I need to find something creative to do.
If anyone is wondering how occupied my time is right now, I'm syncing up YouTube videos with my song library. Because I think mine are better than theirs.
I had decided to attempt to defy jet lag by staying up the whole night before. At first this was fun, because it meant surfing online to my hearts content. However, somewhere around four in the morning I suddenly felt a wave of stinging pain wash through my eyes, so I turned off the laptop. But I packed all my books and textbooks, so there was nothing else to do, so I decided to lay down.
No longer distracted by the sweetly beckoning images on the laptop, my brain went into full overdrive on all the bad things about leaving: my misgivings about going back into a parentally saturated atmosphere, how incredibly tired I would be when I arrived if it turned out I couldn't sleep, how I wouldn't be able to come back to Maite and Ricardo the next semester, how suckysyuckysucky the whole plane trip would be, and worrying that if anything went wrong I would be too sleep-deprived to handle it while still being decent to the people around me.
I kept drifting off only to have vague and terrifying half-dreams where I had overslept and missed the taxi and other similar disasters sufficient to make me start upright and grope for my watch to see what time it was. I can't remember if I was listening to my iPod or not, but I definitely remember background music. It wouldn't have made sense to be listening to my iPod, though, because I never play it while it's hooked to the wall because I don't trust its batteries, and I wouldn't have played it unplugged to the wall because I knew I only would have one potential window to charge it during the trip. Hallucinations? A really cool possibility.
Six o'clock came around and I showered and had breakfast, which seemed to wake up my brain and by the time I had to take my luggage down to the street, I was feeling chipper. This was a very good thing.
So the taxi came right on time and I went to the airport with one of my roommates. I paid for the whole taxi fare because I hadn't paid him back for the whole Harry Potter debacle which included movie tickets and taxi fare to an unknown corner of Madrid. We then found out which check-in desks we needed and parted ways-now I can't remember his name. That is why he is a roommate, I guess. >.>
I had my two large and utterly ridiculous bags which I had to navigate through crowds of people-but I am glad to say that I sounded extremely Spanish while passing through. I found my check-in desk and settled into the line to wait with pride and grandeur (meaning I let my face assume its default "I will kill you if cross me" expression-the things you learn in big cities...). Suddenly out of the distance came the sounds of bullhorns and chanting. A group carrying picket signs entered the far end of the terminal and set up shop around one of the flight information displays and began chanting and blowing their bullhorns rhythmically. I had a hard time not tapping my feet, because I somehow had the impression that if anyone saw me tapping them they might think I was weak-minded and might attempt Jedi mind tricks on me. But it was hard. I was saving my iPod for later use, so I couldn't tune them out.
Then I finally got to check-in, and there my Spanish abandoned me when the ticket agent lady started talking to me in English once she saw my passport. I hate it when that happens. At any rate, she asked for my ticket info and I asked if it would be possible to check my baggage all the way to Salt Lake, to which she replied with, "Huh? Where's that? What's its call sign?" That was fun.
However, in contrast to every single other person who asked where I was from only to loose interest when it wasn't some place they hadn't heard, she started asking questions like what was the economy like there, what there was to do there, etc. I told her a lot, and I invited her to come visit anytime she wished, and I recommended that she come in the winter to ski in the greatest snow on Earth. I don't know if she will, but she sounded interested.
At any rate, she allayed one of my primary concerns for my flight home: she didn't charge for my overweight baggage. They were probably on the order of 40 kilos each, but she didn't charge. She was one super awesome lady, and her progeny must not perish from the earth.
Secure in my good deed for patrimony of the day and her good deed for hapless students of the day, I then proceeded to get through the security line in less than eight minutes-this point become important later. By this time the plane was already boarding, so I got on board without having eaten a darn thing, thinking I would be able to eat the cookies I had in my backpack.
The plane, of Lufthansa Airlines, left right on time. This point becomes important later. Two hours later I landed in Düsseldorf a full half-hour early, which pleased me to no end because the original plan called for only a forty-five minute layover, and I thought this extra time would mean time to buy snacks or even a full-fledged meal. However...
