When the flickering lights fade at last
into the night sky,
and the cool breeze of autumn creeps silently
into its ditches and alleys,
calm descends in earnest upon
those dreaming exiles of a decayed existence.
An eerie silence
deploys her claws unto the world outside,
forcing all subordinates to abandon
their noble quests
and succumb to an encompassing, personal denial
as memory betrays an apathetic fate to the dreamers.
Thought, like all prisoners,
drags its weary bones along that deep, black highway.
Not searching for an escape so much as an answer.
And as the magnitude of the universe
converges upon itself,
causing a sudden and grand collapse,
all that I can do is sit here
in the yellow lamplight
and think of you
Always The Stage Manager Never The Stage
Monday, May 12, 2014
Friday, May 9, 2014
Something I should have realized a long time ago
I’m going to make a bold statement that is going to anger a
lot of people. If you are an artist, and you want to be a great one, you cannot
do anything else. You can’t have another job. You can’t work Monday-Friday
during the day and then expect to create something at night when you are
exhausted and thinking about how early you have to get up for work the next
day. You can’t focus your energies on something else for a significant chunk of
your week and then still give everything that you have to give to a play or
painting or song. You can’t do it. You can’t. Because human beings can’t
function at 100% all of the time. So if you are devoting your time and brain
function to a job that is just a job, it is taking away from your art. It is
making it impossible for you to create because all you will be giving your art
is what is left over.
The problem we create for ourselves is that we need money,
and art does not always, does not usually, does not ever sustain us financially
despite sustaining us emotionally and aesthetically and physically and
spiritually and psychologically. So we are caught in this horrific pattern of
needing to make money that does not sustain us in any way that matters but not
having the time to balance the two. I can work a full-time job, and I can make
enough money to live comfortably, but I can never be what I should be as I
should be it if I do that. The other problem I encounter is that unless you are
an artist or of a similar mindset, you don’t understand that. You don’t support
it. You think I am lazy and a fool. How dare I spend my days laying on the
balcony writing and my nights at rehearsal when neither pays me enough to make
rent? How dare I not conform to the American dream of a husband and babies and
a white picket fence working 40-50 hours a week to pay for it all and never feeling
fulfilled and wasting my talent trapped in a cubicle? How can I not be
satisfied to merely make a good wage and accrue vacation time with nice albeit
slightly boring people and count the days and the hours until I can retire? Can’t
I be an artist on the weekends?
It’s not that I don’t want to do any of those things (except
the husband and babies part). It’s that I can’t. I cannot live any other way. I
need to be in the theatre, and if that doesn’t pay me for the next 20 years or
not at all, so be it. It is what I need to do and how I need to live. Because I
need to live and not exist. I wasted 9 years of my life trying to conform to
society’s expectations, and I can’t do it anymore. I was a miserable shell of
the person I am and the person I should be. It’s time to jump. It’s time for
life to begin. It’s time to be me.
Thursday, May 8, 2014
Reasons To Take Public Transportation (or at least why I should)
I'm not a person who travels with specific plans. The sooner you learn that about me, the
better. Since I fly on a standby basis,
I am never 100% certain that I will make it to my intended destination on the
day I planned or at all. Maybe I'll land
in Frankfurt and the flight to Lisbon will be oversold and I will be forced to
go to Prague instead. For this reason, I
rarely book lodging or transportation at my first choice of destinations in
advance. I don't want to be on the hook
for a rental car in Tokyo when I had to reroute to Seoul because the flights
looked better. For this reason, there
are not many people who I can/will travel with.
I usually travel alone. My last
excursion, however, I had the pleasure of exploring Italy with 4 of my favorite
people. It was a trip vaguely planned
about 6 months ago that had fizzled so I went to the Middle East instead but
kept the idea in the back of my mind and kept sporadically bringing it up to
them. Finally, I decided to just tell
them I was going and whoever wanted to join me could join me. Thankfully, they all did. I was a little nervous about the size of the
group, but they are all experienced travelers and generally awesome people, so
I was more excited than apprehensive. It
is one of those groups that, when we get together, we spend the majority of our
time in tears from laughing. Add in the
good Italian wine, and we were set up for a great trip. Since this whole zany scheme was my idea, and
I didn't want them all to kill me, I rented a villa in Tuscany on a vineyard
that was in a location rustic enough to get the true sense of Tuscany while
still being close enough to Florence and Siena to enjoy the city perks. None of us had ever been to the region
before, and we were all in serious need of a vacation after the horrific,
traumatizing, insanity of working at an airport during the Christmas season.
Monica and I met in Philadelphia the night before our flight to Rome. Josh and Shenequa met us in Philly the next
day, and we all flew US Airways together.
Meloney flew Delta and met us there.
For some reason, this actually worked, and we all arrived in Rome within
an hour of each other. I had not slept
on the flight over. Partly because coach
seats are extremely uncomfortable no matter what airline you fly, partly
because the flight was from 3pm-10pm according to my internal clock, and partly
because I was going to freaking Italy. I
knew there would be an abundance of coffee, and that was one of 5 things I knew
how to say in Italian before I left, so I would be ok. My Italian is not great. And by not great I mean not good. And by not good I mean bad. You would think that this would infringe on
my ability to drive in Italy. I,
however, did not think of that. We
somehow managed to find a car that would accommodate 5 people and our
luggage. This is no small feat in
Europe, land of the teeny tiny two-seat cars and scooters a-plenty. They do what they have to do. With gas holding steady around 1.75
euros/liter (approximately $9/gallon), you do anything you can to maximize your
gas mileage. So we did the only logical
thing: rented a giant station wagon and
drove it 3000 kilometers around Italy.
Believe it or not, the price of gas is not biggest hurdle to driving in
Italy. We (I) decided that we didn’t
need a map. We would rely on the
directions I had saved on my iPhone before I left to get from Rome to the
Tuscan villa. Mistake #1. We (I) had also decided that since we would
be driving to/from Rome at least twice, we should take a different route each
time to explore the region better. For
the initial drive north, I mapped a route along the coast. It was only a few minutes longer that the
direct route on the toll road. Or at
least it should have been. According to
Google maps, it should have taken us 3 hours & 13 minutes from the Leonardo
da Vinci Airport to our home for the week.
It took us almost 6 hours.
