The Long Ride Home, Part 2

So there I was, newly released from 20 hours on a plane, with the knowledge that my connecting flight was currently en route to Chicago and I was not aboard.

Hour 28: Keep Calm and Carry On
JFK Airport, New York City, NY, USA

Know what's awesome about JFK?  Those folks know their business.  You get shunted around in their well-oiled-machine of a passport check/customs process like cattle being driven by people who know what they're doing.  Well done, JFK!

And it was a much-needed respite of smoothness by this point.  Stop for a minute and think what you were doing 28 hours ago.  Now flip forward to everything you've done since then up to this moment.  Now imagine that that whole time you have been traveling internationally.  And now you can read in sympathy.

After I getting through passport check, picking up my luggage (yay!  it arrived!), and going through customs, I was routed out to the Delta desk, where a friendly lady rebooked me on the next Delta flight to Chicago.  She told me leave the old bag tags on my suitcases; that China Southern (flights one and two) have a luggage agreement with American Airlines (flight 4), but Delta (flight 3) does not.  So if she re-tags my bags at this point, the ticket no longer has a China Southern flight on it, and so I'd have to pick up my bags again in Chicago.  If I leave them as they are, they will follow me to Fort Wayne.

The fact that I did not find this reasoning suspicious is indication of how exhausted my brain was.  Those bags were tagged for two flights that I would not be taking; one of which was on a whole different airline.  I should have questioned her, but she seemed competent and I was brain dead.  I left my luggage in her charge and headed toward my next gate in blissful ignorance, preparing for my three hour wait and excited about finding real food to eat while enjoying full movement of my arms (challenging in an airplane seat).

In a glorious kiss on the head from God, shortly thereafter I came upon a McDonalds that was serving breakfast.  This was surprising to me, because it felt like about 267 o'clock PM to me, but was actually 9:45 AM.  With great relish and probably disproportional joy, I ate my sausage egg biscuit with cheese meal.  Though I did not know it then, this was to be the best 20 minutes of my day.

Hour 32: Please Won't You Be My (airplane) Neighbor?
Somewhere between NYC and Chicago

[from Leslie's FB feed]

And then there was that time, remember? Hour 32 or so of the trip, when you were crammed into your tiny airline Barbie-plane seat next to that guy about your age, who was also crammed into his tiny seat and he was studiously avoiding making eye contact or small talk and you thought, "Hmm, surly or shy?" and shrugged mentally and popped in your earbuds to continue listening to your audio book. And then as you happily munched your tiny pretzels and slurped your Diet Coke, you accidentally dumped the coke and it poured all over you and the shy-or-surly guy next to you. And your tiny Delta Airlines napkin did nothing as the soda poured off the tray table into your bag, your lap, and his right leg. Then he contributed his tiny napkin, still studiously not making eye contact. And for the rest of the flight, you both tried to pretend nothing was amiss, even though you felt like you had wet your pants. 'Member that? Yep. That was totally par for the course that day.

Hour 35: The Never Ending Story
O'Hare International Airport, Chicago, IL, USA

Ahhh, good old O'Hare.  I have spent so much time in this airport, it practically feels familiar.  But that being said, I wasn't too pumped to get to spend 4 hours there.  I just wanted to be home.  I was next-door to asleep on my feet.  And again, it was time to eat.  I WAS pretty pumped to get a personal deep dish pizza from Uno's however, so that helped my outlook a bit.  Uno's is one of the big Chicago-style deep dish places.  Have I ever blogged about my deep and abiding love for Chicago-style deep dish pizza?  Well, it's there.  Deep and abiding.  So I was excited to have that for supper on this never-ending day.

[let's pause her to note that most travel highlights on this trip involve food]

I got my pizza and headed out to a seat that I knew was slightly less chaotic than the gate area.  I arranged my little box, my Diet Coke, my napkins, and my backpack.  I opened the box and took that first, expectant bite.

I nearly cried.

It wasn't bad.  But it wasn't Chicago style deep dish.  Again, I had been duped, probably mostly because my brain wasn't really working well.  It was...meh.  It was ok.  But disappointing.  Sigh.

After supper, I walked over to my departure gate and settled in.  I had about an hour before boarding.  I dug out my sweater and settled back to try to doze a little while I waited.  About 55 minutes later, I woke up.

I mean, WOKE UP.  Out of a dead sleep.  Ladies and gentlemen, I had fallen hard asleep at O'Hare International Airport.  I cast around mentally for a moment to remember where I was.  I reminded myself that I was already at my gate, and we didn't start boarding for another few minutes, so panicking was unnecessary.  I turned to verify that the information board still read "United 5377 to Fort Wayne."  It said, "United 3409 to LaGuardia, New York."

GAK!!!

Adrenaline pumping, I gathered my bag and raced to the nearest set of departure screens.  My gate had changed.  Of course it had.  E12 now.  

I frantically started speed-walking toward E15.  (yep, you see it.  I didn't)  I rounded a turn and could see it ahead.  Boarding starts now...no need to panic...plenty of time.  I got to E15 and the info board read "Delta 789 to New York JFK".