Despite the fact that I was still within the EU, for some reason the Düsseldorf airport apparently requires all passengers to check in-again. Instead of routing me directly to the departure terminal, the traitorous and conniving hallways lead me to the check-out desks. I had been given what I thought was a boarding ticket in Madrid, but alas when I got to the security line, I was informed (first in rapid German-which was my fault because I hadn't expected to have to actually understand anything so I said "Guten tag"-then when I forced to admit I hadn't understood a single word, the lady called over another security guard who spoke English) that what I had was not a boarding ticket, though it had a seat assignment and everything, because I was switching to LTU airlines, which for some reason has nearly the same logo as Lufthansa but-well. So I had to go check-in again, and go through security again. Checking in was a ten-minute wait, much better than Madrid, but security was aggravatingly slow. I was a good little boy, and I went to the line which was designated for non-special people who didn't have first class tickets. Plenty of cheaters did, though. Meh.
The line moved so slow. Like molasses, almost. It was so boring and at the same time irritating because my time was being eaten up most rapidly. I spent the whole time fantasizing how cool it would be to know ten languages and to have your cell phone ring ten times and answer, "Hello?" "Dime," "Assalam Aleikom!" "Moshi moshi?" "Pronto," "Allo?" "Slushayu vas," "Wei," "Snow, guten tag," and "yobosayoh," then strike up a short conversation, then hang up only to have it ring again. How cool would that be?
Then I was almost to the front of the line and looked at my watch and I saw I had ten minutes to get to my plane. I was so mad. I mean, Spain has this terrible reputation for always being late, sacrificing efficiency for pleasure, and being less "civilized" then northern Europe, and they got me through security in the busiest airport in their capital city in eight minutes, while Düsseldorf took an hour and a half! Not cool! To save time, I took out my laptop and took off my watch and belt beforehand, which was a little bit of a gamble because I was wearing the pants with the deep pockets (ideal for travel because I tend to have to cram some objects in my pockets because they won't fit in my baggage) and the missing top button, meaning it's a little of a balancing act keeping them up without a belt. I got through and ran to the gate-where the flight was just starting to board thank goodness.
They got us on the plane in good time, and I dejectedly noted that they had given me a window seat (which meant restricted access to the bathroom, which I value over a window anytime) and the window had a spectacular view of the wing. Then-
Delayed. For an hour. And forty-five minutes.
Then we were in the air! And I spent the eight or nine or ten hours or whatever it was with my shoes off, alternately watching a mutation of "Candid Camera" on the movie screens, short bouts of sleep, and reading Scientific American. I love Scientific American on plane rides because it's fascinating stuff, but a single issue is enough to last me a full four hours-if not more. Thus I got through one and a half issues. There is an excellent magazine, and it saved my sanity.
Then I landed in JFK.
JFK.
JFK.
How I hate that airport.
No signs, no personnel, no indications whatsoever that they care at all for your welfare as a human being. I was supposed to have a three hour layover, enough for food or something because I had remembered that my cookies make really, really thirsty and I hadn't had a decent amount of liquid since that morning. I needed to either buy food or buy a drink after security to water the food I already had. BUT NO. IT WAS NOT TO BE.
We landed about forty-five minutes late. Since I was entering the US, I had to go through customs, which meant an enormous line which nevertheless went fairly quickly. I was admiring the multiculturalism displayed by the mosaics on the walls, which is mighty clichéd in most settings but I feel New York has a decent claim to be presenting such a thing. I got to the "front" of a line, and I was assigned to another line to a kiosk. I detected a problem when there was a small group clustered around my kiosk's guy and settled for a long wait. Well, not only was it a long wait but as soon as my guy finished he was apparently sent home by his superior! So I had to be reassigned to another line and wait again for another big problem being solved. Then it was my turn, and I had the luck to have a very friendly Jewish border inspector in a skullcap. He was very nice and he let me in, which was the best outcome I could have hoped for.
But then I had to collect my luggage, which was fun, and there was another layer of security to get from the baggage claim to the outside, and the first one was not moving at all for some reason, so I switched to a line which was moving much faster. For some reason. So I was, in the end, able to escape customs and baggage claim, but now I had two enormous bags to contend with and I had to get to the Delta check-in.
Were there signs? No. Anyone to ask? Yes, but every one person had approximately three million people waiting in line to talk to them, so I struck out on my own. I happened to pick the right direction, because when I got to the end of the arrival terminal I saw a sign saying 'Check-in.' Lucky, thought I, and I dashed off. However, there was no more indication of where, exactly, check-in was. I decided to follow some people into what turned out to be the World's Most Cantankerous Elevator, which was determined to close its doors every two seconds whether or not someone was jabbing the button. I barely got in there with my bags, and I almost killed a woman from somewhere in the Midwest to do it.
