gate with 60 minutes under his belt. Not a comfortable place to keep them. That might explain the cramps.
So. This fucking bitch behind her desk is trying to calmly inform not only the waitlisted people, but people who were booked and checked in on time, that the flight was overbooked. "why would you do that? " was the inevitable question. She calmly explains that it's policy to do that on all flights to ensure a full load for cost purposes if there are cancellations. "So why does a bankrupt airline need to save 0.5 % on their fuel costs? " I asked testily. The reply I got was the glare of a stumped and overtaxed brain cell, and nothing more. As I stood there waiting and fearing the worst, I listened to her lie outright to four different people that they had to be moved to a later flight because they had been the last to check in. Fucking psychological bullshit. Needless to say there was much consternation. By now I was just barely able to remain upright, and I didn't want to sit down for fear of passing out. I was ready to kill at this point, and as the plane finished boarding to capacity, she told me without a shred of sympathy that she couldn't even book me on the next flight, instead had to waitlist me again for it.
Something inside me broke. "No. That is not fucking good enough. 22 hours I've been fucked over by this airline due to incompetence, and made to feel like it's my fault. You will do better than that, right now"
I think she may have sensed the blood lust in my voice. Or maybe because I'm six foot two, had glowing bloodshot eyes, wearing a bandana in gang colours, and if you were to describe my voice in fantasy-fiction, you would say that it was quiet but hard, like razor-sharp steel.
"Fine sir, the rebooking office is just near gate 14".
"That's just dandy", and I march off. Idly I noticed a kid planking across two handrails on a down escalator for the entire trip.
After explaining my ordeal reasonably calmly, followed by a musing that she might consider calling a medical team because I was in very real danger of passing out, we found a solution involving passing through Dallas. Not ideal but at least confirmed. "is exit row ok sir? "
I almost giggled hysterically, and lifted one leg onto the counter. "Are you kidding? Have you seen these things? "
She laughed. "good answer" and it was done.
I refuse to feel relief.
Time for dinner, since my stomach is behaving itself again, so off I go in search of the least salty food I can find. I settle on quesadillas, (sour cream, avocado, pico de gallo, all good anti-salt. Would it be enough?
I enquired of the Latino waitress "do the papas fritas have much salt? Can I get them without? "
"sorry sir, we get them pre seasoned, but it's light"
"I only ask because my eggs Benedict those morning was so salty, ESPN were doing live coverage of a buggy race across the flats of my egg whites"
"oh no sir, not that salty. I always have to add salt when I eat them. If they are too salty I will remove them from the bill" Fair deal, nothing to lose.
Of course they're damn salty. Don't care though, I have two big orange juices and an espresso. And watch a "someone or other's got talent" clip of a professional regurgitator while I eat.
Charlie texts me to tell me that he is in vegas, and that the cab driver drove off with his laptop. Translation, he left it in the cab. Oh and of course he doesn't have the travel insurance i told him to get two weeks ago. Great, he's going to be in a shitty mood for the whole show. I told him to leave a message with the cab company. He doesn't know which company. Sigh. 20 minutes later the cab brings his computer back. Another small mercy.
Nothing left now but to get a bottle of water and have a final bathroom break. And so there i was, with a handicapped man moaning in the next stall. I'm beyond ludicrously exhausted. I correctly predicted a crying child sitting next to me and a small child tapping on my seat. Thanks, Murphy.
Oh, one last thing. That bitch from the other gate was attending this gate too. I stared at her, but she refused to make eye contact. Just as well.
As we take off, I raise my middle finger to Miami and press it against the window for the entire take off.
Fuck you, Miami. Fuck you sideways with a rake. I should sleep, but I'd rather write all this down before my coping mechanisms fade the details out and store the experience under "bad dreams, do not access"
At least I'm passing solids again. I guess happiness is relative.
So. This fucking bitch behind her desk is trying to calmly inform not only the waitlisted people, but people who were booked and checked in on time, that the flight was overbooked. "why would you do that? " was the inevitable question. She calmly explains that it's policy to do that on all flights to ensure a full load for cost purposes if there are cancellations. "So why does a bankrupt airline need to save 0.5 % on their fuel costs? " I asked testily. The reply I got was the glare of a stumped and overtaxed brain cell, and nothing more. As I stood there waiting and fearing the worst, I listened to her lie outright to four different people that they had to be moved to a later flight because they had been the last to check in. Fucking psychological bullshit. Needless to say there was much consternation. By now I was just barely able to remain upright, and I didn't want to sit down for fear of passing out. I was ready to kill at this point, and as the plane finished boarding to capacity, she told me without a shred of sympathy that she couldn't even book me on the next flight, instead had to waitlist me again for it.
Something inside me broke. "No. That is not fucking good enough. 22 hours I've been fucked over by this airline due to incompetence, and made to feel like it's my fault. You will do better than that, right now"
I think she may have sensed the blood lust in my voice. Or maybe because I'm six foot two, had glowing bloodshot eyes, wearing a bandana in gang colours, and if you were to describe my voice in fantasy-fiction, you would say that it was quiet but hard, like razor-sharp steel.
"Fine sir, the rebooking office is just near gate 14".
"That's just dandy", and I march off. Idly I noticed a kid planking across two handrails on a down escalator for the entire trip.
After explaining my ordeal reasonably calmly, followed by a musing that she might consider calling a medical team because I was in very real danger of passing out, we found a solution involving passing through Dallas. Not ideal but at least confirmed. "is exit row ok sir? "
I almost giggled hysterically, and lifted one leg onto the counter. "Are you kidding? Have you seen these things? "
She laughed. "good answer" and it was done.
I refuse to feel relief.
Time for dinner, since my stomach is behaving itself again, so off I go in search of the least salty food I can find. I settle on quesadillas, (sour cream, avocado, pico de gallo, all good anti-salt. Would it be enough?
I enquired of the Latino waitress "do the papas fritas have much salt? Can I get them without? "
"sorry sir, we get them pre seasoned, but it's light"
"I only ask because my eggs Benedict those morning was so salty, ESPN were doing live coverage of a buggy race across the flats of my egg whites"
"oh no sir, not that salty. I always have to add salt when I eat them. If they are too salty I will remove them from the bill" Fair deal, nothing to lose.
Of course they're damn salty. Don't care though, I have two big orange juices and an espresso. And watch a "someone or other's got talent" clip of a professional regurgitator while I eat.
Charlie texts me to tell me that he is in vegas, and that the cab driver drove off with his laptop. Translation, he left it in the cab. Oh and of course he doesn't have the travel insurance i told him to get two weeks ago. Great, he's going to be in a shitty mood for the whole show. I told him to leave a message with the cab company. He doesn't know which company. Sigh. 20 minutes later the cab brings his computer back. Another small mercy.
Nothing left now but to get a bottle of water and have a final bathroom break. And so there i was, with a handicapped man moaning in the next stall. I'm beyond ludicrously exhausted. I correctly predicted a crying child sitting next to me and a small child tapping on my seat. Thanks, Murphy.
Oh, one last thing. That bitch from the other gate was attending this gate too. I stared at her, but she refused to make eye contact. Just as well.
As we take off, I raise my middle finger to Miami and press it against the window for the entire take off.
Fuck you, Miami. Fuck you sideways with a rake. I should sleep, but I'd rather write all this down before my coping mechanisms fade the details out and store the experience under "bad dreams, do not access"
At least I'm passing solids again. I guess happiness is relative.
fuckin HELL dave, how did you not just lie down and cry/die??
ReplyDeletehahah it's the seasoning that makes travel such an "interesting" experience sometimes...