Air Travel Still Sucks (Or thanks for nothing, Delta!)
I had not had the "pleasure" of flying via Delta for a while. What a transformation (and not to the positive) there was between my experience this weekend and the last time I flew with the carrier. I can laugh about it now, tucked away in the lovely downtown Indianapolis Marriott, after a much-needed shower and cat nap. This contrasts greatly with my situation a mere 24 hours ago. But this tale of woe starts even earlier then that.
So the plan made sense as we devised it. To make sure that Stirling and her rather rickety Camry made it to Asheville safely, I would ride with her, then fly to Indianapolis to spend Sunday through Tuesday with Ken, capping off the trip with a little "wasting away in Margaritaville." Perhaps I should have known that this flight was going to be jinxed when I checked in at the Delta counter. "Your flight has been slightly delayed," the ticket agent chirped. "It will be leaving at 7:25 instead of 6:25." No problem so far, I reassured myself. I had a two-hour layover in Atlanta, so even with the change in plans I calculated that I still should make my connecting flight.
Moving onto security, I was informed that I had been "selected" by the carrier (they made it sound like this was some sort of honor) for a random body pat down and search of all my carry-on items. This would have been fine, if my purse hadn't been in dire need of a good cleaning (a task I had intended to complete while sitting at the gate) and if I didn't have a few dozen pieces of loose paper and assorted newspaper clippings crammed into my computer bag to work on for this blog. Given no choice, I begrudgingly submitted to the TSA search, while threatening them within an inch of their lives if they dare lost a single note or slip of paper while rifling through my things.
So far, still no real problem. Upon arriving to at the gate, I discovered that the flight before ours was two hours late arriving in Asheville from Atlanta. Oh well, I naively figured, once their flight took off, ours would be close behind. When the gate agent finally made an announcement that the 4:20 plane had arrived at 6:15, the crowd in the waiting area burst into applause. The group's euphoria was short-lived. "Don't any of you approach the desk," shrieked the agent. "Everyone stay in your seats. I will let you know when you can get up." The plane was loaded by this pint-sized drill sargeant without incident.
"I apologize if I was a little harsh," the she-devil agent announced 20 minutes later. "I knew that flight was full and didn't want any of YOU people who were scheduled for the later flight thinking there was room on the earlier one. Now, I have been working hard, so I am going to take a bathroom break (did we really need to know this?) and will be back in five minutes to answer any questions for those of you on the 6:25 (now 7:25) flight." With this, she disappeared from the gate, never to be seen again.
Approximately 30 minutes later, a male agent showed up and began to answer questions from those of us waiting in the gate. Still hopeful I would be able to make my connection in Atlanta, I attempted to remain optimistic. However, a one-hour layover, turned into two, then three, hours. Occasionally, we would receive vague updates that our plane too was delayed leaving Atlanta (no kidding!). The guess as to its arrival time became a moving target.
The new agent (can't tell you his name; he never would tell us, no doubt another foreboding sign) made an announcement that anyone with a connection would be booked onto the next available flight and that we should make a decision whether we wished to stay in Asheville or move onto Atlanta. He also said he would be calling us up to the desk individually to discuss our modified plans. Not known for my patient nature, I nevertheless tried to remain calm, reminded myself that this trip was suppposed to be FUN, and decided to display some manners and not rush the desk. But as time lurched by and it became clear that there was no hope of catching my original connecting flight, I tossed niceties aside and approached.
"Can you please tell me what flight I am currently scheduled on to get into Indianapolis?" I inquired.
"Ma'am, you are scheduled for the 7 a.m. flight out of Atlanta tomorrow morning."
"OK, thank you," I said, "I suppose it makes more sense to fly into Atlanta tonight (as a major hub) than to stay in Asheville. Will you be providing hotel vouchers?"
"Yes ma'am," Mr. Won't-Tell-You-My-Name said. "Let me get everyone else situated with their connecting flights and then I will deal with hotel vouchers."
