Dear American Airlines

Dear American Airlines,

Your flight attendants say, “We know you have a choice when you travel, thanks for choosing us.” Well, dear American Airlines, sometimes we don’t have a choice. Like when I’ve already purchased a ticket and you delay the flight 5 hours (FIVE HOURS) and there’s no way I can catch the last connecting flight home. I have to either wait and hope: a.) the plane I’m supposed to get on arrives from DFW to LaGuardia at some point in the next 5 hours (FIVE HOURS), or b.) the part needed to fix the mechanical issue arrives from JFK and the said mechanical issue is repaired at some point in the next 5 hours (FIVE HOURS). These were the two stories I received from your gate agents when questioned about the 5 hour (FIVE HOUR) delay. 

Let me start at the beginning. I left home 6 days earlier for work travel, flew from the conference in New Orleans to New York to spend the weekend with my daughter, son-in-law, grandchildren, and Lucinda Williams. (Okay, so I only spent a few hours with Lucinda at her show Saturday night.) I got up early on Sunday and had to walk blocks away from my daughter’s apartment to get an Uber because the streets were closed due to the Brooklyn Half Marathon. An eighty-dollar Uber ride got me to LaGuardia in plenty of time to check my bag, go through security, grab a coffee, and get to my gate. As soon as I sat down my phone and every other phone in the gate area began dinging with a delay notice; thirty minutes, no problem. Ding, ding, ding, another delay notice; an hour, no problem. Ding, ding, ding; 3 hours, what the hell? I was number two in line to speak to the gate agent. Rebooked, confirmed on last connection, no problem. Ding, ding, ding: 5 hours (FIVE HOURS); potential big problem. I could only make my connection if everything went perfectly. 

Sitting at the gate with all of the other disgruntled passengers a mass hysteria began to grow. Everyone was mad. No one knew what was actually happening. The gate agent was so overwhelmed with rebooking passengers she gave up and left. Anyone wishing to rebook had to go to a rebooking kiosk on the other side of the airport. The scuttlebutt at the gate was that the flight would be canceled and we were all screwed. At this point, even with my rebooked and confirmed ticket, I decided to follow the crowd to the other side of the airport to find out what the actual hell was happening. 

I got in line behind the eighty or one hundred and fifty other passengers trying to rebook. I waited in line for almost 2 hours. When I first arrived there were four gate agents assisting, by the time I got to the front of the line there were only two. The nice young man who assisted me confirmed my fear that I would most likely miss the last connection home. He offered to rebook me on a flight that could make my connection at DFW via Raleigh, North Carolina, but before he could push all of his computer buttons the flight to Raleigh was delayed. There was no other option but to fly the next day. The nice young man scheduled my flights, put in a request to retrieve my checked luggage, issued me two car service vouchers, and a twelve-dollar meal voucher. 

I was semi-happy. Very irritated about the situation, but at least I wasn’t going to waste anymore time at the airport, or so I thought. In the meantime, the customer eight-inches to my right was in the throes of travel rage. The entire time I was being taken care of by the nice young man, my fellow delayed passenger was being assisted by a nice young woman. My fellow delayed passenger was not anywhere near semi-happy. He was pulsing vein in the forehead mad. He was I’m not leaving this kiosk until I speak to your supervisor mad. He was I want financial compensation and I want it now mad. He was I’m video recording this on my cell phone and posting to social media mad. The nice young woman was I’m calling Port Authority and having you arrested mad. Wow. I was more traumatized by my fellow passenger than I was by the five hour (FIVE HOUR), now actually a twenty-four hour delay. I was shaking when I left the scene of the rebooking. It could have been because I had missed lunch, but I’m pretty sure it was because of the rage-fueled fellow delayed passenger.

