THE DAY OF BEING TREATED BADLY
It didn’t start out being my worst day of flying. I was on my way to Washington, D.C. – a three-week trip with a variety of adventures to look forward to. I had purposely looked for a flight where I wouldn’t have to change planes. The airline clerk had booked me on a flight that went into Houston, but 40 minutes later, would take off to D.C.
The flight to Houston was uneventful although somewhat late due to unsettled weather. Then, the problems started. Upon landing, the flight attendant’s voice thanked us all for flying Continental, and then mentioned that some of us would have to hurry to make our connections. She didn’t mention exactly which connections had to be made hurriedly, but said the plane we were on was headed for San Antonio.
More than 20 of us looked shocked and we barged through the line getting off the plane. While some of us headed for D.C. had only one boarding pass, I had received two boarding passes indicating a different seat for the D.C. leg, but the same flight number. That boarding pass indicated a 5:00 boarding time. It was already 5:15.
A cart was waiting when we entered the Houston airport with a brightly dressed Continental clerk who we thought was there to help us. “This cart is for the handicapped,” he said. We explained our plight of suddenly having to catch a plane that was not only at another terminal, but had apparently already boarded. “You can waste time standing here talking to me, or you can get going to the right gate,” he said, having lost his welcoming smile.
An energetic father said he’d run to the next terminal and try to hold the plane for those of us less able to dash there. We found a sympathetic cart driver who whisked the wife, son, and me to the right gate. It was exactly 5:30 on the big digital clock. There was our plane scheduled to leave at 5:35, but the gate was closed and no clerk was there!
We ran over to a rotund brightly jacketed man at the opposite gate who literally began to shake when we said he needed to call to stop the plane that we could clearly see still at the gate. We explained there were many of us. He shakily but unwaveringly said we must all go over to Customer Service to be re-scheduled.
It must have been a day when all supervisors were elsewhere. Customer Service had about 5 clerks and a line in front of it that grew bigger as more than 20 of us tried to convince someone to call the plane and get us on it.
“Tomorrow morning is the first flight I can put you on with a confirmed seat,” another rotund clerk said matter-of-factly. He did add a robotic, “I’m sorry.” “But my friend I haven’t seen for years is coming from New York to meet me for the weekend,” was my response. Others had their own pressing reasons for needing to get to D.C. that night. “Surely there’s a supervisor who can help us as a group. Our plane hasn’t left yet,” was the simple solution I offered.
It didn’t happen – and with no explanation why. The family went to a Houston hotel for the night. I was given a confirmed flight for the next day and a stand by ticket for a delayed flight leaving Houston at 10:10 p.m. “But you don’t have much chance of getting on stand by,” the clerk said again matter of factly.
Infuriated at the unhelpfulness and lack of caring from the airline, I wandered the airport to yet another terminal to stand by. After years of being a world traveler, I wasn’t overly upset about sleeping on the floor of the airport overnight, but I did regret the time I’d lose with my friend that weekend. I called her to warn her she might get to D.C. before me.
As with other misinformation I’d been given, I’d been told that I should be at the gate an hour ahead to put my name on the list for stand by. But the list for stand by had already been sent over, my number hovering in the “maybe” category according to the clerk as she wiggled her hand when I asked my chances for getting on. So far, the stand by list held 21 hopefuls.
Okay. I tried calming down and chatted with another victim of our plane that didn’t go to D.C. She was an operating room nurse who was anxious to return to her husband and 5 daughters in D.C. What I learned from her was that in those 15 minutes between when our plane landed in Houston and our D.C. plane took off without us, our baggage had all been successfully transferred and was now sitting at Reagan Airport waiting for us. Ridiculous!
I went back to the clerk to ask another question that I thought might be helpful for stand by. A young lady was asking the clerk for any possible way to get to D.C. that night. The clerk mentioned the last flight going to Dulles Airport in D.C. that was also somewhat delayed and might have one stand by possibility left.
