It should have been simple, shouldn’t
it? A couple of days ago I needed a taxi at 3.45 in the morning from La Paz
city centre to the airport. It was waiting when I came down from my hotel room.
OK, so it looked a tad dodgy with a few bits and pieces missing, but it got me
there with time to spare. The airport was aging but efficient and a somewhat uninviting Boeing something-or-other took
off on time at the start of my journey home. There was no entertainment, no
food and nothing to drink but water, but it dropped me off an hour ahead of
schedule at Miami International where I had the simple task of changing to a plane headed for London town.
I was a bit hungry and thirsty but hey, there I was in a sparkling modern
airport in one of the best known and lavish cities in the world; Miama US of A! So, there I was looking forward to a coffee
and cake before my next flight with almost three hours to spare. Plenty of time
– at least that’s what I thought! For some unexplained reason I was made to
join a queue at the US Border. Why I don’t know. I had no intention of entering
America, I was simply changing aeroplanes. As you know dear reader, air travel
is something I do fairly regularly, and transiting usually involves nothing
more than a trot to an airside transfer area, documents firmly in my pockets, with
nothing other than a few security checks to make sure I’m not hiding a ticking bomb
in my Y-fronts. But not in Miami. Believe it or not I stood in a shuffling line
for no less than two and and a bit hours. When I got to the desk I
had my eyes photographed and all of my fingers printed. I had to fill in a form
detailing everything I was importing to the States even though I wasn't going there.
The whole unwieldy and unnecessary process took me nearly up the two and a half hour mark,
and in the distance I heard the sound of my plane to London taking off without
me. When I commented to the officer that
the delay had cost me my flight home, he simply shrugged his shoulders and said
‘it happens’. He didn’t even afford me a ‘have a nice day’ which I thought was
standard practice in America.
My next challenge was to locate my
bag. Had it flown ahead of me on the flight I missed? Nobody could tell me and
not a single soul seemed willing or able to assist me. I was beginning to
believe that the shrugging of shoulders was the only method of communication at Miami
Airport. So, no one wanted to help so I wandered into the baggage reclaim and tramped
around a bit until I suddenly saw my blue sausage bag sitting alone and forlorn
in the middle of an expanse of marble flooring.
My next task was to arrange a new
flight home. I asked someone in a uniform where I should go and was answered
not with words but a finger which pointed to an area signed ‘rebooking’. I was
informed that all the flights to London that day were full. I asked what I was
supposed to do and the agent shrugged her shoulders then said she’d see if she could
get me on a flight the following day. In the meantime I’d have to put myself up
in a hotel at my own expense for the night. My objection to not receiving free
board and lodging was met with the excuse that my problem had nothing to do
with American Airways; it was the Immigration Departments’ fault. By now I was
becoming furious. After all, I had no desire to ‘immigrate’ in the first place.
After some considerable time and much tapping of computer keys she found me a
discounted hotel and the chance of an extended journey home via New York JFK. I
clearly had no choice and so I reluctantly accepted her generous offer.
The hotel was good. I took advantage
of everything it had to offer – after all I was entitled to get my money’s
worth. I spent a couple of minutes in the gym and had my first ever journey on
a running machine. I dipped my toe in the swimming pool and drunk enough free
coffee to sink a battleship. I hogged the computers in the business lounge, I set my room’s TV on full volume and slammed
doors as loudly as I could. In the morning I ate so much that I began to feel
ill and I declined to offer the driver of the shuttle-bus a tip when he
returned me to the airport, a gesture which was met with a shrug of his
shoulders.
I was at the airport two hours earlier than required, just in case. And what a good job I was. It took me
ages to fathom the departure information board. In every other airport in the
world, flights are listed in time based chronological order. Not there. After
much scratching of my tired old head I realised that in this flughafen they list just destinations in alphabetical order. So off I went in search of desks marked 'check in'. There weren't any. When I asked an idle assistant to point me in
the direction of the check in desks she looked at me as if I was a sandwich
short of a picnic, and said that I had to go to the areas marked ‘agent assist’.