Off to claim my checked luggage, hop in a car, and get back to my daughter’s apartment. That sounds so easy, doesn’t it? Wrong. Baggage claims office informs me that it will take forty-five minutes to an hour for my bag to come up. I had the claims agent double check that the nice young man had done everything correctly to request my bag so I wouldn’t be waiting an hour in vain. Check, everything in order. I wait an hour; no bag. I go back to claims office, speak to a different agent who tells me my bag is already on a plane. On a plane to Raleigh, North Carolina. She can put in another request, but it will take forty-five minutes to an hour. I decide to forgo clean clothes, toiletries, and medication just to be on my way. 

I call the car service, tell them I’m at LaGuardia and need a ride. No problem, the driver will call when he arrives, in about forty-five minutes to an hour. Seriously. The driver finally calls, I go out to the car, there are four other passengers in the vehicle. I’m thinking, dear God, we’re going to be driving all over the five boroughs delivering passengers. The driver speaks no English, but I pick up that we are going to JFK Airport. What? I say what about my trip to Brooklyn? I have to call the service, have the driver circle back to LaGuardia and drop me off where I once again have to wait forty-five minutes to an hour to get my ride. Oh, and the car service dispatcher cussed me out and told me that I requested transportation to JFK. Seriously. And, I still haven’t had lunch and it is late afternoon. 

While waiting on the second car to come pick me up, on a whim I go back to the baggage claims office and there is my bag. In the office. Not on a plane to Raleigh, North Carolina. 

After another forty-five minutes to an hour I call the car service and am told they haven’t found a driver to pick me up. Seriously. I take a taxi from the airport and spend another eighty-dollars to get back to my daughter’s apartment. Where I proceed to have a nervous breakdown crying jag in front of my horrified son-in-law and grandchildren; my daughter is used to it. 

So, dear American Airlines, I blame you for my horrible day. I would like to say I will no longer be choosing you when I travel, but like I said in my opening paragraph, sometimes we don’t have a choice. This is what travel has become these days. We just have to go with it and try not to get arrested. 

 

The Hobby

A few days ago a conversation with friends led me to comment that I didn't have a hobby, and I probably needed one. This was after seeing a beautiful knit baby blanket one of these friends had made for the soon-to-be-born granddaughter of the other friend. After a pause of a few seconds, I remembered I do have a hobby — oh yes, I read. I am a voracious reader. Why did I not think of this as an acceptable hobby? 

I've been an avid reader since Mrs. Thompson, my fourth grade teacher, read aloud Charlotte's Web every day after lunch. I began visiting the school library regularly and there began my life-long love of books, libraries, and reading. But, for some reason I cannot explain, reading became a true guilty pleasure, with emphasis on guilt. It may have started because I was reading when I was supposed to be doing other things like homework, chores, or looking after my younger siblings. I remember many a night when I was caught reading under the covers with a flashlight and told to get to sleep. Reading was blamed for my extreme myopia. Allegedly I read in bed (under the covers with a flashlight) for the duration of a bout of strep throat and a high fever, which instantly ruined my vision. I doubt that is a true story, but it is one that has added to the reading guilt-trip. 

As I grew older the reading guilt grew to illicit affair level. I read when I should have been cleaning house, doing laundry, or (gasp) tending children. I’ve ignored my husband on long car trips, stayed up too late on the eve of important work deadlines, and isolated myself during family vacations, all for the love of a book. Is this a hobby or an obsession? 

Do other hobbyists have three or four projects going at once? I typically have one or two paper books, a Kindle book, and an audiobook going at the same time. Do other hobbyists work on their hobbies while eating, driving, or trying to fall asleep? Books are truly an addiction for me. Was Mrs. Thompson like the shady drug dealer who offers a free taste, knowing I would get hooked? I know there are worse things to be addicted to, those are stories for other blog entries! 

I could keep writing about how books bring me joy, broaden my horizons, and open my mind, but I have books to read - I mean, I have a hobby to pursue, and must get to it. I checked out a library book on knitting. Who knows, I might just develop an acceptable hobby yet.