I ended up in a check-in terminal-the international flights check-in. There was no indication of this until I finally realized that 80% of the airlines I could see had absolutely nothing to do with domestic flights. I went back to the Elevator, but after it left-twice-without letting anyone in, I took the escalator down one floor, where I found-a train! To the other terminals! And a woman specifically shouting if anyone had any questions! Thank goodness!
So she told me which direction I had to go and assured me that the train came once every four minutes or something like that. I had barely missed a train, so I settled for a short wait. The train going the other way went past. The train going the other way passed again, right on schedule, four minutes later. The train going the other way passed again-on schedule. It passed again. And again. And. Again.
At the same time I kept checking the flight information on a screen right above me, which was really worrying me because, according to it, my flight didn't exist. That's a fun thing to think about while you wait a half-hour for a four-minute train.
FINALLY it came. By this time there was, understandably, a substantial crowd waiting to get on board. Luckily for me, it seemed convinced that one could only enter the first set of doors, and it was determinedly not listening to the personnel lady shouting that one could enter any of the doors available, which meant I had an easy time getting in the plane, but, alack! The doors were distant relatives of the Elevator, and it cut the group behind me in two! But the lady must have had a beating stick or something, because the doors opened and admitted the rest of the group in short order.
All that-and I had to go just one terminal on. The doors tried to get me, too, as I exited, but I was a bit too quick.
Then I met the World's Most Cantankerous Elevator's mother.
I barely got on, and it was crowded. We got to what I thought was my floor (which it might have been-I'm still not sure) and the people in front of me got off, but the doors started closing right behind them! So, I stuck my leg in-between them. The result was roughly equal to being chewed on by a toothless hippopotamus. Eventually she decided I wasn't worth the effort and opened up again and I was allowed to go free.
I wandered down a hallway and then another and ended up at another elevator with a foreign man and his daughter. He asked me if I knew where I was going...
Luckily an airport employee saved us and told us which floor to go we needed. He was correct, and may he live to swim in diamonds.
So, how much time had all this wandering left me with? Exactly thirty minutes.
And there was a line fit to fill all those who entered with despair.
Luckily, there was a Delta employee there asking where I was going and I told her my flight was in thirty minutes, so she conveyed me to the front of the line where a very nice lady waiting with a pre-teen consented to let me go in front of them. As it turned out, the pre-teen was an exchange student from Madrid! A nice surprise that would have been much nicer if I hadn't be in the opening stages of full-blown panic, which progressed at a healthy clip as the minute ticked by and the people in front of me-the people talking with the ticket agent himself-refused to budge.
To my right was a man my age who overheard me telling the lady my destination, and he revealed himself as an Indian student heading for the University of Utah. So we talked like two castaways in the same desperate situation. With fifteen minutes to go, he was finally attended to, but a group of people who had been told repeatedly that their flight had already left muscled in behind him before I could say a word.
I can't remember how much time I had when the ticket agent to my right finally motioned me forward, and I asked him if there was still hope for me.
There was, and he check-in my baggage and printed my ticket, and I was off like a shot after waving goodbye to the Spanish girl and her chaperon. I practically threw my baggage at the security people x-raying them and went to the security line, where I very rudely and passionately asked to be let through because my flight was leaving in ten minutes. I really, really wish I could have explained the whole situation to them, because every single last one of them had "So why didn't you leave two hours early to beat the traffic?" in their eyes. I was also probably really annoying because I asked each individual person their permission in the same monotonic way to cut in front of them, but I didn't want to assume that there was a group where there wasn't and I was getting really worried. There was one Hungarian woman who I had tried to speak to earlier at the check-in but got frustrated at me because I wasn't speaking slowly enough for her to understand who wouldn't let me past, and frankly I don't blame her because she was in a hurry, too, because her flight was about to leave as well. She wouldn't let me past in the security line, but she had as good an excuse as me, and I feel really bad about asking her now. I didn't recognize her at first, I guess.
I got through the line and I booked it to the nearest sign telling me where to go-which was far enough away that there were two moving walkways. Fun, huh? But the walkways were surprisingly bouncy, which helped a lot. I got to the gate, found the Indian guy who had been a bit earlier than me-and he told me the flight was late. It got to the gate about three minutes after I did.
So, after fifteen minutes of telling him kinda what to expect in Salt Lake, they let us board. I was really, really tired at that point after all the excitement and wandering around, and I was finally on the flight where I could listen to my iPod. We were delayed about a half-hour, forty-five minutes or so (probably because of my bags...) and finally pushed off from the gate and headed for the runway. The pilot told us that there was going to be another delay as we waited for our turn.