Shenaqua was my navigator because she’s really good with maps. However, we didn’t have a map. We had a stationary image on my phone with
directions written for a US roadway. The
directions did not make sense with the Italian signage, and we had no frame of
reference to realize that every single exit would say it was going toward
Firenze (Florence) when we got in the general vicinity so trying to head toward
the city to get our bearings was not going to work. We stopped at a café to ask for directions
then another to use the free wifi to attempt to map the route again. After
about 4 hours and approximately 16 blind guesses as to what road to take that
turned out, miraculously, to be correct, we had made it to within 30km of our
destination. And we could not have been more lost. We sucked down a few more
shots of coffee and finally found the villa, but not before we found a store
and stocked up on enough local wine to last the week. We drank it all that
night.
If only I could tell you that this was the most complicated
part of the driving experience. The next day, we ventured to Firenze. By this
time, Shenequa and I had somewhat kinda sorta figured out how to interpret the
road signs. We found it without incident. The great thing about this group was
that we had no set agenda, and the plan was to wander around, find some cool
cafes and museums, see the David, and basically just immerse ourselves in the
city. To start with, we needed to find a currency exchange since we had spent
all of our money the previous day on vino and groceries (ok, mostly vino). To
do that, we needed to drive through the city a bit. Keep in mind that our car
was approximately double the size of any other vehicle that we saw the entire
trip. While attempting to find a parking space, I turned into an alley that
ended up winding us up the hillside and around to an entirely different part of
the city without an option to turn around because it was walled on both sides
and so narrow that we had to pull the mirrors inside the car to fit. This was a
two-lane road. I still have nightmares about seeing another car coming in our
direction, because we would still be stuck there in an eternal game of chicken.
There was no turning around or backing up. I’m pretty sure the passengers in
the back seat shrunk themselves into the seat cushions to avoid having to watch
as I white-knuckled us through the maze and finally out the other side. But we
were not in the clear yet. We needed to
park, and we did not know how to read the street signs well enough to determine
where we would actually be able to do so. After a long period of circling, we
found a parking space large enough to fit our house-boat car. However, I had to
jump out of the car and let Shenaqua handle the parallel parking. We breathed a
sigh of relief and climbed out of the car only to be flagged down by a shop
owner and (to the best of our charades skills) told that we could not park
there. We climbed back in the car, found another spot where plenty of other
cars were parked without any sort of permit, and went to find the David. When
we returned, 4 hours later, the cars we had parked around were still
there. And so was ours. Except ours had a parking ticket. We were flabbergasted. And pissed.
And we had nobody to yell at because none of the 5 Italian words that I
knew were cuss words. We spent the rest
of the day in the city, and then returned back to our villa, determined to
fight the ticket the next day. The problem was, we were staying in the middle
of nowhere, and the closest town was tiny. We didn’t even know if they would
have a police station. We stopped at our usual coffee spot (yes, by the third
day, we had local haunts already) and asked where we should go to pay the
ticket. They didn’t know. They guessed
that perhaps we go to another café near the bank. We went. They didn’t know
either, but they suggested the tiny police station down the road. We went. They
didn’t know either, but suggested the bank. We went. Finally, someone who would
take our money. At this point, we had given up the idea of arguing. We had no
idea how to go about it anyway. We just paid.
One of these things is not like the others... |
A week later, we left the paradise of Tuscany to head back to
Rome to spend the last couple of days before we flew back to reality. We had
been in Italy over a week, and I was convinced that I was an expert Italian
driver. I was wrong. Rome is unlike anywhere I had ever attempted to drive. I’m
sure it is not unlike many other cities in the world, but I don’t drive there.
I take public transportation. I drove in Rome…or, their version of driving. I
believe there were some sort of stop sign/stop light signals at a few of the
intersections. At least I think so. But if they were there, I was certainly the
only person who saw them. The cars converged on the intersections from every
direction, weaving their way through the opposing traffic in a sort of bumper
car jamboree. I realized that I was supposed to join in when the taxis started
honking at me. I inched into the intersection, completely convinced that we
were all going to die. Cyclists and mopeds whizzed by us on either side with no
regard for any semblance of sanity. Remarkably, no one was killed. Even more
remarkably, the other drivers stuck to this bizarre gentleman’s agreement and
let us through. I started wishing we had purchased the rental car insurance. I
started wishing we had all rented individual mopeds. I stopped wishing things
and got back to focusing on not massacring my friends in a horrible car crash.
One of the many wonderful things about Italy is the people. And the people of
Rome did not disappoint. A random
stranger must have noticed our terrified looks and directed us to a side street
2 blocks from the Colosseum. He pointed us to a parking place, promised us that
our car would be safe and ticket-free, and then disappeared as mysteriously as
he had appeared.
We all agree that it was the most fun we have ever had on a
trip, and Shenequa and I vow to never ever drive in Italy again. Italy
apparently agrees. 4 months later, I received a speeding ticket in the mail
from Siena for going 8km over the speed limit. Really, guys? I’ll be back. But only on the bus.
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
That Time I Hitchhiked To Philadelphia
It started out as such a simple plan. My friend, Barb, and I were going to fly to
Boston for the Brewers/Red Sox series at Fenway Park. She had never been there, and I had only been
to the park once when I was 7. We sat 3
hours in the rain, the game was cancelled, and we were leaving the next day so
we couldn't use the rain-out vouchers.
The flight Friday night looked good.
We would arrive 2 hours before the first pitch. We were waiting at the gate for our names to
be called when the non-rev's worst nightmare happened. The flight before ours cancelled. For most people, this is a minor
inconvenience. For a non-rev, it's the
same empty, desperate feeling as missing the annual Manolo Blahnik sale. Instantly, the 20 open seats on our plane
disappeared. We waited it out, sat the
gate in a numb despair until the plane took off without us. We were new to the non-rev game. We didn't have a backup plan, but we were
enthusiastic (read: naïve) enough to scramble for one.
We were going to miss the game that night, but there were
still 2 games to be played that weekend.
So all we had to do was get to Boston by 1pm on Saturday to make the
next game. We scanned the departures
screen for any flights going east. The
closest one to Boston was a Philadelphia departure leaving in 20 minutes. We ran to the gate to see if there were any
seats. Miraculously, there were. We didn't have a plan beyond getting off the
plane in Philly, but we would figure it out when we got there. The plane taxiied out to the runway. Nothing could go wrong. Except wait...what's going on...why are we
going back to the gate? I still to this
day can't believe that this actually happened, but the plane returned to the
gate, and the gate agent came on the PA.
They paged Barb & I to take our carryons and get off the plane. Um what?
We were 2 seconds from taking off, and now we have to get off the
plane?! This must be some kind of
twisted joke. We gathered our things,
and walked off the plane, trying not to make eye contact with any of the other
passengers, for some reason ashamed despite having no clue what was going
on. We stepped into the jetbridge, the
gate agent closed the plane door, and it left.