‘Of course’ I said ‘How stupid of me not to know’. Anyway, I got past that
obstacle unscathed and still with an hour and a half to spare. Plenty of time –
or so I thought.
The queue to the security checks snaked this way and that and
moved at the pace of a sedated snail. One whole hour after attaching myself to
the rear of the zig-zagging line I reached the front where I had to empty my
pockets, remove my watch, my shoes and my belt (I did so cautiously remembering
the time that my trousers dropped to the floor in Aaman airport a few years
back). I then suffered the indignity of a full body scan followed by what I
believe is known as a tap down. I was left with just forty minutes until take off
and my departure gate was the furthest one away. I hastily hopped away trying to refit my
shoes as I went, and reached the gate just as they were warning errant passengers
that they would be left behind if they didn't show up immediately.
I made it with seconds to spare.
The plane was old. Actually that’s an
understatement – it was very old. For the first time in years I had no entertainment
system facing me from the seatback in front. I had no choice but to watch a
couple of movies of their choice from drop down screens suspended from the
ceiling above the centre aisle. Unfortunately, from my window seat I could only
see half of the screen as the other bit was obscured by the overhead luggage
bins. To make matters worse my little earphones refused to emit a sound and my
request for a replacement set was met with a shrug and ‘tough luck’ kind of
look. As a consequence I spent the trip lip- reading the person on the right hand
of the screen without a chance of understanding both sides of the silent
conversation.
Food time – goody goody! I opted for steak! Unfortunately I broke
first my knife, and then my fork whilst trying to cut the solid lump of rump. I
tried picking it up in my fingers and chipped a tooth attempting to bite a
piece off. I have to admit that the soggy potatoes and limp vegetables were in comparison
very tasty. My first little bottle of wine was most agreeable, so I requested a
second; after all there are never any limits on the amount of free drinks on
planes providing you remain able to stand. But not on this American Airways
flight. I had to make do with a half filled plastic cup of orange juice poured from a
cardboard packet.
I arrived at JFK well ahead of
schedule. How different this experience was; straight to the transfer area, no
checks or holdups. I sat at a bar and enjoyed the best burger and beer I’ve ever
had in an airport. The staff were a laugh a minute, embarkation was
straightforward and the AA plane relatively modern. The in-flight food was mostly
edible, alco-beverages free flowing and the seat back entertainment system antiquated
but in working order.
But I know that when I get down to sorting
out my photos and writing about the wonderful time I had in Peru and Bolivia
the disastrous journey home will pale into insignificance. And that I will
start to do tomorrow!
Give it time and you will be able to laugh about it. OK in your case it may be a long time! This is a delightful travelogue and a salutary lesson to have plan B, C and D ready for emergencies. Looking forward to the accounts of the real trip.
ReplyDeleteI'll be starting tomorrow
DeleteAmericans know how to get your money, lol. Sorry, I didn't chuckle until you chipped a tooth.
ReplyDeleteI'm chuckling now!
DeleteI'm an American who knows better than to fly on American Airways! Try somethign different next time! I'm looking forward to your pictures from S.A.
ReplyDeleteLesson for today - the cheapest is never the best!
DeleteOh my that was quite the kerfuffle!! Poor you!! At least you are home safe now...but boy I hear your frustration!!
ReplyDeleteHugs Giggles
Grrrrrrr!
DeleteAHHHH Yes! The good old US of AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!
ReplyDeleteTold ya NZ would have been better choice!
Just spent two weeks with some New Zealanders who left me in no doubt that your country is the finest place on earth!
DeleteI'm sorry I laughed too.. but you made it so funny..I hope it's a better trip tomorrow..hope you pocketed some of those mini wine bottles too..makes Blighty seem almost bright and breezy..well..Jae
ReplyDeleteDon't worry,I laughed too - after the event!
Delete