Then we returned to the gate. The pilot told us that a situation needed to be resolved, but wouldn't tell us what. We went to a different gate and since I was way in the back I couldn't see what was going on, but I was vaguely excited at the off-chance that something was wrong and we'd have to evacuate the plane. I've never been evacuated from anything before, and it would have been a nice experience. But no word, nothing seemed to be happening, nothing to worry about-just something to get really, really bored about.
Finally the pilot told us a woman had had a situation and had needed to get off. He assured us we'd be going soon, so we waited. Then he told us they needed to get the woman's luggage out of the hold and that it would take another ten minutes to do that. Forty-five minutes later he made another announcement of another delay which I can't remember, but I think it had something to do with the control tower or something else...
Luckily for our sanity, the crew let everyone walk around, go to the bathroom, etc., but all I wanted to do was listen to my iPod and sleep, but I worried too much about its battery and its effect on the plane-yes, I was worried a device the size of three fingers together might do something to a 45-ton aircraft while sitting on the ground. The sad thing is, I would've done the same even had I been fully awake. I can't even blame my sleep deprivation. Anyway, so instead of listening to my iPod, I turned on my laptop (which makes all kinds of sense!!!) and mindlessly wandered around scanslations. Once we started moving out to the runway, I turned it off, only to have the pilot announce that we were something like fifteenth or sixteenth in line with a corresponding further delay. The end result? We took off at the same time we were supposed to be landing in Salt Lake. A four hour delay, all the while stuck in that forsaken plane.
The worst part was wanting to sleep. The second worst part were the other passengers going on and on about how much this sucked, especially the couple next to me. They kept trying to call the news stations in Salt Lake to announce our situation to them as if they would have cared. They kept saying that the recent examples of that United Flight which was in the same situation for twelve hours or whatever would generate interest. And the husband kept complaining that Delta probably wouldn't even offer some sort of compensation (which turned out to be correct). I just wished that they would all shut up and let me sleep, but instead I just leaned against the window and half-heartedly tried to claw through it while they went on and on and on...
I'm kind of a pushover when it comes to customer satisfaction. I tend to feel a lot more sorry for employees than for customers when things go wrong, mostly because customers can be so belligerent. As long as I get there in the end, I couldn't care less. That guy grousing about compensation got me the most. If the delay caused him to miss a connecting flight, then of course Delta should compensate him, but he was obviously from Salt Lake and the airline just went through a bankruptcy and is trying to get back on its feet when something like this happens! A lady goes crazy, demands her luggage which the baggage handlers couldn't find to save their lives and the control tower screws us over. I thought the damage to its credibility that was certain to spread after this debacle was enough, but he wanted compensation from a bankrupt company! Of course they're not going to give us compensation, they gotta pay the pilots that haven't already left!
At any rate, we got in the air and we flew to Salt Lake, and as soon as we passed cruising altitude I cranked up my iPod, leaned back, and slept as well as I could, which wasn't very well because I had had my contacts in for a little more than twenty-four hours and they were itching. I wanted to take them out, but I didn't want to get my contact lens solution out of whoknowswhere in my backpack. A consolation was only a partial view of the wing this time.
We landed in Salt Lake at long last at about two in the morning. i was having horrible imaginings of my family coming to pick me up at ten with predictable results...
I managed to say a fairly courteous "Good night," to the captain and flight attendants, and slowly made my way to the baggage claim. I spotted Dad fairly early because of his abnormal tallness, and he must have been pretty tired because he didn't noticed me even as I "snuck up" on him in plain sight. Once I was behind him, I dropped to the floor and slithered up to his ankle and grabbed it, discovering in the process that after approximately 24 hours with negligible sleep, I still have a sense of humor. Dad counts it as one of the more memorable greetings he's had.
He was as amazed as I when he saw my bags that I hadn't been charged for being overweight. We made our way home, and if I hadn't been so very obvious unfit to drive I would have offered, because Dad was really tired. Luckily he had called on ahead and learned that my flight was delayed-due to "weather." Weather.
I told him the true story on the way home, and he got me all caught up on goings on at home. My excitement at seeing him had perked me up, and instead of going straight to bed upon arriving home, I ate some food and drank some water and ended up keeping Dad up another forty-five minutes or so before he retired, and I stayed up another twenty minutes after that. This is a strange universe we live in.
Such an epic journey. I am so glad that flying back on Continental will be so much easier: Salt Lake to Newark to Madrid. Simple. One layover. Huzzah.