Our flight -- the 6:25 that became the 7:25 -- finally arrived at 9:15. My new gate-mates Val and June (trying to get home to Miami after a "girls' week" in Cashiers, NC) and I again asked about hotel vouchers. "Oh, I will print them out in just a minute." As we got ready to board the plane: "Sorry, I didn't have time to print all the hotel vouchers. You can pick them up in Atlanta. There will be someone to help you at the gate when you arrive." Although I don't think I had "gullible" stamped across my forehead -- and we were clearly getting the brush-off -- we weren't given any other real choice and decided, along with the mother-and-son team we had now picked up who were trying to get home to Denver -- to keep moving forward.
Arriving in Atlanta at 10:45, we were met by no gate agent, only a pack of angry passengers who had congregated from other flights. In the time it took us to walk down to the next gate and ask for assistance, an agent finally arrived to deal with the irritated throng.
So again, we waited. The line moved in slow motion. Even when people appeared to have been helped, they continued to linger, often engaging in conversations on cell our house phones. Upon reaching the front of the line at 11:30, I discovered why.
"We won't be able to offer hotel vouchers. Didn't they tell you that the flight was delayed getting to Asheville from Atlanta because it was weather-related?" After scanning my memory thoroughly and confering with Val and June, I informed her firmly that no, they had not told us anything about the delay being weather-related and I would like my hotel voucher now.
"Ma'am, my supervisor said there is nothing I can do," she told me, in a voice that indicated she had recited this line throughout the evening. Asking to speak with her supervisor, Patrick Threadhed, he miraculously said this wasn't his fault as he was associated with ASA (that's funny since I had booked by flight through Delta and would assume that they would be taking some responsibility at this point) and that it was the Delta agents we had encountered in Asheville (again, why was it Delta agents there, but ASA agents here?) who had gotten it all wrong.
He promised that if I went all the way down to baggage claim (or "only four stops on the tram" he tried to convincingly tell me) they could take care of all of my problems. Looking quickly at my ticket, I noted that I was still a "marked" woman with the airline and would likely be subjected to another body pat down and bag search, something I was in no mood for as the hour approached midnight. Besides, if the lines were this long and ill-managed at this one gate, I could only imagine the zoo down at the agent desk in baggage claim. And P.S., did he think I really believed anyone was going to take care of my problems? They certainly hadn't shown any interest in doing so up to this point.
So I made the radical decision to snooze at the airport. After doing the calculations, I figured that by the time I arrived at a hotel and checked into a room, I would be getting a total of four hours' sleep, tops. Of course, this would have been accurate if my 7 a.m. flight wasn't then cancelled. So after a cold, relatively sleepless night (who knew that airport cleaning staffs spent so much time buffing the floors and screaming up and down the corridor, in spite of the fact that every gate in the terminal had numerous stranded travellers), it was not really a shock when lo and behold this latest wrinkle occurred. Finally at 9 a.m. I was on a flight on my way to Indianapolis; dirty, tired and grouchy, but at least on my way.
The piece de resistance to my saga? Yes, I finally arrived in Indianapois at 10:30 a.m. Not surprisingly, my luggage did not. It appeared about six hours later at the hotel (so at least I didn't have to wear the same clothes for a third day).
I guess my primary question at the end of all this is "does air travel in 2006 really have to be this bad?" Isn't Delta's motto "we love to fly and it shows?" Where exactly in this experience did their enthusiasm of travel and the customer experience show? I seem to have missed it. And if airlines are in such dire straights wouldn't it behoove them to do well the things they can, like communicating effectively and honestly with consumers? Do they think this experience is going to make me want to ever fly with them again? Do they even care?
Have a travel story of airline ineptitude to top this one? Please share it with us. As for me, I reaffirm my commitment to road trips and rail travel whenever possible.
I was once upon a time a loyal Delta flyer, Used no other airline for 20 years, NOW i try to use ANY other airline. They have no customer service, less non stops, smaller planes, and the employees seem to think we caused the problems of their airline treating us poorly, which in the end, may be their demise!