How not to get from here to there

I don’t travel often. And, it’s for good reason.

If the Bible instead offered a gruesome depiction of unfortunate travel sagas, you’d find my picture right next to Job’s.

Late departures, missed connections, canceled flights, I’ve endured them all. Misplaced luggage, miserable movies, snarky attendants and obese seat neighbors, they are par for my course. Rare is the day and festive the occasion when I get from Point A to Point B without even a slight hiccup. And, it’s usually more like an explosive burp.

I’ve spent nights on scrubby airport floors and nights in hotels so wretched that I longed for those scrubby airport floors. I’ve been told I couldn’t take a bag on the train even though I had taken the same bag on the same train not two days before. I’ve been delayed going to job interviews and once to a lacrosse game--- and I was the team’s coach!

But nothing even holds a candle to what happened this weekend.

I showed up at La Guardia airport at 7:30am Saturday morning, about 1.5 hours before my flight. When I check in at the automated kiosk, I learned that my flight to Atlanta had been canceled. In hindsight, it should have raised a red flag when they told me that I had to go through Atlanta in the first place--- it’s not exactly en route between New York and San Francisco.

So, I called Delta and learned promptly that all flights in the next few hours were booked. I could, however, get on a 1:20pm flight. But, it wouldn’t get me in until after 9:30pm.
That wouldn’t do, I reasoned. I had to pick up my race packet by 5pm, so I pleaded with her. I explained my situation. I cried. Well, I didn’t cry, but I did beg.

And, she bought it.

Miraculously, she found a direct flight that left at 10am and arrived at 1pm, roughly an hour before my original flight. Hallelujah! But, it left from JFK. And, I was at La Guardia. Shit.
No problem, she said. We’ll send a car for you. Wow. This lady was not only charming, but also helpful, an unprecedented duo in the annals of customer service.

So, I got to JFK at 8:30am, and this time checked in with an agent. And, that’s when I learned that I had been given a reservation on the 10am flight, but not a seat assignment. There’s a difference? I felt like I was stuck in the Seinfeld episode in which Jerry explains to the lady at the rental car agency that she clearly knows how to take a reservation, but not how to hold it.

Confused, I checked my bag and proceeded to the gate where I waited patiently for my name to be called. Boarding began, passengers piled into sections one through eight and they made not one mention of me.

So, as they closed the gate’s door, I walked to the counter to inquire about getting on the plane. She told me that I was the next name on the list, the proverbial first horse to the glue factory. But, as we were talking, her phone rang. There’s what… he didn’t… one more…

Sir, she said. There’s one more seat on the plane. You’ll have to run.

Lady, I thought. I’m running a marathon tomorrow. I think I can handle it.

So, they opened the door for me and I took off down the ramp towards the plane. As I neared the door, a stewardess was walking towards me.

I’m sorry to get your hopes up, she said. But, he was actually in the bathroom.

No shit.

With that, I turned, sank my shoulders and hung my head, and began the ultimate walk of shame back into the airport.

So, I slinked my way back to the counter to learn my fate. Quickly it became clear that I was not leaving this airport anytime soon. And, this presented an interesting quandary. Not only could I not check in for the race, but my bag had gone off on the plane and, given my luck, I was now facing the likely possibility of lining up at the marathon’s starting line in worn-out sneaks, blue jeans and a pinstriped blazer. Yikes!

It’s 10am and the next available flight is at 6pm. That’s eight hours from now. And, that means I don’t arrive until 9:30pm. And, that means a late-night, a short nap and a very early start.

Without many options at this point, I called Andy who, bless him, agreed to pick up my race packet. And, I began to wage a war for compensation. And, they got me on a direct flight. And, they bumped me up to first class. And, they gave me a voucher for future travel. And, they even gave me two $7 meal vouchers.

So, I settled in for a day at the airport. I read the paper and made some phone calls. I window-shopped and people-watched. I spent my $7 vouchers, one of which got me the startling small booty of two bananas and a coffee.

The day passed slowly. But, eventually I got onto my flight and made it to Andy’s house in San Francisco by 10:30pm. And, with my bag, nonetheless.

My door-to-door journey had lasted for more than 18 hours. I had spent more than 10 hours sitting in airports. And, I was supposed to run a marathon in about seven hours.

But the wasted day and forfeited sleep weren’t the worst of it.

The worst part of the whole episode was that I got to sit in first class where they were serving free cocktails, and I had to abstain. That, my friends, is real torture.