I still mourn my three-hour layover...it could have been so much more, but it was struck down in its prime.
I had decided to attempt to defy jet lag by staying up the whole night before. At first this was fun, because it meant surfing online to my hearts content. However, somewhere around four in the morning I suddenly felt a wave of stinging pain wash through my eyes, so I turned off the laptop. But I packed all my books and textbooks, so there was nothing else to do, so I decided to lay down.
No longer distracted by the sweetly beckoning images on the laptop, my brain went into full overdrive on all the bad things about leaving: my misgivings about going back into a parentally saturated atmosphere, how incredibly tired I would be when I arrived if it turned out I couldn't sleep, how I wouldn't be able to come back to Maite and Ricardo the next semester, how suckysyuckysucky the whole plane trip would be, and worrying that if anything went wrong I would be too sleep-deprived to handle it while still being decent to the people around me.
I kept drifting off only to have vague and terrifying half-dreams where I had overslept and missed the taxi and other similar disasters sufficient to make me start upright and grope for my watch to see what time it was. I can't remember if I was listening to my iPod or not, but I definitely remember background music. It wouldn't have made sense to be listening to my iPod, though, because I never play it while it's hooked to the wall because I don't trust its batteries, and I wouldn't have played it unplugged to the wall because I knew I only would have one potential window to charge it during the trip. Hallucinations? A really cool possibility.
Six o'clock came around and I showered and had breakfast, which seemed to wake up my brain and by the time I had to take my luggage down to the street, I was feeling chipper. This was a very good thing.
So the taxi came right on time and I went to the airport with one of my roommates. I paid for the whole taxi fare because I hadn't paid him back for the whole Harry Potter debacle which included movie tickets and taxi fare to an unknown corner of Madrid. We then found out which check-in desks we needed and parted ways-now I can't remember his name. That is why he is a roommate, I guess. >.>
I had my two large and utterly ridiculous bags which I had to navigate through crowds of people-but I am glad to say that I sounded extremely Spanish while passing through. I found my check-in desk and settled into the line to wait with pride and grandeur (meaning I let my face assume its default "I will kill you if cross me" expression-the things you learn in big cities...). Suddenly out of the distance came the sounds of bullhorns and chanting. A group carrying picket signs entered the far end of the terminal and set up shop around one of the flight information displays and began chanting and blowing their bullhorns rhythmically. I had a hard time not tapping my feet, because I somehow had the impression that if anyone saw me tapping them they might think I was weak-minded and might attempt Jedi mind tricks on me. But it was hard. I was saving my iPod for later use, so I couldn't tune them out.
Then I finally got to check-in, and there my Spanish abandoned me when the ticket agent lady started talking to me in English once she saw my passport. I hate it when that happens. At any rate, she asked for my ticket info and I asked if it would be possible to check my baggage all the way to Salt Lake, to which she replied with, "Huh? Where's that? What's its call sign?" That was fun.
However, in contrast to every single other person who asked where I was from only to loose interest when it wasn't some place they hadn't heard, she started asking questions like what was the economy like there, what there was to do there, etc. I told her a lot, and I invited her to come visit anytime she wished, and I recommended that she come in the winter to ski in the greatest snow on Earth. I don't know if she will, but she sounded interested.
At any rate, she allayed one of my primary concerns for my flight home: she didn't charge for my overweight baggage. They were probably on the order of 40 kilos each, but she didn't charge. She was one super awesome lady, and her progeny must not perish from the earth.
Secure in my good deed for patrimony of the day and her good deed for hapless students of the day, I then proceeded to get through the security line in less than eight minutes-this point become important later. By this time the plane was already boarding, so I got on board without having eaten a darn thing, thinking I would be able to eat the cookies I had in my backpack.
The plane, of Lufthansa Airlines, left right on time. This point becomes important later. Two hours later I landed in Düsseldorf a full half-hour early, which pleased me to no end because the original plan called for only a forty-five minute layover, and I thought this extra time would mean time to buy snacks or even a full-fledged meal. However...
Despite the fact that I was still within the EU, for some reason the Düsseldorf airport apparently requires all passengers to check in-again. Instead of routing me directly to the departure terminal, the traitorous and conniving hallways lead me to the check-out desks. I had been given what I thought was a boarding ticket in Madrid, but alas when I got to the security line, I was informed (first in rapid German-which was my fault because I hadn't expected to have to actually understand anything so I said "Guten tag"-then when I forced to admit I hadn't understood a single word, the lady called over another security guard who spoke English) that what I had was not a boarding ticket, though it had a seat assignment and everything, because I was switching to LTU airlines, which for some reason has nearly the same logo as Lufthansa but-well. So I had to go check-in again, and go through security again. Checking in was a ten-minute wait, much better than Madrid, but security was aggravatingly slow. I was a good little boy, and I went to the line which was designated for non-special people who didn't have first class tickets. Plenty of cheaters did, though. Meh.
