Travel Woes I Brought On Myself.

I used to be a frequent traveler. In fact I used to write about my adventures quite a bit. The toilets at Philadelphia International Airport, almost being left behind in Richmond, etc, etc, etc, more writing material than all the dating websites in the world combined!

But that life is no longer mine. These days, I work in the same metropolitan area where I live. Hallelujah, the office with my name on the door is not several states away, and I no longer spend weeks on end hopping from city to city in the name of God and Corporate America. Furthermore, it seems I have finally gotten over this absurd habit I used to have of choosing to date men that live in different states or different countries. Nowadays, if you want to date me, you gotta live near me, because, no, I’m not gonna come visit. As such, my Gold frequent flyer status has expired, and despite all our deep and meaningful chats, the ladies at the Raleigh, NC US Airways Club have probably long since forgotten me. I lay my head down on the same pillow night after night after night and never ever have to call down to the front desk anymore to request a different room because, “I’m sorry, but this one smells real funny, like something died in the walls or something....”

All is so very well in my world. Really, I could not be more thrilled.

And just to remind me of that, just to give me a dose of appreciation for all that my current life is and all that it is certainly not, today Jesus sent me Snaggle-Tooth Old Hag and her band of cronies at Delta.

Thanks, buddy. Good times. Way to be my homeboy.

I write this to you from the terminal at BWI, and as my fingers type this sentence the time is two hours past when I should have arrived in Atlanta to visit dear friend Beth, and soon-to-be dear friend Johnna. Who knows when I will arrive. I’m starting to think never. It’s all good, I can hang. And although I will go to my grave blaming Snaggle Tooth Old Hag (STOH or Delta Demon 1/ DD1), The Lady Who Would Not Help (TLWWNH, Delta Demon 2/DD2), and Supervisor Who Will Burn In Hell (SWWBIH, Delta Demon 3/DD3), I am cognizant that they have the ironclad defense that I brought this on myself. Yeah, yeah, I know I did. Y’all got me good.

BUT COME ON!!!!

Ok, let me back up several hours. Being an enthusiastic user of modern technology, I checked in for my flight online this morning. In the midst of zooming around town, I hooked me up to dem interwebs, plugged in a confirmation number, selected a seat, check, check, check. What I could not do, and which proved to be my downfall, was print the boarding pass, as a few months ago one of Charm City’s finest stole my printer out of my car (another story). Now, I am well aware that all passengers must be checked in thirty minutes prior to take off; however, am I the only one on the planet to realize that they will not print a boarding pass for you after this unshakeable deadline passes? In all the years of constant air travel, for all the flights I have cut as close as humanly possible, maintaining my perfect record of never missing a single departure, I have never been faced with this truth. I have always either arrived more than 30 minutes prior to departure, or failing that, had in my possession a piece of paper granting me entry onto the plane. Today was different. Today, I walked up to ticketing literally 29 minutes prior to departure, with no paper in hand. And instead of giving it to me, upon my well-mannered, WASPY request, the kiosk rudely turned me away, insisting I see a live agent. Enter STOH/DD1 stage left, as she strutted around, manning the kiosks, chewing on cud and spreading evil. I shall slip into dialogue for ease of storytelling:

Khop, mock helplessness: The kiosk told me to see an agent. Can you help?

DD1: Oh absolutely not. You need to get in line.

Khop: That line over there? But my flight is due to begin boarding very soon. Is there any way you can help? (Beaming hopeful, kiss-ass smile that usually works. Shit - usually works on men. She is not a man. Or is she? Clearly not, because....)

DD1: Oh that’s why it won’t print - because you’re too late. Yeah, BWAHAHAHAHA, you’re not going anywhere, anytime soon, so you might as well get in line. HA!

At this point, she actually turned, showed me her rear end and walked away.

BITCH!

Not to be defeated, I turned that smile on the meek little asian man standing in the front of the line. Damnit if I’ve still got it, ‘cos dude let me cut. Alright, back in business!

Not quite. I proceeded to wait at the front of the line for a full 16 minutes, and as every minute ticked passed, my concern notched a bit higher. I went from a state of complete confidence, to intellectually curious (after all, this may be a new record for me), to actual panic. Every time the agents would finish with the people they were helping, instead of beckoning to me to step forward into the light and receive blessing, they would disappear. Coffee break, lunch break, crack break, help khop break, whatevs. No room at the inn.

If you’ve done the math, you’ll note that by the time I was called forward, it was a mere 12 minutes before my flight was scheduled to leave, and I was told, this time by DD2, that I was out of luck. But I was determined to go down fighting, after all, I had ladies to see and some a’visiting to do. Dialogue, once again:

(T minus 11m55s) Khop: Are there any exceptions to this rule I’ve never heard of?

(T minus 11m45s) Stoned-faced DD2: No.

(T minus 11m44s) Khop: None at all?

