Monthly Archives: September 2011

Observational Flying

23 Friday Sep 2011

Posted by in It's not always so bad

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Trip type: Business

Airline: Delta

Route: ATL-MSP

This week’s travel was exceptional in its unexceptional-ness. Which is a nice change every now and then…two flights that left on time with little to no excitement (“Just how I like my flights!” as my mother would say). Well, with three minor-ly amusing exceptions:

1. As I mentioned in my brief post earlier this week, the flight to Atlanta did come complete with a 10-person bachelorette party and I had to wonder what brainiac maid of honor had booked them on a 6am Monday flight to Mexico connecting through Atlanta. Although there was much excited chatter pre-boarding about whether the bars at the Atlanta airport would be open by the time we landed at 10, they were relatively quiet on the actual flight. Perhaps wisely deciding to stock up on sleep.

2. I got to the gate early (in my usual quest to control the uncontrollable by being present and accounted for) and got a nice seat in front of the desk  which gave me a front row seat to every self-important businessman (yes, they were all male) on the flight approaching to ask for an upgrade. You would think these guys would know better…a flight from a hub (ATL) to another hub (MSP) on which almost everyone has at least middling status, will almost never yield you an upgrade unless you’re Diamond and the few who are Diamond never bother asking. Then I see my own previous comment about self-importance…

3. The guy next to me got wasted on the way home. On a two hour flight where they only serve beverages for 90  minutes or so, it was impressive how quickly he put away four beers. Luckily, he was not chatty in his inebriated state but I was dying to know if he got fired, lost a deal or worse…the mysteries of flying. At least he didn’t drool on my shoulder.

Until the next adventure!

Just Another Icelander

18 Sunday Sep 2011

Posted by in Adventures Abroad

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Trip type: Personal

Airline: Delta

Route: AMS-MSP

They say that the worst thing about vacations are their ends and I’ve certainly found this to be true…especially if you find yourself in trouble at Schipol.

After a lovely two weeks in Prague, Bratislava and Budapest, we were en route home to Minneapolis via Amsterdam. We had started our journey that morning in Budapest and let me tell you–if you ever doubted Communism took hold of Eastern Europe, just visit the Hungarian airport sometime. It was unmitigated chaos. E and I are pretty well traveled and certainly know our way around a ticket counter but we could not for the life of us figure out this airport. There were people milling about aimlessly and poorly formed lines cropping up every which way. We were flying KLM but had some Hungarian partner aircraft for the first leg of the journey…if only we could find it. Luckily, I finally found someone to help us and he did the check in for us at a kiosk (this detail is important later).

Anyhoo–we arrive in Amsterdam mostly on time but nothing can ever be easy in Amsterdam, can it? We walk down the stairs onto the Tarmac and are transported to the airport in a bus. Upon arriving, it is clear we will be going through security again (is Hungary’s TSA not up to snuff?) except this time, our plane of 200 passengers will do it single file through ONE security lane.

Once through the saddest excuse for security ever in the Schipol basement, we were off to our gate. Amsterdam “opens” the gate about an hour ahead of time on American-bound flights so that everyone can be interrogated one last time. Then you go through security again before sitting in a holding pen until you’re allowed to get on the actual plane.

We get through the interrogation just fine but as we go to scan our passports, there’s a problem. Every time I try to scan mine, a red light starts flashing. Finally, the highly annoyed gate agent tells me to go talk to someone at the desk. When E tries his passport, the same thing happens. I try to control my panic.

We wait patiently (well, E does anyway) in line at the desk until someone deigns to look our way. When she scans my passport, she asks if I have my visa with me. I ask her why and she says because my passport scan shows I’m an Icelandic national and have an American work visa. E’s passport says he’s French. Naturally, I’m now convinced we are going straight to Schipol detention and try to wrack my brain of who we call first for legal advice.

The women at the desk keep hacking away at their computers without really telling us what’s going on for what feels like hours. Managers are called over, calls are made and all the while, everyone else on our plane is going through the system just fine. Every time I try to add some piece of knowledge or push my MN Driver’s License on them, I’m rebuffed with a condescending statement that it will be fine. Just what the girl with the Jewish surname wants to hear by people speaking terse Dutch.

Finally, we are free. It would seem that in our helpful Hungarian’s quest to help us, he ignored several key questions when he checked us in at Liszt Ferenc, thus changing our nationalities. Köszönöm, Andris.

