6:23pm Wednesday 10th February 2010
By Lynn Briggs
I don't even know where to start in trying to relay all the things that went wrong between 11:30 AM Wednesday morning, Tucson, Arizona time, and 5:00 PM Thursday, Darlington time.
I should have had a "clue" on Monday, when the office at the Ranch argued with me about what time they thought I should leave for the airport. WTF?
They informed me that two hours was the usual time allowed and they thought they should pick me up at noon for a 2 PM flight. Uh...no. I insisted they pick me up at 11, and the woman at the desk got quite snippy with me, but finally agreed. I think after that, the groundwork had been laid for all the disasters that followed.
So, Cowboy Ryan picked me up at the casita right on time, and silly me thought the day would be a breeze. We picked up a Yuppie couple from another casita, who were complaining that "going home means cell phones ringing, yadda,yadda, yadda". The woman was also going on and on about how hard it was to get a sandwich because she's vegetarian and also doesn't eat/drink dairy. Yeah well, no sympathy from me there you silly moo.( I cleaned that up for publication) We get to the Delta area and Cowboy Ryan dutifully lifts my suitcase out of the truck and plunks it down on the sidewalk. I report to the Delta check in and am met by a puzzled look from Steven, who was to become my new BFF over the following two hour period. He couldn't find my reservation, even though he had the boarding passes in front of him.
Oh yeah, and I forgot this when I complained to Delta just now.
When they cancelled the flight from Atlanta to Amsterdam (and didn't tell me), they mistakenly entered the airport code for Tucson as "TUL". That's Tulsa folks. Nothing against the great state of Oklahoma, but I had no desire to go there on Wednesday. Steven couldn't "find me" in the system, because they had changed the flight and had me leaving from Tulsa. (Tulsa is around 1,094 miles from Tucson by the way) OK, onward and upward and I'm informed that the flight had been cancelled and no reason was given.
That meant me and possibly 297 other people had been displaced. I quite frankly didn't give the proverbial rat's behind about the other 297. Steven typed feverishly and could have typed the entire text of "Gone With The Wind" in his efforts to find me a flight. Nothing he did was working as the Delta system wouldn't let him change the ticket, even though the flight was cancelled. I have sciatica or something in my back...self diagnosis here...but whatever it is makes my left foot/leg go numb and hurt like Hades if I have to stand in one place longer than about ten minutes. I stood for two hours. I was sent at one point down to the United desk, thinking I was flying to LA and then onto Amsterdam, etc.
Got there and they told me I couldn't check in as there wasn't enough time in between flights to catch the next one. Wonderful. Back down to Steven I went and we started over again. He had to "phone a friend", consult with other workers, and type furiously once again.
FINALLY, after two hours, and my telling them I could possibly fly into London, we cracked it. There were no flights to Amsterdam at all for at least 24 hours and it was only because I said I could travel by train, that I got a flight from Tucson to Atlanta, and then onto Heathrow.
I had about half an hour to get thru Security and to my gate for Atlanta. I took off my shoes, and put my carry on bag on the thingy. The bag was promptly stopped and the weary looking agent said to me "you don't have a ROCK in therre do you". "Why yes Sir, I do". I replied. "A mighty fine hunk of Tucson quartz." He shook his head, looked at me like I was insane, and let me keep my rock.
Arrival at the gate was non eventful and I was kept amused by the couple across from me who had to be in their 70's, and had iphones and ipods and all the modern conveniences I can't afford. They were happily texting away and listening to music while I sat. Oh, and I have to add that the notice from Delta telling me my flight was cancelled, came in hours after the fact. (very helpful) Flight was uneventful and I had a couple hours in Atlanta to sit and ponder the day. Shouldn't have visited the Ladies room though. I managed to get a stall where the latch on the door was broken. Once I was in, I couldn't get out and thought I'd have to crawl under the door. After breaking what fingernails I actually HAD, I slid the thingy over and managed to escape. What next?? Oh, and I have to mention the scary garbage can in Atlanta. You put something in and it grinds and makes a horrible noise as it "separates" the material and recycles it. Say WHAT?
To cut this down in volume, I shall now move onto the landing in London. The Trans Atlantic flight was blissfully uneventful, and I used my two "free cocktail" coupons from my BFF Steven to purchase Jack Daniels and soda for my enjoyment. Arrived at Heathrow and I forgot how FAR the walk is from the landing point to Immigration. I walked the seemingly five plus miles to Immigration where I was put thru immediately with my British passport. I then had to walk to baggage claim, where my suitcase was literally the last one to appear. (I honestly thought it had gone to Amsterdam and was sitting without me, in Murphy's Irish Pub enjoying a pint.) I then set on my way for the 3 mile walk (?) to the Underground window to purchase my ticket. This was aggravated by the fact that my suitcase weighed in at 41 pounds and my carry on was another 10. I now had both of them to carry/drag. I had JB's suitcase which has wheels but no handle to pull it with. It only has a strap thing that you have to bend way over to use. So much for my bad back, which was rapidly becoming much worse. Made it to the ticket office, got my ticket and stood for nine minutes waiting for the next train. Oh, and I didn't have a coat or jacket on either so I was freezing. No 70 degree temps in London like I had in Tucson! Train finally arrived and I once again picked up a total of 51 pounds and boarded. It takes almost an hour to get to Kings Cross and the train rapidly filled to the point of bursting. I try not to make eye contact with anyone, like I do here in Darlington, but sometimes that's hard to do...
YAY. Finally, Kings Cross Station and ..oh no. I have to carry 51 pounds of stuff up escalators and up two flights of steps. By this time, I'm ready for a nursing home. I sat in the freezing cold waiting for the number of the platform to come up for the 2:30 PM to Newcastle, as I'd missed the 2:00 by about a minute. "Platform 2" comes up and I swear the entire waiting area, which was a cast of thousands, runs for the train. I didn't think there was a chance of my getting a seat, but after threatening a little old lady who tried to sit in the seat I had my bag on, I managed. Cut to the happy ending and I arrive in Darlo..well I think I did. It was so foggy here, I couldn't even tell where I was.
Home again, home again, and bring on the paracetamol in vast quantities. I don't think I'll ever recover from this latest adventure. I have a complaining email into Delta, for all the good it'll do me. It was somewhat cathartic to write though, as was this very sad tale of woe. Off to take more pain killers and try to catch up on everything I've fallen behind on.
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