This time it took off.
She explained that it had started raining in Philadelphia
between the time the plane left the gate and reached the runway, and that it
was now weight-restricted by 2. Since we
were the only 2 non-revs, they had to pull us off. Seriously.
Seriously, this happened. I have
never heard of anything so ludicrous in my airline career. At this point, we should have just accepted
that the non-rev gods were against us and gone home. We did not.
We checked the departure screens again.
We needed something going east, anything going east. There was nothing. Wait, one flight left to Cleveland! That's east!
We'll go to Cleveland! We'll show
you, non-rev gods! We ran to the
gate. Of course there were seats open
because, well, who wants to go to Cleveland? This time, we did not weigh enough to screw up
the plane's weight & balance (again, what?!), and it took off just
fine.
About halfway through the short flight, we realized that
Cleveland is not so much east as central Ohio.
And Ohio is not so much east unless you're comparing it to Nevada. Were American schools better at teaching
geography, we probably would have figured that out before we impulsively jumped
on the plane. We had no plan, not the
slightest idea how to get from Cleveland to Boston, and no Siri (this was a
couple of years before smart phones were the norm). We had a half-formed idea that we would be
able to find a bus, train, or flight from Cleveland to the east coast. We would just ask the information desk at the
airport when we landed. Or so we
thought.
I'm not certain if this is still the case as I have never
been back there, but in 2007 the Cleveland Airport Information Desk was manned
by 2 blue-haired ladies in their late 70s with a rolodex as their sole
informational resource. We had high
hopes that they would be able to pull up the Greyhound and Amtrak schedules for
us, there would be a train leaving within the hour, and we would be on our way
to Fenway Park. In actuality, they
didn't even have a computer. We asked
what our options were for getting to Boston that night. They were befuddled. Boston, Massachusetts? Why did we want to go there? We explained that we had tickets to the game
the next day. Well then, what were we
doing in Cleveland? That was a very good
question. In retrospect, they had it
together way more than we did. We asked
if there was a train going east that night.
The very nice ladies in the business of information told us that there
were no trains or buses that stopped in Cleveland. Yes, they said that. Barb and I looked at each other. Do not laugh.
Do NOT laugh. We explained very
politely that the Amtrak did in fact stop in Cleveland. Would they happen to have an address for the
station? They consulted their
rolodex. They did not. Of course not.
We called our friend Adam back in Milwaukee to look up the
train and bus schedules on the internet.
There was nothing running that late.
He would be happy to book us a hotel near the airport. We told him we'd call him back. Our only other option was a one-way rental
car that would cost us about the same as just buying the car outright. We had royally messed up. We were stuck in Cleveland. We had angered the non-rev gods, and our
punishment was spending the night in a city with allegedly no train or bus
stops. We were about to call Adam back
to book us a hotel room when we passed some businessmen walking toward baggage
claim, complaining about their flight that had been cancelled to Philadelphia. We had nothing better to do, so we followed
them and eavesdropped. After all, we
were all trying to get out of Cleveland that night, so at least we had one
thing in common!
It took us a couple of seconds to figure out that the men did
not know each other. They had all been
traveling to Philly on business on the same flight, but had never seen each
other before then. They all needed to be
in Philly by the next morning, but there were no more flights. One of the men decided that he was just going
to rent a car and drive. The others said
that was what they would have to do, too.
After a few more minutes, they had agreed to rent one car and drive
together. The first man's company would
pay for the rental, and they would all chip in for gas. Barb and I locked eyes. We hadn't said a word to each other the whole
time while we were listening to them navigate their way to this point in the
conversation. We had both been thinking
the same thing. The men were now at the
rental car counter. We had a few seconds
to act. “Do we do it?” She asked. But she already knew the answer. “Let's go,” I said. We went up to them, trying to walk the fine
line between friendly and Fatal Attraction with our smiles. We asked if we could hitch a ride.
So that's how Barb and I ended up in the back seat of a
mini-van with 3 complete strangers driving through the night to Philadelphia
when we really wanted to go to Boston.
We made it to Philly at 4am. We
never made it to Boston. We spent the
next day exploring Philly then took the bus to New York to fly home from La
Guardia. About a year later, we told our
parents the story. At some point,
they'll stop telling us how foolish we were.
What is a Qatar?
I've been wanting for a while now to stop surmising what it
would be like to start a travel blog and actually write. The problem is that there are so many travel
bloggers out there. Everyone has their
own niche. I needed something to write
that was different from all the other blogs and yet distinctively me. Then I went to the Middle East. The experience was amazing. I saw friends who I hadn't seen for a long
time, explored a part of the world I had never visited, and crossed a few new
countries off my ever-growing list.
However, the aspect of the trip that inspired me to finally sit down and
write was the voyage itself.
I should
start by explaining that I work for an airline in the United States. This does not make me a travel expert, but it
does make my perspective on airlines, airports, airplanes, and travel in
general slightly more deranged than the normal pajamas in public, what do you
mean I can't take my gallon jug of shampoo through security, packing carry-on
bags so large they can barely fit them in the car but will still argue with the
gate agent that they will fit in the overhead bin because they “fit the last
time” and they allegedly “travel all the time” because once in the last two
years they took a weekend trip to Las Vegas tourist public. The main difference between me and those poor
ticket-buying saps is that I fly for free.
I'll give you a minute. Sip some
water. Throw some shoes if you need
to. Not the Manolo Blahniks, the ones
you got on sale at Target. Once you've
calmed yourself enough to continue reading, please sit back down.
Flying for
free is as great as it sounds. In fact,
it's the single greatest thing ever. I
have worked for 2 different airlines in the last 5 years, with a brief,
traumatic, 10-month period where I decided I would rather make more money at a
different job. I promptly quit when I
learned that I would have to fund my own travel expenses, thus negating the
raise I was getting to work there. And
also, how could I survive not playing with airplanes every day? I don't have an attention span long enough
for office work. But I digress.
My plan was to visit some friends in Qatar,
hop to Greece for a few days, then head back home to San Diego. I had procured passes on United and Swiss Air
with back-up options on Lufthansa, Emirates, and Delta. Oh yeah, I fly for free, but...BUT...it's
standby. So traveling for me is a little
like those maze games I used to play as a kid where you try to make one
continuous line to get around the obstacles and out of the circle. For some, that might be extremely
frustrating. However, once you get used
to the game, it's not so bad. I actually
find it rather fun. It helps to make a
drinking game out of any flights you get bumped from.
For this
particular trip, my flights looked good.