Back to School

14 Wednesday Sep 2011

Posted by in It's not always so bad

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Trip type: Business

Airline: Delta

Route: ATL-MSP

Because you can never assume things will go smoothly with Atlanta traffic, I always end up at Jackson-Hartsfield early. Very early. Then, I go and visit the Delta desk to see if there’s any chance of getting on an earlier flight (there never is but it’s a fun little game I play with same, sad looking woman who’s inevitably working when I’m flying).

As I’m waiting, there’s a frazzled mother with her two sons in line behind me. They have very heavy Southern drawls and it’s clear from their demeanor and story that they don’t fly often (she was very upset she had to throw out her full-size hairspray at security…). Naturally, I strike up a conversation and end up chatting with the older of the two sons who is probably about 12.

Boy: “At least we got out of school early!”

Me: “Wow, it’s still August; I didn’t realize school had started for some people. When did you go back this year?”

Boy: “Three weeks ago. When did you start?”

Me: [caught-off-guard-laugh] “Oh, I’m a grownup!”

Not my smoothest of responses (please see previous post for proof I can be smooth) but I was so taken aback at being taken for this kid’s peer (I decided later the better response would have been “1989”). I may be the height of a seventh grader but I could swear I seem slightly more adult. Maybe next time.

The Banjo Bandit

10 Saturday Sep 2011

Posted by in Seatmate Shenanigans

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Trip type: Business

Airline: Delta

Route: ATL-MSP

When returning from a work trip, especially one that started with a 6am flight Monday and is ending on an 8pm flight Thursday, the last–and I mean the last–thing I want to do is talk to my seatmate.

Naturally, whenever this perfect storm arises, my seatmate always wants to talk to me. On a Delta weekday flight out of Atlanta chock-full of Zone 1 businessmen who wait to board in a line at the priority boarding carpet and fake call in eleventh hour sales deals, I will invariably not be seated next to one of them. And this is a shame because they are quiet. They too have put in a long week and just want to get a drink and pretend it’s already Friday.

Instead of one of these lovely gentlemen, I will, 90% of the time, get a seatmate like the one I got on this particular trip: an early-70s retiree who’s young enough to be able to torment me with an iPhone but too old to really relate to me in any meaningful way (“I used an abacus when I started my accounting firm!” I don’t think he was kidding.)

I’ve just settled in at my favorite point in the trip: 10,000 feet. I like to start all my trips the same way:

1. Frenzied panic to board until I can rest assured I have overhead space.

2. Furiously email/text until the door shuts.

3. Anxiously monitor the taxi out to ensure there are is no Tarmac “resting”.

4. Catnap until 10,000 feet when I have to make the decision between work and iPad. The iPad almost always wins on trips home.

So here we are at 10,000 feet. Time to boot up the iPad and ensconce myself in some combination of downloaded magazines, music, Sudoku, or shows/movies until the drink cart comes by. Decisions, decisions.

I’m just getting a playlist running and a Sudoku game warmed up when I sense the gentleman next to me leaning over and saying something. I know that I’ve described myself as that person who can’t not talk to someone who initiates conversation but in a setup like this, unless you’re reminding me to take my heels off before we go down an emergency slide, STFU.

I take my earbud out and say, “Sorry?” in a way that I hope conveys that I’m not and he says: “I’ve always wondered how to play that game!” I respond with something noncommittal, hoping we can leave it at that but apparently that’s not in the cards. “So…explain to me what you’re doing.”

Really? Really? I try to be good natured and sort of explain Sudoku but he’s really not getting it, despite the fact he’s a close-talker who’s allllll up in my seat, leaning over the iPad. He mentions that he thought he’d be better at understanding it since he was an accountant and I counter that I thought I’d be worse at understanding it because I was an English major but oh well!

The flight devolves from there, at least for me. I can’t remember the segue (scintillating I’m sure), but somehow I find myself looking at blurry pictures on his iPhone of him and the Banjo Bandits (real) playing at local legions and VFWs and hearing stories of how he learned to play the banjo partly on his own and partly from a homeless man on a park bench (also real. He brought him muffins in return for lessons).

This goes on for the ENTIRE flight. As I’m on the window and he’s in the middle, there’s precisely nowhere to go for two plus hours. I’m pretty stabby by the time we hit MSP.

