Have One on Us (or not)

If you've paid attention to the travel news today, you may have seen that Delta Airlines lost its bid to trademark itself as "the world's most trusted airline." (There's not much to it, but here are the details if you're so inclined.) Now, the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office may have rejected the airline’s request on the ground that the motto is “not inherently distinctive, but rather is merely laudatory and descriptive,” but I'd like to further add that being the "most trusted airline" is a bit of a low bar these days.

For example, those who fly Delta regularly are no doubt familiar with the "Have One on Us" coupons that Delta offers as a consolation prize when a frequent flyer does not receive an upgrade. Until a few weeks ago, the coupons were good for one alcoholic beverage or one non-perishable snack. Then, very quietly, without so much as an email notifying flyers of the change, the coupons could no longer be used for a non-perishable snack.

I actually wrote to Delta about this, noting that among other things, the change seems to me to discriminate against those who do not drink, be it for reasons religious (Mormon, Muslim); health (transplant recipient, liver or kidney disease); or personal (pregnancy, family history of alcoholism). It's not that I feel entitled to a free snack. If Delta had merely discontinued the coupons, that would be the company’s right (as with all of the other, recent changes to the Skymiles program and benefits). The way they went about this just feels so sneaky and, frankly, mean that I can't help but be annoyed. Of course, Delta wrote back to assure me that they "fully cooperate with legislative agencies in order to ensure compliance with consumer protection and advertising guidelines."

Well that's a relief. But I guess the world's most trusted airline never was the one that invited passengers to "come fly the friendly skies."

Nightmare to Paris

Friends of ours are heading for Paris this week, for the first time with children in tow, which calls to mind the inaugural voyage my own family made together to the City of Lights...

Flying the entire family to Europe, my parents had purchased the cheapest tickets they could find, which meant connecting somewhere on the East Coast, rather than the direct, non-stop, overnight flight I had taken as a fifth grader. US Air had a beautiful sale that summer, and airfare for the entire family came in around $2000. (When I consider that I recently paid nearly that much for a single ticket to Europe, I am especially impressed.)

Afternoon storms are common in late June, and it was against the backdrop of one of them that we took off for Philadelphia. At some point during the flight my mother became agitated, checking her watch, whispering urgently to my father, and generally behaving strangely. Not long after I noticed this change in her demeanor, the captain came on the PA system and made the following announcement. “Ladies and gentlemen, you may have noticed we’ve been circling for a while now. Unfortunately, there are strong storms over Philadelphia, there’s a ground stop at the airport, and we don’t have the fuel reserves to circle indefinitely. Rather than see what happens when the needle hits E, we’ll be diverting to Harrisburg. For those of you whose final destination was Harrisburg, it’s your lucky day!” The first three sentences may not be verbatim, but the last sentence, the one about the “lucky day,” that one still bounces around my mind, clear as the day it was spoken.

When we landed in Harrisburg, it was at a mostly deserted terminal, staffed by exactly one gate agent. She was not of the helpful variety. Shouting to make herself heard above the noise, she ordered us into lines and marched us, quite literally, onto a waiting Greyhound bus. We would not wait out the storm, we would not fly to Philly or to anywhere else. We would ride in a bus. Also, she told us, we would not stop in the bathroom, we would not purchase dinner, and we would not be reunited with our checked bags. I don’t believe any of these were options, as we hustled down one dank, cinder block corridor and up another. Checking our names off her checklist, this woman hurried us onto the bus and waved it off into one fierce storm.

As lightning flashed and streaked across the sky and hail pelted the windows, we passengers rode along, hungry, angry, and certain to spend the night on the hard, plastic chairs of the Philadelphia airport. While US Air was so cruel as to expect us to go without any kind of dinner, they were not so cruel as to give us a bus with no bathroom. Naturally, even this was not without flaws, as we discovered when my sister became locked in this tiny, stinking space. Onward we drove, through the Pennsylvania night, the crash of thunder mixed with a wail that I have always imagined was some not-so-distant tornado siren. Even a drive that feels interminable must come to an end and we soon piled out of the bus and into the jumble of irate passengers and soggy luggage haphazardly stacked curbside in the rain. 