I mentioned it to the woman also in a hurry to get back to D.C. and we decided it was worth going over there to check, especially since it was a long way away but at least in the same terminal. Would we lose our possible slot on the airplane we actually held the stand by ticket for?
We walked quickly and stood near the line of people boarding. A few people didn’t respond when their names were called. We tried to be hopeful.
And then – the two of us got on and they closed the gate after us. When I had asked the clerk if our bags would be brought over to us from Reagan Airport, he said matter of factly, “No, because you’re changing your stand by.” Well, I’d have to deal with that later.
I sat in the last unsat-in seat. This was a jet express, another word for unbearably small, cramped, uncomfortable with no room to stand and a bathroom with no water and little handwipes. Well, at least I was on the plane.
After the rush, rush, there was a one-hour wait on the tarmac because the bad weather out there had delayed all incoming and outgoing planes. “You can’t get up or use the lavatory,” we were advised, “because we’re on the runway.”
Okay! Nothing to do but settle down and in. Fortunately, a D.C. Generation Xer was my seatmate and he was a computer security consultant who, unfortunately, had to fly all the time. I picked his brains as much as I could as he explained blogging, RSS, and the benefits of daily living with a computer.
This small plane’s flight attendant was cute and fairly upbeat for being the only attendant imprisoned on this cramped jet express in the middle of the night.
Bedraggled, I arrived at Dulles Airport at about 1:30 a.m. Washington time where the other woman’s husband was waiting. They were relatively new immigrants from the Philippines and I was impressed by their new van with the helpful GPS system that took us to Reagan Airport to rescue our bags. But, would anyone be there to give them to us? A baggage handler at Dulles thought so.
We didn’t have to buck any traffic and we were reunited with our bags that had made it without us. But, she was anxious to relieve her babysitter, so I said I’d find my own way to where I was going. That was easier said than done.
The Super Shuttle desk was long since shut down and my cell phone call to their phone number simply advised me I was 7th in line to talk with someone. I walked over to a large van taxi that was one of the few waiting at that time of night and asked what the fare would be to the address I was going to. “It’s according to the meter,” he informed me. “Approximate price?” I queried. “No idea,” he answered. That was hard to believe.
Knowing full well that taxis in the U.S. are far more expensive than anywhere in Asia, I hesitated. I thought about it for a while and then went over to a regular car-sized taxi. The Ethiopian driver heaved my tired bags into the trunk, and I heaved my tired body into the taxi. I hadn’t asked the approximate price figuring I had little choice at 3 a.m. but to take a taxi. When I couldn’t see the meter on, I asked the driver why. He explained that D.C. taxis charge by zones. Fortunately, he said we weren’t going too far away.
I knew no one would be there waiting for me to arrive at the historic Pen Arts Building, belonging to the National League of American Pen Women, to be my home for the next 3 weeks. It wasn’t a hotel at all, but an old historical building that served as headquarters for the organization with a few bedrooms available for visiting Pen Women. It was also the home of the President of the organization during her term, but I knew the President was away tonight.
Would the key that had been mailed to me work easily? I already knew I’d have to drag my two heavy suitcases up to the 3rd floor. I could tell the old home was enchanting from the moment the big heavy wooden front door yielded into a sight of wooden ceilings and an elegantly carved wooden staircase. A bust of fellow Pen Woman, Pearl Buck, made me feel at ease. I was surrounded by history, by artwork all done by Pen Women, and by a library filled with books written by Pen Women, soon to be joined by my own book.
It was a much better ending to my day of being treated so badly by Continental Airlines. It did not soften my anger at their less-than-caring attitude, but in these days of long delays, annoying and bothersome regulations and sudden cancellations, I realized no one at Continental really cared about my traveling woes. I wondered instead why anyone actually wanted to work in such discouraging circumstances in such a negative environment day after day. I felt a little sorry for the hapless front line clerks, and very glad I wouldn’t have to return to Continental for at least three more weeks.
Tags: Travel