To top it all off, E blew a tire on the way to get me and I had to take a cab to a sketchy part of south Minneapolis to meet him and take the dog home (who was also coming to greet me) while he waited for a tow truck. The perfect end to a perfect night!

Boston and the Bar

03 Saturday Sep 2011

Posted by in Cancellation Clusters

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Another from the archives…July 2010.

Trip type: Personal

Airline: Delta

Route: BOS-MSP

For any readers who have taken the Bar exam (or any put-upon spouses who have lived through the fun), you’ll recall (undoubtedly with a shudder) how riddled with anxiety you were in the days leading up to it.

Now imagine that the last weekend before the bar you’re attending one of your best friend’s weddings. Then imagine this:

It’s Sunday, the morning after the wedding, and we’re due to leave Boston on a direct flight home at 6pm (E’s family is on the east coast so we wanted to stay a little longer to spend some time with them). At 11:30, I receive an automated call from Delta saying our flight is canceled and that we’ve been rebooked for tomorrow (aka Monday, aka the day before the Bar) going through Atlanta.

Immediate response: No.

Naturally, I immediately fall apart. I still, however, insist I will be the one to call Delta demanding a better resolution. I call Delta in tears telling them that we must reach Minneapolis tonight. Luckily, they are able to book us on two of the last three seats available. We have to leave almost immediately and connect through Reagan but we should make it home that day.

Off to the airport we go and E suggests we go to the Delta lounge in Boston’s A Terminal for some pre-flight drinks. The A Terminal is broken into two parts with an underground tunnel connecting either side. Our flight was on one side and the lounge was on the other. Nothing can ever be easy.

After a glass (or two…hard to remember) of wine, I’m feeling much better about life in general. We head back to the other side of the terminal to catch our connection to D.C. and find that the tunnel has been shutdown. Completely. As in, we’re on the moving sidewalk and nearly fall into a group of people as we come off of it because everyone has been halted so abruptly.

The crowd is tensely whispering to each other and it’s clear nobody has any idea what’s going on. There are some TSA folks lingering around acting as the barricade keeping us from the other side but they’re tight lipped. About 20 minutes in, I’m ready to have a conniption when they suddenly release the throng. No explanation given but hey, we’re on our way to the gate so I’m willing to let it go.

Finally aboard the Barbie jet, I’m praying we can just get to D.C. and connect home. The plane is so tiny we actually had to climb up the stairs and, as E and I are in the front row, we’re nearly knee-to-knee with the sole flight attendant when she tucks into her jump seat. We’re just about ready to push when she gets a call from the pilots telling her there’s weather trouble in the mid-Atlantic and D.C. is not accepting flights for the foreseeable future. Neat. After another tense 20 minute wait, D.C. apparently reopens and we’re able to leave (it’s funny how long 20 minutes can feel when you have no idea if you’re ever going to move).

We land in D.C. and as we come off the jetway and into the airport I see the telltale signs of a day of terrible mid-Atlantic weather: it looks like a refugee zone. (I ended up chatting with a woman who’d been at Reagan since 8am (it’s about 5pm at this point) trying to get to Atlanta. And she was with a small child. Note to self: It can always be worse.))

Now comes the fun of flying through Reagan where flights are bounced from gate to gate constantly. There were two flights to Minneapolis that afternoon, one at 4pm and one at 7pm. We’re on the 7pm but the 4pm hasn’t even left yet so I’m not feeling very optimistic about an on-time departure. Watching the flight board was useless as our flight went from one gate to another to disappearing altogether at one point. Finally, E suggested we split up and stand in line at each of the two counters we’d variously seen listed as hosting our flight (we needed seat assignments since we’d been added so late to the flight).

As I’m standing in my line across the concourse, I strike up a conversation (obviously) with some guy who tells me he’s a consultant who flies this route every Sunday and has yet to see a flight leave a.) on time, or b.) from it’s originally scheduled gate. Comforting.

Finally, there’s an announcement that the 4pm flight will leave from Gate 12 (where E is in line) at 8pm and the 7pm will leave immediately after). By the grace of g-d, E stays in line despite this announcement and when the gate agent comes back to say that there are 10 extra seats on the flight and the first 10 people in line will get them, the first thing to go right all day does and we get on the plane.

Despite my seatmate telling me the flight is Detroit-bound as some kind of sadistic joke, everything goes smoothly as we head to MSP. Funnily enough, for all the craziness we endured, we end up making it home only an hour later than we would have on our original flight.

(And E passed the bar.)