Spinster

So, I’m back. I had a good time in Georgia – there were lots of walks to be had, and it was nice to see my family and an old friend – but I’m glad to be back.

Anyway, I have one of those classic travel horror/clusterfuck stories to tell. I’d like to preface my tale by saying that, although these things are frustrating as hell, I kind of love them because they illustrate the sheer incompetence of the airline industry. Not that I have it out for the airline industry in particular, but I do love displays of incompetence.

I flew out of Toronto last Friday at noon on Delta. I checked one bag; though it was small enough to be considered a carry-on, it had knitting needles, scissors, and cough syrup in it, all of which are either banned or questioned at security.

The flight was scheduled to leave at noon. It was delayed by about 15 minutes, which wasn’t a big deal at all. (Except there was this one guy who was traveling with his family to Disney World [ask me how I know this] and was obsessively concerned about whether they would make their connection. In his squeaky, high-pitched voice, he asked two different gate agents whether the 15 minute delay would affect their chances of making the connection that they had an hour and a half to make. An hour and a half? That’s a lifetime as far as connections are concerned. During the flight, we were apparently flying slower than expected due to the weather, and he cornered the flight attendant and the co-pilot, who was passing by on his way to the bathroom, about his family’s goddamn connection. I sincerely hope they missed it.)

The plane was one of those small ones, sort of a maxi-puddle jumper, with about 50 people on board. From the conversations around me, I gathered that most of the passengers were connecting to other flights, which may sort of account for what happened when we landed. The flight ended up being about an hour late, due to the original delay and then the slow flying speed.

Atlanta is one of those giant airports with a tram between gate blocks, and it’s Delta’s hub – Delta comprises the entire Terminal South, with all of the other airlines clustered in Terminal North. For some reason, whenever bad things have happened to me during travel, Atlanta is usually involved. So, when we landed I headed for the baggage claim area. I didn’t take the tram cause I had no desire to be face-to-armpit with a bunch of other stinky, cranky travellers, and it only took about 5 minutes to walk.

At baggage claim, I had to look for the carousel number on a screen. Carousel 2. Fine, no problem. However, my flight was not listed on the electronic marquee above Carousel 2 -it seemed to be mostly flights from the midwest (Detroit, Kalamazoo, etc.). International flights were at Carousel 3; I thought that maybe Toronto was considered domestic because it’s in North America, but Vancouver was listed on the marquee for Carousel 3. I must have stood there for 40 minutes, watching the carousel go round and round, waiting for my bag and my parents. I didn’t see a single other person from my flight, which I thought was kind of weird. As I stood there, waves of people came, collected their bags, and went.

At that point, I was kind of worried about my luggage, and I was also wondering where my parents were. I was just about to use a pay phone to call them when I saw my mom. I walked over to her and said hi, and she asked me where I’d been and said that she and my dad had been waiting for me, first at the entrance to baggage claim, and then at the carousel, for half an hour. She told me that on the Arrivals monitor, the screen first showed that my flight was on time at its original time, then showed its updated time, then showed the original time, then didn’t show anything, and that they were more than a little confused as to my whereabouts.

Score: Delta 1, Tasha 0.

I told her that my bag was missing, and she went over to speak to the Delta agent who was on hand. I provided my baggage check number, and the agent cheerfully informed me that my bag was indeed not there, and that it was coming in from Toronto on a later flight and would arrive at 7 pm.

Score: Delta 2, Tasha 0.

Now, I’ve had luggage lost before, and it’s been delivered when it’s come in, and everyone goes on their merry way. However, my final destination wasn’t Atlanta; our cabin is outside of Clayton, which is about 2 hours from Atlanta, which was going to complicate things. The agent assured us that it wouldn’t be a problem and that we could expect the bag late that night or early the next morning.

Meanwhile, I was still pretty sick at that point and had only made it through the flight thanks to DayQuil, which I’d packed in my bag, along with NyQuil, my toothbrush and toothpaste, and all of my clothes. I didn’t bother to pack any of that stuff in my carry-on, cause I only took a small bag that held my camera and a book. When we stopped for gas on the way home, I made my mom buy me some NyQuil (actually, it was a generic brand, because my mother balked at the $7.99 price tag on the NyQuil; to be fair to her, I had bought the generic stuff too, but I can’t remember what it was called) but couldn’t stand the thought of stopping at a grocery store for DayQuil or anything else.

That night, despite having to use someone else’s toothbrush, I slept like a log or a dead baby or whatever, thanks to the good people at Vicks. In the morning, my bag was nowhere to be found, so I called the Delta Baggage Information number I’d been provided with, and entered my confirmation number to find out about my luggage. I was informed that it was being flown to Asheville, NC.