From San Diego, I was going to take Southwest (the greatest airline in
the history of the world) to Washington-Dulles via Chicago. I would claim my bag at baggage claim,
re-check it at the United ticket counter, and then jump on a wide-open flight
from Dulles-Dubai-Doha. It was a through
flight, so I wouldn't even have to change planes in Dubai. There were 80 open seats. Nothing could stop me. I made it to Dulles 30 minutes early thanks
to Southwest rocking their on-time departures.
I picked up my bag, checked it to Doha at the United counter, confirmed
with the Customer Service Agent that there were still plenty of open seats all
the way through, and headed up to the gate.
I had high hopes of getting upgraded to Business or First since the
flight was so empty, but the screens at the gate dashed my hopes. Approximately 40 people were on the waiting
list for an upgrade. No problem, the
gate agent cleared me into a window seat in my own row in Economy Plus. Good enough for me. I could lay down and sleep the whole 13-hour
flight. We boarded the beautiful
777-300. I texted my goodbyes to
everyone for the next two weeks, not knowing where or when I would have access
to wifi while there, and turned my phone off.
I improved my standby karma (it's a real thing) by giving my row of 3 to
a pilot commuting to work in Dubai and moved to an open row of 2. I could still sleep, and since he was much
taller than I am, so could he. The
flight attendants expressed their appreciation by offering me free drinks for
the entire flight. Totally worth losing
the extra 17 inches of seat to stretch out (See? I was serious about the karma.). We watched the security briefing video,
returned our seat backs and tray tables to their full upright and locked
position, and were ready to go.
Except we
didn't go. We sat at the gate. 20 minutes passed. We were supposed to have been taxiing out to
the runway and cleared for takeoff already.
Finally, one of the pilots came on the PA and informed us that the ramp
agents had damaged a cargo bin seals while loading the bags. They would have to replace it. “It shouldn't be more than 2, 2 ½ hours, so
we're going to go ahead and ask everyone to deplane.” Oh well.
It happens. I grabbed my purse
and the pilot, who by his own admission owed me a drink, and headed to the wine
bar. Oh yes. The wine bar.
In the Dulles airport, there sits one of the better wine bars I have
been to in not only any airport but in several major cities around the
world. Wine flights, a great wine list,
knowledgable bartenders, and prices (for the US) that didn't make you want to
weep openly. We sipped and swirled our
way through a Spanish wine flight and headed back to the gate to check the
progress of the mechanics. We got there
just in time for the annoucement that they were going to swap us to another 777
that was coming in from London in 45 minutes.
The crowd was surprisingly mellow.
It consisted of about 60% Arab families and businessmen, 30% military,
and 10% hodge-podge (myself included).
We meandered over to our new gate and asked the agents a realistic
departure time. They guessed at least
another 2 hours. Back to the wine
bar. Insomnia or not, I would be able to
sleep now! 4 hours after our scheduled
departure time, we boarded again in Dulles.
As I was boarding, I asked the kindly United chaps if the Dubai-Doha leg
was still going to go since we were so late.
They assured me that it was as it was their only flight on that route
for the day. Great. I messaged my friends in Qatar with the new
arrival time (At this point, our theatre tickets for the night were
ruined...well, at least for me. They
still went.), and was on my way.
I slept the
entire flight, awakened only on final descent in time to groggily open my
window shade and watch the city lights as we were enveloped into them. We pulled into the gate, and a voice came
over the PA first in Arabic then in English instructing all the Doha passengers
to take their carry-on luggage and deplane.
The voice did not tell us that the Dubai-Doha flight had been cancelled,
but I assumed as much. I exited the
plane in search of any United employee to ask where I could retrieve my bag,
since it had been checked all the way to Doha.
There were none. United has one
flight a day, and they contract their ground personnel out. I followed the disgruntled Doha crowd to the
transfers desk. An airport employee
instructed us that everyone had been re-routed onto Emirates and Qatar
Airways. Well, everyone except me because
I was a non-revenue standby. I tried to
explain to the Dubai airport employee that I was a standby passenger and needed
my bag back to try for a different flight.
After explaining several times that United would not be paying for me to
fly on another airline since I was not paying them for the original flight, he
told with way more confidence than I thought plausible that my bag would be at
baggage claim. I thanked him and headed
downstairs. It was still early in the
trip, so I still had some faith in humanity, and part of me might have believed
that my bag would actually be at baggage claim.
It was not. Nor was there a
single person associated with United Airlines.
Thankfully, the airport had free wifi so I was able to message my
friends to tell them that I would not be arriving in Doha anytime soon.
I found a
generic airport baggage service office near the carousels and pleaded with a
very pleasant lady who had an extremely difficult time understanding what I
meant by “standby”. Eventually, she was
able to reach a United representative on the phone, and they assured me that
they had located my bag and it would be dropped at the carousel in “15-30
minutes”. I messaged my friends to
update them. They did not hesitate to
assure me that I would not see my bag for at least an hour. Still, I had high hopes. 2 hours later, the lady from the Dubai
airport brought me my bag. I had missed
the first block of Emirates and Qatar flights and had 45 minutes to catch the
last Emirates flight of the night...in another terminal. I ran.
I ran in suede boots with a 4 ½ inch heel and a dress that I had been
wearing for the last 27 hours. I reached
the Emirates Staff Check-in desk 30 minutes before the flight was scheduled to
depart. I panted the situation to the
man behind the desk. He told me that
they close their flights 65 minutes before departure, and I would not be
getting on this one.
The next
flight left at 2:30am, almost 5 hours away, but he could not put me on the
standby list until I changed clothes. I
needed to be wearing a floor-length dress and cover my shoulders. Now, I was obviously aware that I was going
to a Muslim country, but my friends had assured me that I did not need to wear
an abiyah or hijab in public. I had also
not planned on flying Emirates when I left, so I had not researched their dress
code for non-revenue travelers. I had
assumed that it was similar to all the other world carriers. Typically, you dress up. I was dressed up. A lot of airlines are more lax with their dress
codes now, but if you want even the slightest chance of being upgraded to
Business class, you need to look as though you belong in Business class. If you know me, you know that I dress that
way at all times anyway because I'm a pretentious ass, but in particular I make
sure that I look professional when I'm flying.
If the plane crashes, I want people to be looking at the pictures
thinking “Oh, the tragedy...wait...are those Christian Louboutins?” I want to look good as mangled wreckage. Where was I? Oh yes, breaking the dress code
and offending the straight-laced Emirates guys.