The line moved so slow. Like molasses, almost. It was so boring and at the same time irritating because my time was being eaten up most rapidly. I spent the whole time fantasizing how cool it would be to know ten languages and to have your cell phone ring ten times and answer, "Hello?" "Dime," "Assalam Aleikom!" "Moshi moshi?" "Pronto," "Allo?" "Slushayu vas," "Wei," "Snow, guten tag," and "yobosayoh," then strike up a short conversation, then hang up only to have it ring again. How cool would that be?
Then I was almost to the front of the line and looked at my watch and I saw I had ten minutes to get to my plane. I was so mad. I mean, Spain has this terrible reputation for always being late, sacrificing efficiency for pleasure, and being less "civilized" then northern Europe, and they got me through security in the busiest airport in their capital city in eight minutes, while Düsseldorf took an hour and a half! Not cool! To save time, I took out my laptop and took off my watch and belt beforehand, which was a little bit of a gamble because I was wearing the pants with the deep pockets (ideal for travel because I tend to have to cram some objects in my pockets because they won't fit in my baggage) and the missing top button, meaning it's a little of a balancing act keeping them up without a belt. I got through and ran to the gate-where the flight was just starting to board thank goodness.
They got us on the plane in good time, and I dejectedly noted that they had given me a window seat (which meant restricted access to the bathroom, which I value over a window anytime) and the window had a spectacular view of the wing. Then-
Delayed. For an hour. And forty-five minutes.
Then we were in the air! And I spent the eight or nine or ten hours or whatever it was with my shoes off, alternately watching a mutation of "Candid Camera" on the movie screens, short bouts of sleep, and reading Scientific American. I love Scientific American on plane rides because it's fascinating stuff, but a single issue is enough to last me a full four hours-if not more. Thus I got through one and a half issues. There is an excellent magazine, and it saved my sanity.
Then I landed in JFK.
JFK.
JFK.
How I hate that airport.
No signs, no personnel, no indications whatsoever that they care at all for your welfare as a human being. I was supposed to have a three hour layover, enough for food or something because I had remembered that my cookies make really, really thirsty and I hadn't had a decent amount of liquid since that morning. I needed to either buy food or buy a drink after security to water the food I already had. BUT NO. IT WAS NOT TO BE.
We landed about forty-five minutes late. Since I was entering the US, I had to go through customs, which meant an enormous line which nevertheless went fairly quickly. I was admiring the multiculturalism displayed by the mosaics on the walls, which is mighty clichéd in most settings but I feel New York has a decent claim to be presenting such a thing. I got to the "front" of a line, and I was assigned to another line to a kiosk. I detected a problem when there was a small group clustered around my kiosk's guy and settled for a long wait. Well, not only was it a long wait but as soon as my guy finished he was apparently sent home by his superior! So I had to be reassigned to another line and wait again for another big problem being solved. Then it was my turn, and I had the luck to have a very friendly Jewish border inspector in a skullcap. He was very nice and he let me in, which was the best outcome I could have hoped for.
But then I had to collect my luggage, which was fun, and there was another layer of security to get from the baggage claim to the outside, and the first one was not moving at all for some reason, so I switched to a line which was moving much faster. For some reason. So I was, in the end, able to escape customs and baggage claim, but now I had two enormous bags to contend with and I had to get to the Delta check-in.
Were there signs? No. Anyone to ask? Yes, but every one person had approximately three million people waiting in line to talk to them, so I struck out on my own. I happened to pick the right direction, because when I got to the end of the arrival terminal I saw a sign saying 'Check-in.' Lucky, thought I, and I dashed off. However, there was no more indication of where, exactly, check-in was. I decided to follow some people into what turned out to be the World's Most Cantankerous Elevator, which was determined to close its doors every two seconds whether or not someone was jabbing the button. I barely got in there with my bags, and I almost killed a woman from somewhere in the Midwest to do it.
I ended up in a check-in terminal-the international flights check-in. There was no indication of this until I finally realized that 80% of the airlines I could see had absolutely nothing to do with domestic flights. I went back to the Elevator, but after it left-twice-without letting anyone in, I took the escalator down one floor, where I found-a train! To the other terminals! And a woman specifically shouting if anyone had any questions! Thank goodness!