Score: Delta 3, Tasha 0.

I called back and got an operator, who was able to tell me that not only was my bag indeed not being delivered to Clayton, but it was also on its way to Asheville. The next day.

Score: Delta 4, Tasha 0.

I was more than a little bit pissed off at this point, but the woman on the phone had done all she could: she called Delta in Atlanta THREE TIMES to try to speak to someone about the situation but no one picked up. She told me to call back after noon to get the updated information. When I called back at 4 pm (we had gone on a hike in the early afternoon), I was put on hold for 20 minutes. As soon as a representative picked up, I was disconnected.

Score: Delta 5, Tasha 0.

Woe be to the person who has to deal with me after I’ve been put on hold, have listened to Delta’s shitty Muzak for 20, been disconnected on, been put on hold again, and have listened to Delta’s shitty Muzak for another 20 minutes. The woman who took my call was surely cursing me when we hung up, because I was not a pleasant person to deal with. This is a rough estimate of how the interaction went:

Woman with a suspiciously Indian accent, though I won’t hold that against her, but oh my God I fucking hate outsourcing to Bombay or Indonesia or wherever: Hello, thank you for calling Delta, how may I help you?

Me: Here’s my confirmation number: blah blah blah blah blah blah.

WWASIA,TIWHTAH,BOMGIFHOTBOIOW: It looks as though your bag is being sent to Asheville, North Carolina, at 10 o’ clock tomorrow morning, and will arrive at 11:11 am.

Me: Is it? Well, what I would like to know is why my bag wasn’t on my flight YESTERDAY? And, because it wasn’t on my flight yesterday, why wasn’t it delivered to my house THIS MORNING? And, because it wasn’t delivered to my house this morning, why isn’t it on a goddamn flight to Asheville NOW?

WWASIA,TIWHTAH,BOMGIFHOTBOIOW: [In a small voice.] M’am [grrrr], I apologize for your inconvenience, but that is all the information I have.

Me: Oh really? You don’t have any other information? All you know is that my luggage is going to be in Asheville tomorrow morning? You can’t tell me why it wasn’t on my flight in the first place? You can’t tell me why it’s not at my house now? You can’t get it on an earlier flight to Asheville?

WWASIA,TIWHTAH,BOMGIFHOTBOIOW: [In a smaller voice.] M’am, I apologize for your inconvenience, but there’s nothing I can do. If you would call back in 5 hours, you can get updated information.

Me: You want me to call back at 9 o’ clock TONIGHT for information about a bag that should’ve been with me when I arrived in Atlanta yesterday at 4? I don’t think so. I want to know where my goddamn bag is NOW, and I want it on an earlier flight to Asheville.

WWASIA,TIWHTAH,BOMGIFHOTBOIOW: [Practically whispering.] M’am, I apologize for your inconvenience, but if you would just call back in 5 hours–

Me: Stop apologizing for my inconvenience. I cannot believe this. All you can do is give me some out-of-date information that appears on your screen and expect me to call back in 5 hours?

WWASIA,TIWHTAH,BOMGIFHOTBOIOW: M’am, there’s nothing more I can do.

Score: Delta 6, Tasha .5 (I know it was wrong, but God it felt good to yell at someone.)

I spent a total of 2 hours on the phone on Saturday evening, trying to find someone who knew something about anything. After failing miserably, I called the Baggage Information people back to let them know that I was planning to pick up the bag in Asheville, rather than rely on them to deliver it, because they were clearly not capable of doing so.

Less than two hours after I got off the phone, we got a call from a guy who was just leaving the airport in Asheville with my bag and needed directions to our house.

Delta, why is it that whenever I fly with you, something goes wrong? I have nothing against you in particular, but you seem to be incapable of dealing with things like snowstorms and holidays. (To give them credit, the flight yesterday was perfect, my bag was there when we landed, and all is well.)

Bonus: the customs agent that I got on my return? Absolutely fucking gorgeous. Streaky blond hair, well built, and turquoise -not blue, fucking TURQUOISE- eyes. And? Charming and personable, which is a miracle. To say that I wanted to bring him home with me would be an understatement. Tell me, is it illegal to hit on a customs official? It’s not like propositioning a cop or anything, is it? I behaved completely appropriately, but only because I don’t want to get deported. If I were a customs agent, I would totally pull aside every hot guy and be like, “Excuse me, sir, you’re going to need to step into my office.” Then I would interrogate the living shit out of them and, when they were at their most terrified and vulnerable, tell them that I’ll let them go, if they “help a lady out, if you know what I mean.”