Mercifully our bags were together and we staggered wet, hungry, and laden with suitcases into the airport. No fewer than several hundred passengers were packed into this space, half a dozen frenzied ticket agents sought to diffuse a day’s worth of insults, and the PA system squawked with unintelligible announcements. The time was 11:30, some three hours after our flight bound for Paris should have been wheels-up. And then, as though a gift from heaven, we heard the announcement: “Last call for boarding US Air flight 1778 to Paris. Last Call for boarding.” 

“THAT’S MY FLIGHT! HOLD THAT FLIGHT!” My mother shouted, elbowing aside the crowds and forcing her way to the counter. “I can hold it for 10 minutes, ma’am, and you’ll have to take your bags with you. It’s roughly a mile. Go! Run!”

He didn’t have to tell us twice. The four of us took off at a trot, willing the plane to be at the gate when we arrived. The security check point was closed; in the days before September 11, the workers just waved us through, encouraging us, “go, go, go!” Miracle of miracles, we made it onto the plane. Sometime after midnight we were officially bound for Paris.

Of course, nowadays, you'd simply be forced to spend a week in Harrisburg, so in hindsight I suppose we were lucky. What a thought.

On Hotels and Housekeeping

I am opposed to housekeeping in hotels. It's not that I don't like a clean room, as anyone who knows me can attest. I'm all for housekeeping on the front - and back - end of a hotel stay. It's while I'm actually checked in that I don't like it. The reasons are manifold, but essentially break down like this:

• I do not want my toothbrush accidentally sprayed with some type of cleaning solution, nor do I want to have to put it away each morning upon leaving the room.
• I do not want all of the extra pillows that I've relegated to the sofa or corner returned to the bed each day.
• I do not need new sheets or towels for a three-night hotel stay.
• I'm not super keen on strangers in my room, in general.

I have found that housekeepers are usually quite happy with this arrangement. One in Memphis recently enthused, "You're a blessing, dear!"

I especially love Sheraton's Make a Green Choice program, which rewards the no-housekeeping-needed traveler with a $5 voucher at participating food and beverage outlets or 500 Starwood Preferred Guest Starpoints for each night the guest declines housekeeping service. I'm waiting for other hotels to follow suit...

Layover Luck

Today I was grateful for my 3+ hour layover. I was not one of the dozens of people on the flight to Detroit with a missed connection. The delay, however, now that was another story. Initially, it seemed to be a run of the mill mechanical issue, but as an increasing number of airline employees swarmed the desk, it was clear this was not merely a broken seat. In fact, the entire flight computer was done and the maintenance was far beyond the skill and scope of the employees at the regional airport: maintenance was on the way, but they had a drive of 100-odd miles ahead of them first.

The travel gods, winked, though, and the Delta operations people saw fit to appropriate the inbound aircraft that was supposed to head to Minneapolis for the Detroit flight. (Poor MSP people, they were already delayed when I arrived at the airport, so today was definitely not their day.) So now we had an aircraft, but could they get the jet bridge unhooked from the airplane? As the flight attendant said in response to the weird noises floating into the plane, "they have to try some different things today." I think that's a euphemism for, "I am as hopeful as you that this flight will actually depart."

When passing through O'Hare

Several years ago I arrived at the ticket counter in the early hours of the morning, for an interview fly-out only to be told that, while the agent could see a reservation had been created, it hadn’t completely been processed and I was, therefore, not actually on the flight. For $900 we could all correct this matter and I’d be on my way. I could not reach anyone there to ask what happened and so  plunked down my credit card and hoped that my separation from $900 was only temporary. (It was. The hiring team was admittedly more than a shade embarrassed when I explained the issue to them later that morning.)

For the duration of my visit, wave after wave of ferocious storms swept across the Philadelphia metro area. The weather was no different when it came time to leave; not surprisingly the blue lights that signaled a full ground stop were in full view when the cab pulled to the curb. “You’re going to have a long night,” the cab driver told me, helpfully, before speeding off in a driving rain. Indeed. Naturally, however, it would be hours before the flight would be canceled. After waiting for an hour for the gate agent to rebook me on a flight the following morning, I was faced with the option of sleeping in the terminal or queueing for a room at the airport hotel. Obviously I opted for the latter, hoping again that my prospective employer would not honestly expect a job candidate to sleep in the terminal. (At the time I was correct; nearly a decade later, I’m not so sure that equation still holds true.) 