So she told me which direction I had to go and assured me that the train came once every four minutes or something like that. I had barely missed a train, so I settled for a short wait. The train going the other way went past. The train going the other way passed again, right on schedule, four minutes later. The train going the other way passed again-on schedule. It passed again. And again. And. Again.
At the same time I kept checking the flight information on a screen right above me, which was really worrying me because, according to it, my flight didn't exist. That's a fun thing to think about while you wait a half-hour for a four-minute train.
FINALLY it came. By this time there was, understandably, a substantial crowd waiting to get on board. Luckily for me, it seemed convinced that one could only enter the first set of doors, and it was determinedly not listening to the personnel lady shouting that one could enter any of the doors available, which meant I had an easy time getting in the plane, but, alack! The doors were distant relatives of the Elevator, and it cut the group behind me in two! But the lady must have had a beating stick or something, because the doors opened and admitted the rest of the group in short order.
All that-and I had to go just one terminal on. The doors tried to get me, too, as I exited, but I was a bit too quick.
Then I met the World's Most Cantankerous Elevator's mother.
I barely got on, and it was crowded. We got to what I thought was my floor (which it might have been-I'm still not sure) and the people in front of me got off, but the doors started closing right behind them! So, I stuck my leg in-between them. The result was roughly equal to being chewed on by a toothless hippopotamus. Eventually she decided I wasn't worth the effort and opened up again and I was allowed to go free.
I wandered down a hallway and then another and ended up at another elevator with a foreign man and his daughter. He asked me if I knew where I was going...
Luckily an airport employee saved us and told us which floor to go we needed. He was correct, and may he live to swim in diamonds.
So, how much time had all this wandering left me with? Exactly thirty minutes.
And there was a line fit to fill all those who entered with despair.
Luckily, there was a Delta employee there asking where I was going and I told her my flight was in thirty minutes, so she conveyed me to the front of the line where a very nice lady waiting with a pre-teen consented to let me go in front of them. As it turned out, the pre-teen was an exchange student from Madrid! A nice surprise that would have been much nicer if I hadn't be in the opening stages of full-blown panic, which progressed at a healthy clip as the minute ticked by and the people in front of me-the people talking with the ticket agent himself-refused to budge.
To my right was a man my age who overheard me telling the lady my destination, and he revealed himself as an Indian student heading for the University of Utah. So we talked like two castaways in the same desperate situation. With fifteen minutes to go, he was finally attended to, but a group of people who had been told repeatedly that their flight had already left muscled in behind him before I could say a word.
I can't remember how much time I had when the ticket agent to my right finally motioned me forward, and I asked him if there was still hope for me.
There was, and he check-in my baggage and printed my ticket, and I was off like a shot after waving goodbye to the Spanish girl and her chaperon. I practically threw my baggage at the security people x-raying them and went to the security line, where I very rudely and passionately asked to be let through because my flight was leaving in ten minutes. I really, really wish I could have explained the whole situation to them, because every single last one of them had "So why didn't you leave two hours early to beat the traffic?" in their eyes. I was also probably really annoying because I asked each individual person their permission in the same monotonic way to cut in front of them, but I didn't want to assume that there was a group where there wasn't and I was getting really worried. There was one Hungarian woman who I had tried to speak to earlier at the check-in but got frustrated at me because I wasn't speaking slowly enough for her to understand who wouldn't let me past, and frankly I don't blame her because she was in a hurry, too, because her flight was about to leave as well. She wouldn't let me past in the security line, but she had as good an excuse as me, and I feel really bad about asking her now. I didn't recognize her at first, I guess.
I got through the line and I booked it to the nearest sign telling me where to go-which was far enough away that there were two moving walkways. Fun, huh? But the walkways were surprisingly bouncy, which helped a lot. I got to the gate, found the Indian guy who had been a bit earlier than me-and he told me the flight was late. It got to the gate about three minutes after I did.
So, after fifteen minutes of telling him kinda what to expect in Salt Lake, they let us board. I was really, really tired at that point after all the excitement and wandering around, and I was finally on the flight where I could listen to my iPod. We were delayed about a half-hour, forty-five minutes or so (probably because of my bags...) and finally pushed off from the gate and headed for the runway. The pilot told us that there was going to be another delay as we waited for our turn.
