Tip #1: Stay Loyal to One Airline: Avoid the “Other
Airline”
Some destinations in the Florida
Panhandle are remote. Leaving the secure confines of Platinum status, I was
required to endure an “Other Airline” to travel to the remoteness. OK on the
inbound, but on the outboard "Other Airline" proceeded to play flight
cancel roulette. They cancelled the puddle jump flight
to
In the "Other Airlines’s" Jessica Simpson-like logic, a workable alternative
was to fly to
What added ants to the wood was
the layover in
I tried to stay zen-like and peaceful, breathing in, breathing out.
Then we were delayed leaving
Panhandle.
Delayed entering
Delayed while
they carted off a tribe of 5 middle-school spelling bee champs off the plane.
One
By
One
By
One
By
One
By
One
No one lets kids travel in tribes.
They must be separated into sections: Whining and Non-whining. These kids were
clearly embedded by the other airline to thwart my zen-like
calm.
My cotton-candy optimism sparkled,
though. Scurrying passed them, I latched onto our
exfoliated flight attendant, “Sammie” who wore just a hint of eyeliner and
bronzer. I sized her up and took a chance:
“How is your mother doing?” I
ventured.
Her face brightened. She grabbed
my rolling bag and expertly maneuvered us through the teeming hordes of
We parted company at the smoking lounge,
traded air kisses and promises to email. I cruised ‘round the corner to “The
Terminal Train.”
A stone-faced Extra from "The
Matrix" wearing sunglasses and a black T-shirt, held out a muscle-toned
forearm abruptly halting my progress.
“Train Broken,” he said.
I checked my watch then did the
only thing I could under the circumstances:
I asked him about his mother.
Behind the sunglasses, I saw 2
beady eyes narrow to slits. I recoiled and retreated, walking backward and now
pushing my rolling bag which caused it to veer around unsupervised.
Several aerobic and somewhat
acrobatic minutes later I arrived at the designated DFW-bound gate of the other
airline.
We are the greatest country in the
world, rivaling any in technological and economic achievement.
So I was surprised by what
greeting me upon my triumphant arrival at Gate T7:
A sheet of crumple notebook paper,
hand-lettered in what I am sure was burnt orange lipstick, (the shade of two
past seasons), hung with a single slip of Scotch tape:
“Flight 007 to DFW: Equipment
Change, Please see agent for rebooking.”
The conga line of passengers
needing rebooking wound in an octopus-style pattern.
What can the zen-inspired
traveler do but smile, wait and visit.
I met several kindred souls, held
a newborn while his mother took a post-partum escape to the Starbucks kiosk. I
tied two toddlers shoelaces, arbitrated a newly married couple’s first fight.
And I am not sure, but I think I am invited to the First Communion of a
curly-headed girl named Lupe.
I wrangled my new boarding pass
and hippity-hopped onto the plane as a flyer of “Zone
6.”
Zone 1 consisted only of
millionaires
Zone 2: those who volunteered an
organ in the name of science
Zone 3: Loyal Other Airline
frequent fliers
Zone 4: The dependents of Loyal
Other Airline frequent fliers
Zone 5: Those who could correctly
identify a Loyal Other Airline frequent flyer when placed next to a loaf of
bread
Zone 6: me
So far, though, I was rockin and rollin, adjusting with
zen-like precision to the arrows launched from the
Other Airlines.
Until The
Engineer.
For the next hour and 47 minutes,
The Engineer would not stop talking. I chewed gum, open-mouthed, yawned, closed
my eyes, got up for the restroom in the middle of an acronym-laced explanation
of T1 lines, but it had no effect. I even tried to talk to the flight attendant
who came to ask about my wheelchair access status.
He showed me his driver’s license
(did I think the picture did him “justice?”), his frequent flyer card (he had
just “earned” Zone 3 status), and his Cherokee Nation ID card (he is 164th)
When we landed in DFW, one hour
delayed, it was
I escaped off the plane, after
unloading my rolling bag off the overhead with a smirk borne of rigorous hours
of “Sweatin to the Oldies” workouts. I was weak and
pale.
I limped on then off the crowded
Hyatt Shuttle bus.
On the bus, I had to fend off the
amorous advances of a sandy-haired blond boy who decided to crawl onto my
black-skirted lap and inspect my earrings while I inspected a
horrid green goo trickling dangerously close
to said skirt.
The boy’s mother assured me, a
little too quickly, that he “never, ever does this.” The zen beat a retreat.
3 cities, 3 airports, 1 85-mile
car ride, 2 restaurants, 1 training audience, 1 gas station, 1 shuttle bus, and
one love-sick toddler later:
Exactly 20 hours after crawling
into the my black skirt and blazer suit, I began to
free myself from its clutches when I discovered, shocked, the parting salvo
inflicted by my own hand.
I had never zipped the skirt, only
fastened the button.
Game/Set/Match
to the “Other Airline.”
********
By Helen Teague for
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