(T minus 11m30s) SFDD2: You’d have to talk to a supervisor.

(T minus 11m29s) Khop: Where is one?

(T minus 11m10s) SFDD2, pointing stubby, unhelpful finger of hate: Down there.

(BTW, are you grasping how slow this conversation is moving, tick, tock, tick, tock...)

(T minus 11m9s) Khop: Helping that long line of people?

(T minus 10m52s) SFDD2: Yes.

(T minus 10min51s) Khop: If I go over there, will she help me next?

(T minus 10 min 35s) SFDD2: Probably not.

(T minus 10 min 34s) Khop: Can you ask her to come over here?

(T minus 10 min) SFDD2: Fine.

Enter the third in our cast of characters, DD3, who once she found out that I had arrived at the airport a full twenty minutes ago, when something very well could have been done to get me on that flight, did at least feign sympathy and support, calling the gate to see where they were in boarding, typing in the code that over rides this whole 30 minute baloney, even going so far as to call DD1 over to “coach” her to handle the situation differently next time. The flow of support ended abruptly, though, when she spotted her ace in the hole. She looked down at my bag and deemed it too large to carry on. Now reader(s), we have all seen many who abuse the carry on allowance. Travelers who carry coffin-sized roller bags onto the plane, take three rows worth of space in the overhead bin and feign surprise when the flight attendant objects. And even though this entire post is recounting my attempt to buck the system, I can assure you, this was one area where I was playing by the rules- the size of this roller bag was legit (emphasis was). So in receiving the news that my beautiful Samsonite “Business Traveler’s Elite” roller bag, the bag that has served as my faithful sidekick for six years, the bag that has flown all over the country in the overhead bin without so much as one raised eyebrow, was now apparently one inch too long to qualify as a carry on and would have to be checked, my jaw dropped and my eyes teared. Parting with that bag was like the moment in Castaway where that blessed volleyball floats out of Tom Hanks‘ grasp. It was so sad. Plus, it meant that I had lost. Definitively.

And DD2 knew it too. She beamed a smile that could be seen from space, re-ticketed me for a later flight and snatched that bag out of my hands before you could say “disgruntled union employee”. As a courtesy nod to my inconvenience, the supervisor waved the baggage fee. Awesome of her, don’t you think?

It was because of that checked bag that all of my remaining methods of maneuvering the situation disappeared into thin air. When 15 seconds later, while I was still in the midst of being re-ticketed, the flight board showed my flight delayed 30 minutes, I was out of luck. When I got to my gate and watched my original flight sit and sit and sit for two hours, pushing all subsequent flights back as well, I was still out of luck. When I tried to go standby on the next departing flight (still earlier than the one for which I had been rebooked), out of luck I remained.

All in all, the final equation looked something like this:

One printer-stealing hobo + one minute too late + one inch too tall rollerboard

=

One Sad Panda Air Traveler.

I know my mother is reading this shaking her head. And maybe you are, too. So allow me to reiterate that I am cognizant that I brought this on myself. If I had left earlier, if I had arrived sooner, none of this would have happened. In fact, I probably would’ve been able to sneak that one-inch-too-tall rollerboard on the plane, all Delta employees none the wiser. But I didn’t - I was late, and that’s that. But the real kick in the crotch of it all, the piece that was so mind numbingly infuriating was how much joy DD1 and DD2 took in the fact that I screwed myself and how little they cared to disguise that joy. They were right, and I was wrong. And my mistake gave them a blank check to be as unhelpful and dismissive as they wanted. As one who’s profession is sales, who is paid to take a beating day in and day out, looking for something, anything that will make my customers happy, this came as a sucker punch. I have had customers tell me they hate the food I brought them for lunch, as they are stuffing it in their pie hole. I have had customers tell me in all sincerity that their version of Utopia is a world where sales representatives do not exist. I have had customers lie to me, be mean to me, throw me under the bus, and literally swat at me with a fly swatter. And yet I smile, climb out from under that bus, and ask them what, pray tell, type of sandwich I should bring next time. Or similar. So when it’s my turn to be the paying customer, and I’m in a jam, and the people I’m stuck with can’t even muster up the effort that day to pretend to care, I’m left feeling sad. And a little bit like kicking a small animal.

I’ve heard horror stories about what those in the air travel industry must endure from my fellow passengers, so I get that there exists the possibility that DD1 and DD2 are lovely women who go to church every Sunday, make better-than-average bundt cakes, and tip the manicure lady well. I get it that their wickedness may be a product of too many years and too many run-ins with too many jerks. But it’s a total chicken/egg thing. Maybe I wouldn’t be such a jerk if you would help me. Maybe you would help me if I weren’t such a jerk.

I know, I know - I could fry the chicken and scramble the egg if I’d shown up just one damn minute earlier.

How tiring.

Have I mentioned how glad I am to no longer be a frequent air traveler?

Flying the unfriendly skies,

khop