Setting aside residual feelings of anger and incredulity, I’m not going to rant or wax poetic about the golden age of airports. This is a mere description that perhaps by its notable normality will help other travelers feel that they aren’t alone in their airport disasters.
The first flight that set me back two additional days was a routine return trip from visiting family in Hartford Connecticut. The flight from California to Atlanta Georgia then up to Hartford was uneventful and almost pleasant. But the return trip was a nightmare. I should have known never to book a red-eye but I was drawn to the cheap price and convenience of being able to sleep on the plane with a vision of waking up at home safe and sound. I would arrive home but a day later. There was a series of massive thunderstorms that had descended over the midwest and was steadily moving eastward. Hartford airport which only serves domestic flights was immediately locked down as lightening bolts laced the tarmac around our plane. After being stuck on the ground for an hour we flew to my connection in Chicago which unfortunately had left 20 min. before my arrival. It was 11pm at night and the unfamiliar airport was deserted. One nice-looking man at a customer service desk was happy to give me a 30% discount at a local hotel that he claimed was just down the street. What he neglected to mention was that the bus service was down the street, not the hotel. 30 min. later in 85 F humidity I wearily waved down a taxi and got to the hotel 15 min later, the name of which I couldn’t even pronounce much less communicate to the driver. But I finally arrived only to realize I had nothing except my credit card to give me comfort. Little did I know that if I had gone down to baggage claim as I had been emphatically told not to do, I could have claimed my bag and been comfortable all night. I awoke early and got to the airport for my 6am flight which was really 6pm (I don’t think that guy knew what he was talking about…). Exasperated I’d just about had it. The hotel had been scary, nearly deserted, and in a dubious part of town. Plus I’d never been in Chicago before and just wanted to go home. Haggling for outbound flights to California I finally demanded to be put on one to SFO at 10am. I arrived home bedraggled, angry, and convinced no one at the airport cared about either me or my comfort.
I never wanted to fly again after that (I know, it actually doesn’t sound that bad but was pretty traumatic at the time) so I thought a 1hr flight to L.A. was safe. Right. At least I didn’t pick United this time. But when I landed at LAX there was a bomb threat so I had to wait in a crowd of people outside the terminal for 4 hrs. There was no bomb it turned out, just a crazy person.
Then, returning home, I again had that annoying, irrepressible hope that everything would be ok. But the tiny American Airlines flight I had booked since it was just a short hop had a weight limit. My shuttle driver had been an hour late picking me up from my hotel so I was the 31st person checking in. I was told to wait to check the weight limit. If it didn’t pass I couldn’t board. I was furious–I had a seat, a good one, and had booked the flight in December. Did everyone else on the plane book ahead?! It had been an exhausting trip and I wasn’t amused. But the flippant woman dismissed me with glaring eyes and casually remarked to her friend while I was standing in front of her that some people just couldn’t accept reality no matter how many times she said it. Thankfully I got on the plane but I grabbed my ticket from her anyway. I wasn’t going to be grateful in the slightest.
Needless to say, I’m never flying again.