I apologized profusely. I may
have even conjured up some college acting class tears. I explained what had happened with United,
and I pulled everything out of my suitcase and had the now extremely amused
Emirates guys pick out an acceptable outfit for me to wear on their plane. I had no dresses long enough. Thankfully, I had at the last minute thrown
the only pair of jeans I own into the bag.
Those, they informed me, would work.
Usually, jeans are on the “no go” list for any airline dress code. For Emirates, they were the only thing I
could wear out of my entire suitcase. I
wrapped a shawl over my shoulders, and they gave me a boarding pass. Then, since we were now best friends, they
apologized to ME for making me change.
They wanted to assure them that they were not offended by what I was
wearing. They just didn't want to get in
trouble by sending me to the gate looking like an American hussy. Ok, they didn't say hussy. I made sure to thank them with one foot
already halfway down the terminal before they changed their minds. I had my seat. And 4 hours left to wait.
Fortunately,
the Dubai airport is actually a small city.
There are hotels, showers you can rent by the hour, a shopping mall,
restaurants, bars, clubs, and I'm pretty sure a couple of subdivisions. Everything might be bigger in Texas, but it's
brighter in Dubai. There are rainbow
chandeliers and murals everywhere you turn.
I had to stop at Pinkberry for some Pomegranate yogurt to carry around
just so I could feel like I belonged. 4
hours of wandering around in the life-sized Candyland and taking pictures of
people passed out in their chairs (it was now 2:00am) later, I got on my flight
to Doha.
The boarding
process in Dubai can only be properly understood if you have witnessed the
running of the bulls in Spain. I had
not, and I was nearly trampled. A lady
with a stroller literally tried to run me over.
I would have thrown down with her, but I was flying for free, and I
didn't want to ruin my boots. The poor
gate agents attempted to board in the zones on our boarding passes, but the
entire gate area stampeded toward them, shoving each other out of the way and
clawing their way forward in the line. I
think some of them actually thought that if they weren't the first ones on the
plane that it was going to leave them behind.
When we finally reached the plane, the concept of seat assignments was
completely lost on at least half of the passengers. Some sat at random and then responded to the
news that they were in someone else's seat with an irritated scoff and
glare. Some wandered, wide-eyed, through
the aisles holding the stub with their seat assignment as if it possessed
magical powers. I directed a few of them
to their seats, but I was exhausted and done with the whole flying thing for a
while, so I left it up to the flight attendants to decipher. They did a marvelous job of kicking people
out of the wrong seats and directing others to the right ones. It was a completely full flight, and it
miraculously managed to leave close to on time.
My seatmates
were a party of 3, one Arab man with 2 women fully covered in abiyahs. The man was sitting in my aisle seat when I
boarded (He was one of the most successful at pushing people out of the way to
board first. For his effort, he was in a
middle seat toward the back.). He did
not speak English, nor do I speak any Arabic.
I pointed to the sign over the seat and showed him my boarding
pass. He glowered at me. I think he thought that he was going to be
able to intimidate me into sitting somewhere else, but I did not even wait for
him to move and started stowing my carry-on underneath the seat where he was
sitting. So he slid over into his correct
seat. I imagine his conversation with
the women traveling with him was not too complimentary toward me. But I didn't care. I was an hour away from my friends.
Emirates did
not skimp on their service. They were
passing out water as soon as we were coming to the end of the boarding
process. They did beverage, meal, and
coffee services on a full A-330 during a one-hour flight, all while smiling and
engaging every single passenger. I was
impressed. The bully next to me was
not. During the initial water service,
he had tried to take 3 waters from the flight attendant serving our
section. The FA was very nice and gave
him 2. Their conversation was in Arabic,
so I'm not entirely sure what was said, but from their body language, I
gathered that he told the bully that he needed to serve the rest of our section
and would return with another water if he had one left when he was
finished. My seatmate, who I will from
now on refer to as Stanley Kowalski, argued with him. Since I couldn't understand exactly what he
was saying, I kept picturing him standing outside in the rain irrationally
screaming “Stellllaaaaaaa!!!” The FA
never raised his voice or stopped smiling, but he continued to walk up the
aisle passing out water. Stanley became
irate. He demanded that the next FA who
walked by call the purser. We were
ready to taxi, so the purser came over once we were in flight. Until then, Stanley loudly complained about
how rude the FA had been. My brilliant
plan to get a nap in during the flight was a total failure. Stanley asked for a complaint form and filed
a written complaint with the purser during the flight. Every few seconds, he would seek approval
from the 2 Stellas sitting next to him, and they would egg him on. It was loud and disgusting, and I didn't know
how to argue with him since the entire conversation was in Arabic. Instead, I settled for “accidentally”
elbowing and kicking him about 14 times during the short flight. As we were deplaning, I took the purser, who
spoke limited English, aside and explained what had actually happened and that
the FA had done nothing wrong. “I don't
know how to say this in Arabic, but that guy was a boorish asshole”, I told
him. The purser agreed. He told me that the “written complaint” had
been filed in the trash can. I thanked
him, and stepped off the plane. I had
made it to Doha. My trip had begun.
Swiss Air Hates Me (and other tough life lessons)
I would like to talk to you about a serious problem plaguing
the non-revenue standby lifestyle. It's
called the weight restriction. There are
many reasons why a particular flight can be weight restricted, but none of them
matter when you are trying to get the last seat on a flight, and then the seats
start disappearing because they need to add more fuel due to weather en route
or 2000 lbs of cargo showed up at the last minute that has to get on this
flight or there is construction at the destination and they have to land on a
shorter runway. Telling a non-rev that a
flight is weight restricted is like telling them that you just ran over their
cat (I would have said dog, but I'm unnaturally attached to my dog and I can't
even joke about such things.) or walked through mud with their favorite pair of
Yves Saint Laurent pumps even though you specifically told them to not wear
your shoes outside if it's raining. They
have rain boots for a reason, people! My
point is, weight restrictions suck.
My most heart-breaking example was a few years ago when my
friend & I were given the last 2 seats on a plane to Boston on Midwest
Airlines (may she rest in peace...the airline, not my friend...wow, that almost took a weird turn
). We
were taxiing out to the runway with tickets to Fenway Park that night in our
hands to see my future husband, Ryan Braun, and the Milwaukee Brewers play the
Red Sox, and the plane came back to the gate to kick us (and only us) off
because it had started raining in Boston and we needed to add more fuel and
would be over allowable landing weight with the 2 of us onboard. That's great for the self-esteem, by the
way. We ended up hitch-hiking to
Philadelphia that night, but that's a story for another time when I'm certain
that my mother won't be reading this blog.
Anyway, I was going somewhere with this.