Then we returned to the gate. The pilot told us that a situation needed to be resolved, but wouldn't tell us what. We went to a different gate and since I was way in the back I couldn't see what was going on, but I was vaguely excited at the off-chance that something was wrong and we'd have to evacuate the plane. I've never been evacuated from anything before, and it would have been a nice experience. But no word, nothing seemed to be happening, nothing to worry about-just something to get really, really bored about.
Finally the pilot told us a woman had had a situation and had needed to get off. He assured us we'd be going soon, so we waited. Then he told us they needed to get the woman's luggage out of the hold and that it would take another ten minutes to do that. Forty-five minutes later he made another announcement of another delay which I can't remember, but I think it had something to do with the control tower or something else...
Luckily for our sanity, the crew let everyone walk around, go to the bathroom, etc., but all I wanted to do was listen to my iPod and sleep, but I worried too much about its battery and its effect on the plane-yes, I was worried a device the size of three fingers together might do something to a 45-ton aircraft while sitting on the ground. The sad thing is, I would've done the same even had I been fully awake. I can't even blame my sleep deprivation. Anyway, so instead of listening to my iPod, I turned on my laptop (which makes all kinds of sense!!!) and mindlessly wandered around scanslations. Once we started moving out to the runway, I turned it off, only to have the pilot announce that we were something like fifteenth or sixteenth in line with a corresponding further delay. The end result? We took off at the same time we were supposed to be landing in Salt Lake. A four hour delay, all the while stuck in that forsaken plane.
The worst part was wanting to sleep. The second worst part were the other passengers going on and on about how much this sucked, especially the couple next to me. They kept trying to call the news stations in Salt Lake to announce our situation to them as if they would have cared. They kept saying that the recent examples of that United Flight which was in the same situation for twelve hours or whatever would generate interest. And the husband kept complaining that Delta probably wouldn't even offer some sort of compensation (which turned out to be correct). I just wished that they would all shut up and let me sleep, but instead I just leaned against the window and half-heartedly tried to claw through it while they went on and on and on...
I'm kind of a pushover when it comes to customer satisfaction. I tend to feel a lot more sorry for employees than for customers when things go wrong, mostly because customers can be so belligerent. As long as I get there in the end, I couldn't care less. That guy grousing about compensation got me the most. If the delay caused him to miss a connecting flight, then of course Delta should compensate him, but he was obviously from Salt Lake and the airline just went through a bankruptcy and is trying to get back on its feet when something like this happens! A lady goes crazy, demands her luggage which the baggage handlers couldn't find to save their lives and the control tower screws us over. I thought the damage to its credibility that was certain to spread after this debacle was enough, but he wanted compensation from a bankrupt company! Of course they're not going to give us compensation, they gotta pay the pilots that haven't already left!
At any rate, we got in the air and we flew to Salt Lake, and as soon as we passed cruising altitude I cranked up my iPod, leaned back, and slept as well as I could, which wasn't very well because I had had my contacts in for a little more than twenty-four hours and they were itching. I wanted to take them out, but I didn't want to get my contact lens solution out of whoknowswhere in my backpack. A consolation was only a partial view of the wing this time.
We landed in Salt Lake at long last at about two in the morning. i was having horrible imaginings of my family coming to pick me up at ten with predictable results...
I managed to say a fairly courteous "Good night," to the captain and flight attendants, and slowly made my way to the baggage claim. I spotted Dad fairly early because of his abnormal tallness, and he must have been pretty tired because he didn't noticed me even as I "snuck up" on him in plain sight. Once I was behind him, I dropped to the floor and slithered up to his ankle and grabbed it, discovering in the process that after approximately 24 hours with negligible sleep, I still have a sense of humor. Dad counts it as one of the more memorable greetings he's had.
He was as amazed as I when he saw my bags that I hadn't been charged for being overweight. We made our way home, and if I hadn't been so very obvious unfit to drive I would have offered, because Dad was really tired. Luckily he had called on ahead and learned that my flight was delayed-due to "weather." Weather.
I told him the true story on the way home, and he got me all caught up on goings on at home. My excitement at seeing him had perked me up, and instead of going straight to bed upon arriving home, I ate some food and drank some water and ended up keeping Dad up another forty-five minutes or so before he retired, and I stayed up another twenty minutes after that. This is a strange universe we live in.
Such an epic journey. I am so glad that flying back on Continental will be so much easier: Salt Lake to Newark to Madrid. Simple. One layover. Huzzah.
I still mourn my three-hour layover...it could have been so much more, but it was struck down in its prime.