6 posts tagged “travel horror story”

Fffffffffffffffffffffuuuuuuuuuuuuuccccccccccccccccccccck.

I am never flying though Dallas again.  Never.  For those keeping score at home, I was supposed to return from the South American continent at approximately 12:30 PM EDT.  It is now significantly later than 12:30 PM EDT, and I have been home for a grand total of about half an hour.  The thing is, it seems they really like canceling flights in Dallas - and then delaying them, delaying them, delaying them....  And it was barely even raining.  The best part isn't even that I was re-routed through Baltimore Washington International, which is convenient for no one.  No.  The best part is  - wait for it....  that I arrived without my luggage.  Or, rather, my luggage arrived without me where I was supposed to be.  I hope.  I don't actually know where my luggage is.  Screw this shit.  I'm going to Hooters.

Look, I realize that when one selects a vacation destination based in no small part on its famed remoteness, one naturally forfeits a certain degree of entitlement to complain about travel hassles along the way.  But lets look - just for a moment - at the situation at hand from another point of view.  To wit: all of the trials I experienced over the past couple of days occurred within five hundred miles of my home.  Once I got the hell out of Dodge (or in this case, Raleigh), it was relatively smooth sailing.  I figure that put the forfeited entitlement right back in my ledger.

Though the ticketing agent wasn't able to check me in through Easter Island, the fine folks in Miami could.  First thing I did (after wandering extensively through the maze of construction at Miami International) was present myself at the flight desk and ask that they issue me a boarding pass, which they happily obliged.  So I was checked through.  My luggage was checked through.  I was, as they say, feelin' fine.

Bottom line is: I'm here.  I'm still annoyed about having to waste a day in North Carolina, and I probably always will be, but I'm here.  I'm on a tiny volcanic island two thousand miles from anywhere and there's no place I'd rather be.  For the next three days, at least.  I've already spent the afternoon contemplating giant stone heads.  (I'm not going to go into that in detail at this point because of both information overload and because time is limited.  Suffice to say, though, it's fascinating stuff.)  Later tonight, assuming I can stay awake until then - gonna need to find some caffeine after this, methinks - I'm going to some see some traditional singing, dancing, and drumming.  I have a car booked with which to see most of the island on Monday.  Tomorrow, though, I'm not planning on doing much of anything.  Except maybe sitting - lots and lots of sitting.

Okay, I'm at the airport - through security and just steps away from my gate.  My flight to Miami is delayed fifteen minutes, but that shouldn't be an issue.  Knock wood, Miami is not where I will be pressed for time.  My luggage has been checked all the way through to Easter Island, so I just need to clear customs and proceed directly to my gate, where I still need to be issued a boarding pass.  My stress level is falling and my many neuroses are beginning to fade.  This just might work out after all.

I found it amusing that the nice woman who checked me in asked first if I was travelling for work.  HA!  Like there would be any use for a marine biologist on Easter Island!

There doesn't seem to be anything else to do in this abyssmal hell-hole, so I may as well spend some more time on the internets....

I'm tired.  Still operating under the assumption that I'm going to step off an airplane into the sunny South Pacific in about thirty hours, I forced myself to get out of bed at the regular time.  Which is to say: before six o'clock.  This could backfire, and tremedously, but the thing is I have a private guide of the moai reserved for the afternoon of my arrival.  If I'm dragging ass half in the sack, it could be a long afternoon.  The potential backfire, however, is that I have real troubles sleeping on airplanes, and I'm on an overnight flight to Santiago.  Fortunately, I'm working with about three hours of sleep right now, so it just might work out.  See?  I'm so tired I even slipped briefly into borderline optimism.

And I had a brainstorm last night about my potential transfer disaster.  I started to get nervous - naturally - about my chances of collecting my baggage, going through customs, circling back around and checking in, and still making my flight.  I'm nervous again now just typing it.  But there may be a potential solution.  After the re-booking process, I am now on a LAN flight out of Miami, which also happens to be my carrier out to Rapa Nui.  And which also happens to be a partner airline of American Airlines.  So I'm going to try to get ticketed and get my baggage checked straight through to Easter Island.  I'll probably still have to go through customs, but at least I won't have to collect my bag and check in.  The upshot of all this is that I no longer have to figure out how to kill an afternoon in Raleigh; anticipating problems, I'm heading to the airport stupid early to get all this sorted out.  If I'm sitting for three hours at the airport, that's a good thing, because it will mean there was a minimum of hassle.

There are only three flights a week out to Easter Island.  If I miss my connection, I'm screwed and tattooed.  This had better work.  And now I'm heading next door to the aforementioned Waffle House for some pancakes.  I'd prefer an omelet, but I'd also prefer to continue feeling sorry for myself a little bit more.

Okay, everybody - put the kiddies to bed, 'cause this one sure as shit ain't gonna be Maggie-friendly....

Fuck Texas.  Fuck.  Texas.  And fuck North fucking Carolina too.  A few years back, on my way to China, the plane I was on out of JFK had some mechanical problems and they had to cancel the flight.  It was a hassle, but the people at the desk re-booked every single person and we went on our way.  Because people in New York know that they need to get shit done.  You don't find any of that laissez-faire "You can fly out tomorrow" shit-kicker attitude in New York.  People in North Carolina could stand to learn a few goddamn things from New Yorkers.

But I wouldn't be in this predicament in the first place if Texas wasn't a god-forsaken place where no one should live.  Apparently dump-trucks of rain fall on the place daily during the summer and Texans are too fucking stupid to realize: "Hey, maybe we shouldn't live here."  I'm not even kidding any more.  We need to give Texas back to Mexico.  It's what they want anyway.

Obviously, I'm not on my way yet to South America.  My connecting flight to Dallas was cancelled due to weather.  The plan as of now is to fly to Miami tomorrow afternoon and connect to Santiago to land at 6:30AM in time for my 8:30AM flight to Easter Island.  There's not a whole lot of room for error, though.  And I'd be lying if I said I was feeling overwhelmingly positive about this going off without a snag.  I suppose some might consider this karmic payback for my crack about "gloat[ing]" in my previous post.  But I, for one, feel I am to be commended; I toned the smugness down quite a bit.  I didn't even mention "the littles" like I did in my first draft.

For the immediate future, my options are limited.  And I'm not even thinking far enough ahead to consider how to kill the day tomorrow.  I've already checked with Emma and Daby, and apparently Raleigh is too far from the Outer Banks for them to come pick me up so I can hang with them for the evening.  Who knew?  I mean - they're both in the same goddamn state, right?  Seemed reasonable to me....  Anyway, my options for a glorious evening in bum-fuck North Carolina seem to be:

A/ Remain here in this too-small-for-two-people "business center" at the Days Inn with my new douchebag friend right next to me talking and laughing to himself and surf the internet on this slow-ass probably dial-up podunk bullshit connection.

B/ Hit the Waffle House next door and then watch some TV and hit the sack.

C/ Go get drunk at Hooters.

I wish I was joking.  I think I'm gonna go to Hooters.  Perfect.  I'm the best seventeen-year-old ever.

oh, the perils of technology... i had written a particularly dreadful account of my trip to shanghai four years ago, but i fear it was lost in a crash. i have the energy neither to recreate nor to search my archives for it. suffice to say, it was an extremely well-written account of a highly uncomfortable event. my loss, apparently, is vox' loss.