Oh, yes. So about a
month ago, I decided to take Swiss Air home from Athens. Of course, we were scheduled to stop in their
Zurich hub to change planes. It was a
simple 90 minute layover, and I would be back in San Diego that night. Or so I thought. At 2:30am, I left my lovely little hotel in
Piraeus, Greece, and set out in my stilettos with my roller bag to the bus
stop. I was too cheap to pay for a taxi,
and the bus, I was told, would take between 1-3 hours to get to the airport and
cost only 5 Euros. The flight I was
trying to catch was at 6:30am. I arrived
at the airport at 4 and was told at the ticket counter that the flight was full
and to come back at 5:30 when they would close it and start clearing standbys
for the seats of anyone who hadn't shown up.
I found an espresso stand and waited.
At 5:30, I tried again. There was
still a massive line at the ticket counter, but they had told me that they
would close the flight at 5:30. With
most airlines, especially on international flights, if there is a cutoff time,
they mean it. Not so with Swiss
Air. There were 2 other Swiss Air
employees trying to catch the same flight who would be seated ahead of me
(There is a priority list for non-revs.
If you are flying on your own airline, you are at the top of the
list.). We were told that they were
still checking people in for the flight, and we needed to wait. We stood a few feet away, on the alert for
our names to be called. Apparently, they
were still missing a lot of people and wanted to make sure that they weren't in
the line to check in. Instead of forming
a separate line to expedite the people going to Zurich and leaving the other people
waiting for the Geneva flight later on in the morning in their respective lines
to wait, the agents proceeded to frantically yell out “Zürich! Ζυρίχη! Zurich!”
causing a small riot. The people going
to Zurich further back in the line rushed the people in front of them, knocking
over stanchions, tripping elderly women with their roller bags (yes, it
happened), shoving the people who had arrived for their flights on time out of
the way, screaming obscenities in various languages, and destroying any
semblance of civilized humanity. I was
horrified. Surely, the Swiss Air staff
would get this crowd under control.
Instead, they encouraged them, shrieking “Zurich! Hurry!” in English,
Greek, and German louder and louder. At
6:05, they had satisfied themselves that all the Zurich passengers were out of
the line. They finally acknowledged the
standbys. I was given a seat and checked
my bag at 6:10. I had 20 minutes to
clear security and run to a gate that I had no doubt would be the furthest one
on the entire concourse from where I currently was. I took off, trying not to break my
heels. The Greeks were not kind to me at
security. They pulled everything out of
my purse. I had a small ziploc bag with
liquids separated out. They opened it
and took every single bottle out for inspection. They then meticulously re-packed my
toothpaste and other toiletries in a second ziploc bag of equal size, stared at
me for a few minutes, and handed it back to me.
I had 10 minutes to get to the gate.
And I was right, it was the very last gate in the terminal. I'm not even sure that it was actually in the
same airport. I ran for days. I made it at 6:35. Thankfully, they were not even halfway done
boarding and appeared in no rush to leave.
I collapsed in my window seat, and watched the sun rise over the Mediterranean. Now, you're probably wondering why I started
out by talking about weight restrictions.
Or you've completely forgotten that I ever brought that up in the first
place and don't really care. Regardless,
I'm getting to it.
I arrived in Zurich with 80 minutes to connect to my flight
to Chicago O'Hare. From there, I was
going to hop on the train to Chicago Midway, and then reunite with my beloved
Southwest home to San Diego. Worst case,
2 of my best friends live in Chicago and my family is about a 2-hour drive away
in Milwaukee, so I would have a place to crash if I got stuck or delayed. I cleared passport control and arrived at my
departure gate a few minutes before they were going to begin boarding. When I went to check in with the gate agents,
they uttered the words that send chills down the spine of every non-rev
everywhere: “weight restricted”. They
had 7 open seats, but they could not fill them...yet. Sometimes, you get lucky, and at the last
minute after the weight and balance for the flight has been calculated, there
will be room for more seats to be filled.
I sat close to the gate while they boarded, feigning worldly
indifference with the process, while secretly checking what other flights were
departing to the US that day. There was
another flight to Chicago in 3 hours and several East Coast flights after
that. I was not worried. There were 4 other standby passengers waiting
for this particular flight. I tried to
size them up to determine if they were Swiss Air employees or another airline
like me to know if I would be ahead or behind them on the standby list. They were speaking German. That was not a good sign. But they were traveling together, so if one
seat was open and they wouldn't split up, I could swoop in and take it. In the meantime, the gate agents were doing
their best impression of a Moroccan market trying to board the flight. As the last passengers stepped onto the
jetbridge, I stood up and sashayed a little closer to the gate podium to make
sure that my presence and intent to board would not be forgotten. The gate agent was whirling, trying to finish
up the paperwork. She crunched some
numbers, made a few phone calls, typed furiously on the computer, printed
important-looking flight documents, and finally walked over to where I was
standing, still trying to appear nonchalant.
“You speak English? (I nodded) I think I can get you on,” she said. She walked over to the other standbys and
repeated the good news in German. She
told us she would be right back, and walked down the jetbridge with the
paperwork.
The plane left.
A few minutes later, the agents still working at the gate
received a phone call. “The flight was
full,” they told us. 17 sarcastic
responses that would have ensured I would never be allowed to fly Swiss Air
again instantly flew into my mind. I
took a moment, activated my non-rev sarcasm filter, and said “thank you, what
gate is the next flight to Chicago?”
They told us to go to the Transfers Desk to be
re-booked. There, a bored Swiss Miss
look-alike (you know, the blonde girl in the blue dress) listed me and scanned
my baggage receipt for the next flight.
1 espresso, 1 croissant, and 3 hours later, I showed up at the gate for
attempt #2. To my relief, there were
different gate agents working. I
introduced myself and asked how many seats were available on the flight. 5...but they were weight restricted. I didn't ask them what was causing these
weight restrictions because they all seemed too flustered to function. I can't imagine that this was the first time
it had happened, and Zurich is Swiss Air's hub, their busiest airport, their
mother ship! Still, they were spinning
like tops. Every single flight. I had been there for 3 hours watching. Again, the flight boarded late, and again
after the last passengers walked onto the plane, the gate agent told me that
she would be able to get me on the flight.
She told all the other standbys that they wold not get on. I walked up to the gate podium, determined to
follow her down that jetbridge no matter what.
She was frazzled. The flight was
supposed to have departed 10 minutes ago.