GAK!!!  I'm trapped in an airport nightmare.  My still-foggy brain couldn't figure out what to do.

I approached the desk uncomfortably close to "in a tizzy" and incoherently asked the agent why my flight wasn't there.

Me: Excuse me...um, my flight was supposed to leave from here, right now, but this says JFK and I'm going to Fort Wayne...?

Agent: Honey, let me see your boarding pass 

[author's note: it's not normal to use pet names for strangers in Chicago.  I was clearly looking befuddled enough to illicit some special treatment]

Agent: Oh, this isn't even a Delta flight, so I can't look it up for you.

Me; *stares in blank confusion at agent* But...um....I don't...so...what...?

Agent: Honey, there are departure screens for United at E7.  Go look there.

Me: E7.  Ok...yah, that's good...thanks...

I spin and head back the way I'd come.  E7.  I can do this.  Boarding started 5 minutes ago.  But I can still make it.  I will NOT have just condemned myself to another 3 hours of waiting for the last flight to Fort Wayne tonight.  NO.  That is NOT happening.

I get to the screens and see my flight, innocently announcing "NOW BOARDING" at gate...E12.  Something clicks in my brain.  Right, I got the 12 and 15 confused.  And I actually walked PAST the correct gate TWICE in my stupor.

Man, it was time for me to be home.

I arrived at E12 to find that they still were boarding, as the incoming flight hadn't arrived yet.  I sat down and caught my breath..My relief at not missing the flight was quickly overshadowed by the fact that my flight was delayed.  Not much yet, but that's never a good sign.

We eventually got on the flight about 30 minutes late.  Then we sat on the tarmac for an hour before we were allowed to take off.  But I mean, that was a relief because there I was, afraid I might not get any more quality tarmac time during the trip.  So, whew!  Dodged that bullet!

Hour 41: All's Well That Ends Crappily, If It Still Ends at Home
Fort Wayne, IN, USA

By the time we got off the plane in Fort Wayne at 10:30 PM, I was so happy to be home that I didn't even care how late it was.  I joined the small trickle of people heading toward the baggage claim and settled in to wait for my two suitcases to arrive.

In a giant surprise to no one, they didn't show.  I stared at the now-still belt for a few minutes as the rest of the passengers dispersed.  I glanced at the two unclaimed bags.  Nope.  Definitely not mine.  I sighed and headed toward the United desk.

Know how many people are working the United desk at 10:30 pm on a Thursday at Fort Wayne International Airport?  

Correctamundo!  None.

Eventually a very nice lady showed up.  She patiently listened and asked questions as, for 30 minutes, we tried to sort out the events of the past 40+ hours.  Four airlines, four flights, and two days.  It was not an easy task.  At one point the woman said to me, "Wow.  You know, I've had a pretty bad day, but you definitely win."  When it was all said and done, however, I had a claim number for my missing suitcases.  

I took the papers she handed me and turned to go to the parking lot.  Through the windows I could see a light but steady rain coming down.  I thought that a jacket would be good.  Know where my jacket was at that moment?

Neither did anyone else.  In my checked luggage, somewhere between New York and Chicago, probably.

I sighed again, and headed out into the night.  After a mere 20 minutes of trudging around in the dark, wet parking lot, I had found my car and was trundling toward my house.  I couldn't wait to be home.

Epilogue

My luggage was eventually to show up on Saturday afternoon, after two days of largely unknown adventures which, judging from the bag tags on the suitcases when they were returned, involved a little stop over in Dallas, Texas.  The fine people at United, who were the least at fault for the disappearance of my luggage, will be paying for about $50 worth of emergency purchases that I made while I awaited my bags.  In the end, I think I made out pretty well.

It's been six days now since I've been back, and I'm still really, really tired.  Jet lag has never hit me this hard.  I'm looking forward to getting back to normal, which I hope will happen within the next few days.  In the meantime I'm enjoying this cute little lamp that I bought in Thailand and that was happily returned to me along with all my other Thai purchases.

Pretty, yes?  

And so, for the rest of my life, I will probably be comparing crappy trips to this one.  It's good to have that one trip that makes every other trip seem...not so bad, right?  Glad I got this one out of the way.

The Long Ride Home -or- A Series of Unfortunate Events Part 1

Last week I traveled home from a 10 day stay in Thailand.  The first part of the trip was for work, and then I stayed an extra four days for vacation.  There was lots of good, great, and awesome about the trip, but one thing that was less than fantastic was that I had jet lag the whole time.

I'm not new to jet lag, but this was pretty impressive.  By the time I was packing to come home, I was fairly well sleep-deficient.  This is important background information for the story.  Following are highlights (or lowlights, in some cases) of my journey home.  The whole ordeal took a mere 42 hours.  Sometimes the best you can say about a harrowing international trip is that it makes for a good story afterwards.  And so, for your reading enjoyment, The Long Ride Home.