In the wee hours of the morning, on one of the first flights down the runway, I headed toward home, via O’Hare. Here I was met with a mechanical delay – one of the seats was broken and, although this was not a full flight, we could not board until the issue was resolved – followed by one of the inexplicable delays for which that airport is notorious. Settled into 1C the flight attendant facing me shrugged her shoulders and said, “You know what they say about this airport, don’t you?” I did not. “Time to spare, fly through O’Hare.” She smiled and opened her book.

Northworst

For years my father dreamed of visiting Alaska. In 2004 he would finally realize this dream. Naturally, however, it would not be without more than a few glitches.

For starters, Northwest Airlines had absolutely no record of my ticket. The fact that my mom waved papers from the airline itself attesting to the reservation seemed to perplex the ticket counter agents rather than spur them to action. Eventually, time growing short, a seat was found. Unfortunately, we were only allowed to check in as far as Seattle, where we were told we would need to visit an airlines service center  to check in for our flight from Seattle to Fairbanks. Despite our misgivings about this highly unorthodox practice, our options quickly dwindled to 1) stay and argue or 2) actually make it to Seattle. 

We might have rather stayed to fight, for in Seattle the line was dozens deep: the airport was experiencing problems with their jet fuel lines and numerous flights had been cancelled; what wasn’t cancelled was delayed. Our flight was not cancelled, however, for we learned that it did not even exist. 

I have tried now for going on a decade to understand how we could have been ticketed on a non-existent flight, but occasionally the tangled webs of airline lies are too great for my mind to master. Mercifully, this snafu occurred in the days when airplanes were not normally filled to 112% capacity and the woman at the desk, probably the most helpful airline employee I have encountered to date, worked diligently to find four seats on the same flight. Granted, my sister and father would fly first class, while my mom and I jammed into the last row of coach immediately adjacent to the toilet, but we would sleep in the Great White North that night.

Except that the Great White North was experiencing a heat wave and the accompanying forest fires filled the air with an acrid, brown smoke. Our flight, in fact, consisted largely of fire fighters from the lower 48 states who were traveling north to battle the flames. Had he known this our captain might have worried less, but perhaps he did not, for the voice that addressed us as we descended into Fairbanks had more than a hit of nerves to it.

“I have an important announcement to make. You may be aware that Alaska is experiencing major forest fires right now. As we make our descent, this smoke may enter the cabin. Do not panic. The plane is not on fire, nor are we in any danger. I repeat, you may smell smoke in the cabin. Do not panic.”

On cue, the smell of smoke permeated the cabin. 

We may have made it to Alaska that night, but our bags did not. Or rather, my bag did not. Miraculously, the ground workers at Seattle found the completely mis-tagged bags that belonged to my sister and my father and routed them onto our flight. This was probably a minor act of heroism on their part, as the bags had been tagged in Detroit with both a wrong flight number and wrong destination (Anchorage). My bag, along with that of my mom, was nowhere to be found. As I griped to all who would listen - and I have learned over the years that nothing unites strangers like airline horror stories - one man shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly and said, "What can I say? That's why we call it Northworst." 

(Not, of course, that it was any worse than the others. Some days now I even miss it.)

When in Cuba, Do As Cubans Do

And Cubans generally do a LOT of waiting. If it were an Olympic sport, they might sweep the medal stand. A 3:00pm charter to Miami? How's 6? 7? 8? When we were eventually wheels up at 11:30, everyone who'd ever been on the flight before was thrilled, but it's not often that it leaves before midnight. Two and three in the morning is not unheard of.

Not that you should expect any explanation, charter or no. Or food. The Jose Marti (HAV) airport is remarkably scarce of food. If you act quickly, a few of the most non-burger burgers you've experienced can be had, but if you delay, peanut M&Ms (yes, they sell those in Cuba, embargo or no) will be your lot. Or Pringles - you choose. Of course, after a week of waiting and delays and general confusion, I'm not really surprised. As my husband pointed out, every time we visit Latin America, I insist it will be the last, but we keep coming back. I've yet to detail those adventures you, though - you can look forward to that another time.