She made a couple of phone calls, ran over to the gate next door, made a
phone call from there, came back, and told me that they could not find my
checked bag. Considering how every other
aspect of the airline seemed to be run, I was not surprised. I told her that I had arrived from Athens 4 ½
hours ago. She said the bag was not at
the gate. She had called the ramp to put
it on the plane, and they could not find it.
She had gone to the gate next door to see if they could locate the bag
on that side of the terminal with no luck.
She did not know if the bag had arrived from Athens. I explained that it had been checked in late
due to their total incompetence at the ticket counter (I did not say that last
part). She said she had no idea where it
was, and she could not let me on the plane without it. Ummm...what?!
I bit my lip to keep from losing my temper, and reasoned with her that
the bag had to clear security in Athens to fly and presumably again in Zurich
and therefore could travel without me.
She just kept repeating that I couldn't go without my bag. It's possible that was the only sentence she
knew in English. She refused to give me
a boarding pass for the last seat on the last flight to Chicago that day. She told me to return to the Transfers Desk
and find my bag. I pleaded with her that
I could file a claim when I got to Chicago.
It was not a big deal. I could
live without my bag for a few days. At
least I would be home without my Dolce & Gabbanas and not stuck sleeping in
an airport without them. I would like to
tell you that she let me on the plane, but that would not be nearly as
entertaining as me watching my last chance to get home that night fly away
without me.
The plane left.
I thought this was my ride home. It was not. |
Muttering under my breath, I returned to the Transfers Desk
in search of my bag. Swiss Miss was
still there. I had obviously made a huge
impression on her my first visit because she did not recognize me. I told her that my bag was missing, and I was
trying to figure out if it had come in from Athens that morning. She took my claim check, looked at it
disdainfully, and asked me why I wasn't on the plane to Chicago. Except she didn't ask. She shrieked the question at me. I had already sent several disparaging
messages to my friends about Swiss Air at this point, but up until now I
honestly believed that there was no ill will on their part. Just incompetence. Now, it was getting personal. I explained in a monotone that the gate agent
would not give me a boarding pass because my bag was missing. Swiss Miss proceeded to berate me for a solid
10 minutes. What did I mean she wouldn't
put me on the plane, how stupid was I to not get on the plane without my bag,
of course I didn't need my bag to fly, why would I not get on the plane because
of my bag, what was wrong with me, didn't I know I was a standby and needed to
take any seat I could get, why, why, why.
About 3 minutes in, I started playing Breakfast at Tiffany's in my head
from the opening credits to keep my cool.
Nobody can be angry listening to Audrey Hepburn's voice. She's divine.
When she finished her tirade, I smiled and said that I didn't know why
her co-worker refused to put me on the flight, but the plane was now gone and
my concern was not trying to chase it down the runway. I needed to find my bag. She launched into part 2 of her rampage. How would she know where my bag was, did she
look like the lost and found, she dealt with transfer passengers, if I wanted
my bag I would have to go to baggage claim, she didn't know anything about
bags. I apologized. I'm still not sure why. I told Swiss Miss that I was only following
the instructions of the gate agent, who had sent me to her. She sputtered that she didn't know why the
gate agent told me that. I said I didn't
either. Good day. I went to baggage claim.
I still sometimes wonder if passport control sent someone to
follow me after the third time that day I went through and had my passport
stamped. The first time, they let me
through, no questions asked. The second
time, they asked me where I was going and why.
The third time, I was positively grilled. My explanation that Swiss Air had stranded me
sufficed. I reached baggage claim,
expecting another dramatic scene from the agent at the desk. Instead, she was pleasant, helpful, and the
polar opposite of all the other Swiss Air employees I had encountered that day. It took her exactly 3 seconds to pull up my
reservation and tell me that my bag had missed the morning flight from Athens
but would be arriving at 4pm and had already been tagged to transfer to the
first Chicago flight in the morning. In
retrospect, I should have left it at that.
I didn't. I asked her what
flights remained to get me the hell out of Dodge that night (I did not say
that). Newark and Boston. Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all
the world...Newark and Boston. Ok,
Boston. At least I have an awesome
friend there who would put me up for the night (heyyyyyy Joan). She checked the loads for the flight, and
shook her head. It was oversold by 9,
meaning 9 passengers who paid for a ticket would be on the list to get a seat
before me. Newark. No, not Newark. I don't want to go to Newark ever, especially
not when I know that I will be stuck there overnight. “That's the only flight with open seats to
get you out of here tonight. The flights
do not look good tomorrow to get anywhere in the US. I would go tonight,” she said. But Newark.
N-E-W-A-R-K. I asked if she had
been to Newark. She said no. “It's like New York's dirty step-cousin that
nobody really wants to invite to Thanksgiving because he smells like pot and
body odor and might steal your TV during dinner.” It's probably good that she didn't understand
me. Sigh, ok, list me for the Newark
flight. I asked her if I should wait
there to pick up my bag and re-check it for my new flight to Satan's armpit (I
did not say that). She assured me that
they would transfer it on the ramp for me.
She had already scanned my claim check to the new flight. I knew she was lying, but I didn't think
telling her so would improve my chances of getting on the flight, so I thanked
her and went back through passport control (who this time made a copy of my
passport) and to my new gate.
For the fourth time that day, I introduced myself to the gate
agents and asked how the flight looked.
Not good. Oversold by 5. But...the lady at baggage claim just told me
it had seats open. 20 minutes ago. Nope, oversold by 5. Have a seat.
I used my time to look up hotels near the airport in Newark. The cheapest was $200 before taxes with no
shuttle to/from the airport. I looked up
every airline in existence to find a flight out of Newark, JFK, or La Guardia
leaving after my arrival time. To
anywhere. Anywhere in the whole
world. Nothing. I considered staying in Zurich and flying
back to Dubai on Emirates. I considered
jumping on the next Lufthansa flight out of Zurich regardless of where it was
going. I considered weeping and lighting
myself on fire. I did nothing. I sat, and I waited.
The flight started boarding about 20 minutes before it was
supposed to depart. Maybe it will be on
time, I thought. It was not. 40 minutes after the scheduled departure time,
one of the gate agents walked over to me.
12 hours earlier, I would have been hopeful that this meant I had a seat
on the plane. At this point, I just
hoped that she tripped. “Would you like
to ride on the jumpseat?” she asked.
The...really? The extra flight
attendant jumpseat for 7 hours across the Atlantic Ocean with no inflight
entertainment system to a city I didn't want to go to? Yes, yes I would. More than the Salvatore Ferragamo black
calfskin pumps with the velvet ankle straps.
She smiled and walked away.