Hour 1: Sentimental Farewell Supper
Chiang Mai, Thailand

If you're an unseasoned international traveler, you might imagine that a final meal in a new country is a golden opportunity to enjoy on last taste of the cuisine of said place.  You would, however, be wrong.  Your final meal is also your last chance to have real food (airplane food generally not meeting that standard) for, potentially, many hours.  You should, therefore, always try to find food that you know is safe, both in providing some semblance of nutrition (in my case, protein), and in being neutral enough to not cause any intestinal distress.  Intestinal distress + hours on a plane = disaster.

So, I opted for Burger King at the airport.  Joy, I thought of you and our travels through Bangkok and enjoyment of BK at the airport and snapped this picture:

Things to note about my BK experience:  the cashier asked if I wanted my Whopper Jr. beef or pork (way to be culturally sensitive, BK) and the condiment dispensers contained "American Ketchup" and "Chilli Sauce".

Hour 6: Leslie Fails Spectacularly at Cultural Sensitivity
Guangzhou, China

I had arrived safely at my first layover, in China.  As I arrived in the hall where my departure gate for leg 2 of the journey would begin, I realized that there were no food options in this basement-hall, and set about going back upstairs to forage for sustinance.  There were no stairs.  There was a down escalator, and a small elevator.  Awesome.  A pack of people stood in front of the elevator, most of them African.

[author's note: I like Africans.  With very few exceptions, I have had great experiences with Africans from various nations.  Before I tell this story, let's remember that I was really tired and about to get on a 15 hour flight.  Ready?]

I mentally braced myself.  There's a lot that's different between African and American cultures, not the least of which is our understanding of personal space.  I looked at the number of people waiting to get on the elevator and judged there to be at least 2 loads of people ahead of me.  I am fully confident that every African in the group saw it as one.

The elevator doors opened and a mad dash to cram into the tiny cubical began.  The people in my area didn't even move- so obvious was it that there were already too many people crowding forward.  The group shuffled and re-arranged themselves, trying to become smaller than they were.

The doors did not close.  They were over the weight limit.

We all waited.  The people nearest the opening tried to press further back into the elevator.

The doors did not close.  We all knew someone would have to get off, but of course no one wanted to volunteer.  I helpfully pointed out that the elevator would come back.  FINALLY, three Middle Eastern men extricated themselves from the group and popped out.

The doors closed.

Meanwhile, behind me, more Africans were pushing in, anxious to get in on the next round.  I closed my eyes as the press of anticipation and bodies behind me grew.

When the doors opened again, we surged forward.  I was toward the end of the group and as I got into the tiny metal box I turned abruptly to face the people pushing in behind me.  I threw my arms out wide, blocking the door and said in my best teacher voice,"Stop!  No more.  Please wait for the next elevator."

If I hadn't been so stressed, I'm sure the looks on the faces before me would have sent me into a fit of giggles.  Shock and confusion.  Utter disbelief.  After all, there were probably only 15 people in the elevator- CLEARLY there was space for, I don't know...10 more?

One woman recovered enough to ask accusingly, "So, you are the enforcer?!?" As I pushed the button on the elevator and the doors began to close, I looked at her shamelessly and with as much bravado as I could muster, lied through my teeth, "Yes."

The doors closed.

I couldn't believe that had worked.  A couple of voices (I think the Middle Eastern guys) from behind thanked me.  The rest of the group rode upward in stunned silence.  As we dispersed into the main airport, I heard uproarious laughter from some of the other riders.  They must have been African, and I was happy that they were laughing instead of angry.

I have a master's degree in intercultural studies.  I knew that what I did was TOTALLY outside the realm of acceptable.  I just couldn't seem to muster up the gumption to care in that moment.  I just couldn't.

Hours 22-26: Trapped on the Tarmac
Boston, MA

The 15 hour flight from China to New York's JFK Airport was nearly finished.  I had survived, more or less in tact, thanks in no small part to the GLORIOUS blessing of having an empty seat next to me.  This was literally a gracious answer to prayer.

As we began our decent along the east coast, I noticed that, according to the little map on my personal monitor, we seemed to be taking a rather indirect path to New York.  A few minutes later a very hard-to-understand flight attendant announced that, due to "very terrible weather at the New York", we would be going to Boston, instead.

I gathered enough emotional energy to be unenthusiastic about this new turn of events.  I mentally tried to calculate how long it would take to re-book an entire 777 full of people who were in the wrong city.  I breathed the sigh of the defeated.  I had a 4 hour layover at JFK, but if we all had to be re-booked, there was no way I would make my connecting flight.  And to make it even more awesome, my final flight (4 of 4) was on a separate ticket, with a different airline.  That means that if I miss that flight, I will have to pay for a new ticket and my luggage situation will be nightmare-ish, since it was originally tagged all the way through to Fort Wayne.

I held onto the hope that they would send us back to NYC in time.  Four hours is a long time, after all.

After four incredibly frustrating hours with basically no information on what was going on, we finally did take off again, heading to JFK.  We touched down exactly five minutes before my connecting flight to Chicago was scheduled to leave.  We weren't even in the airport before I had missed my connection.

Awesome.

You know, just telling this story makes me feel tired.  I'm going to have make this a two-parter.  We still have three airports, 16 hours of awesome, a very disappointing experience with pizza, and luggage drama to cover.  I think we all need a break.

To be continued...