I...should I...follow her? I
did. She told me to wait a few more
minutes. Fine, no problem, waiting,
good. Just when I was starting to think
I might not have to spend the night in the Newark airport, she gave me a
boarding pass. A glorious, embossed
ticket stock boarding pass. It was the
last row, an aisle seat right next to the aft lavatory. Amazing.
I would be prepared for that distinctive Newark smell when I
arrived. I checked the Southwest flight
schedule on a whim before we pushed back.
We were scheduled to arrive at 8:25pm.
The last flight to Chicago was delayed to 9:45pm because in addition to
being a super cool, pleasant-smelling city, Newark has frequent Air Traffic
Control delays. In this case, ATC was my
friend. I couldn't believe it. I could totally make the flight. Especially since I knew there was no chance
my bag would be there so I wouldn't have to stop at baggage claim. Everyone had boarded. I turned off my phone, and waited...and
waited...mentally calculated what the new arrival time would be as we were
further delayed, and waited some more.
We were an hour and 40 minutes late.
We were now going to arrive at 9:25pm, leaving me 20 minutes to clear
passport control and customs, take the train to another terminal, get through
security, and make it to the gate. I
could totally do it. We finally left
Zurich. I have never been so glad to get
out of a city that I love.
We arrived at the gate in Newark at 9:15. I had 30 minutes. Unfortunately, I was in the back, and I
refuse to be one of the oblivious, self-absorbed flyers who try to deplane
ahead of the rows in front of them. I
don't care why you're doing it, people.
It's rude. At 9:25, I was off the
plane. At 9:27, I was in line at
passport control, hopeful. At 9:58, I
was still in line at passport control, no longer hopeful. I was officially stuck in one of my least
favorite cities in the country. Since I
had already missed the Southwest flight, I figured I may as well head to
baggage claim to confirm my suspicion that my bag was still somewhere in
Europe, and I would never see it again.
I waited at the carousel until it stopped spinning. It was not there. I was positively shocked. A United employee who was apparently
representing Swiss Air at this particular airport told me to make a claim at
their office for the bag. I didn't have
the heart to tell her that it wouldn't do any good. I knew by now that Swiss Air would never be
able to get me my bag. Not ever. They were not capable of it.
I had my laptop, and a small carryon bag containing my purse,
lip gloss, and a couple of pairs of shoes that I hadn't been willing to place
in my checked luggage. I was not
adequately prepared to spend the night in the Newark Airport. I was not current on my shots, and I have
very little tolerance for buildings that smell like urine and old
sweatsocks. That's why I try to never
fly through Las Vegas. I wandered toward
the train to at least make it to the Southwest ticket counter to wait for them
to open the next morning. As I was
walking, I happened to pass the Lufthansa baggage service office. Inside, a Southwest employee was talking to
the Lufthansa agent. This is the part of
the movie that's in slow motion while a Michael Bolton song plays as I run in
to tell them how happy I am to see them.
Lufthansa has always been very kind to me as a non-rev. They are my preferred airline to fly to
Europe. I told them the whole
story. They were speechless. After a few moments of stunned silence, the
Lufthansa agent asked if that was a true story.
And then we all started laughing.
Me, out of desperation and exhaustion.
Them, because it was so ridiculous there was no other acceptable
reaction.
My Lufthansa angel took my bag and flight information and
filed a claim. He was able to look up my
reservation since both airlines are part of the Star Alliance, and discovered
that when my bag arrived in Zurich, they had completely ignored the fact that I
had flown to Newark and the bag was supposed to meet me there and re-tagged it
to Chicago for the next day. He asked
where I wanted the bag to go. I said San
Diego. He re-routed the bag to Newark to
be delivered to his attention on the next flight. He told me that he would retrieve the bag
from the carousel and put it on the next United non-stop flight to San Diego,
where he would instruct the United agents to walk the bag over to the Southwest
baggage claim so I could pick it up when I went to work. If he had not worked for Lufthansa, I would
have been skeptical. But, as previously
stated, Lufthansa rocks. I thanked him
over and over and over again until I got a little self-conscious that I was
sounding like an idiot. He gave me an
overnight kit so I could wash up for my thrilling night in the Newark airport. The kit contained a toothbrush, floss, and
toothpaste, a hair brush, deodorant, a giant white T-shirt, soap, shampoo, and
a few other essentials. I badly needed a
shower, and I decided that this was the closest I would ever get to camping, so
I had better make the best of it. (Side
note: I hate camping. You can't wear
cute shoes, and there's no running water.
It's what I imagine hell is like.)
I stopped at the 24-hour Subway in the airport to get a giant soda
cup. And there, in the Newark airport, I
washed my hair in the bathroom sink, using the giant T-shirt as a towel. It was not one of my better moments. And after I was done, I realized I had an
audience of junior high school girls who I'm guessing were on some sort of trip
to the “big city” via Newark. I'm pretty
sure I traumatized them. Or maybe they
just thought I was Justin Bieber having a bad hair day. Either way, I felt a little better.
I wandered in search of a flat surface out of sight of the
entry doors to use as a nap space. The airport
was freezing, and all the seats had arms.
My only option was to push some chairs together in the food court (which
was closed). I made a Burger King chair
crib, looped my purse through my arm so nobody could steal it, used my laptop
as a pillow and my shawl as a blanket, and started to fall asleep. After an hour of trying to get comfortable
and failing, my exhaustion took over and I was drifting off when I thought I
heard a noise next to me. I bolted
up. There was a homeless man trying to
dig through my purse. I was
half-conscious, terrified, and so angry I couldn't even put together
words. I shouted a mixture of
unintelligible syllables at him, grabbed my stuff, and ran back to the 24-hour
Subway. At least there were other people
there. Apparently, there isn't much
security at the airport, and the doors are left open all night long so people
can just wander in. Isn't that
terrific? I love Newark so much. Still reeling in a “did that just happen”
adrenaline rush, I decided that sleeping was clearly not the way to go. I bought some coffee, and sat silently in a
bleary-eyed fatigue until the Southwest counter opened at 4:30am, got on the
first flight, and finally FINALLY made it home at 11am. I nearly kissed the first palm tree I
saw. And by nearly, I mean I did.
This story has a happy ending, friends. The next day I received a call from my
friends at Lufthansa to tell me that my bag had arrived from Zurich,
transferred to United, and should be arriving in San Diego the next
morning. When I went to work the
following day, it was there. I did not
even fly Lufthansa, and I was not a paying customer, and they still took care
of me. And that is why I will never fly
Swiss Air again, and I constantly tell Lufthansa how much I love them on Twitter. At some point, they'll think it's creepy and
probably block me. But until then, it's
just the right thing to do.
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