It's Never a Trip with J. Without a Lot of Drama

It's Never a Trip with J. Without a Lot of Drama: How J. and Beau Almost Didn't Make it to New Zealand

As anyone who has read more than 2 entries from this blog has realized, I don’t seem capable of escaping drama in my life. The more I crave peace, the more I swim in a pool of chaos. And of course, every transcontinental trip I undertake is required to have a little excitement. Okay, a lot of excitement.

Beau and I got to the Phoenix airport nice and early, and after a marathon check-in (we had 3 giant suitcases, and 2 pushing-it carry-ons each), we finally were free to move on to our gate. My aunt saw us off and we got through security without a hitch. The flight was fine, if a bit cramped, and we ended up in San Francisco ready for our 12 hour *dread* flight.

I was happy that the layover in San Francisco was only about an hour. I often find layovers even more difficult to take than a long plane ride, though shopping in airport gift shops can ease some of that, *cough* pain. We would have to go through security again, and after what seemed like a 10k walk-a-thon through various terminals in the airport, we finally found ourselves face to face with the looming TSA entrance. Great!

As I walked up to the TSA woman, whom I could tell from this distance was Filipino due to her accent I was catching, I reached into my carry-on to my “special pocket” where plane tickets, my wallet, and my passport are all kept. Plane ticket, check. Wallet, check. Passport….passport. Oh, shit.

Beau must have been REAL excited to get to New Zealand *more fits of coughing* since he left me in a trail of his dust and was soon disappeared through the throngs of the security check-in crowd. Back outside the glass, there was I, crouching in the middle of the floor, rifling through my bag while cussing like a sailor under my breath. What a fucking pain! Being fairly susceptible to losing things, I try to always have a “place” for them so I always put them in the same place and don’t have to go through this circus. Well, I must have reneged on this self-philosophy, because after embarrassingly depositing the entire contents of my bag on the floor, practically at the TSA lady’s feet, I had still not coughed up my passport. Beau, finally realizing in his state of bliss that his wife was not with him, had backtracked and was making elaborate “What the hell is going on?” faces and gestures at me from behind the security glass. Remembering how I had handed him my passport and ticket at one point while juggling some other articles, I motioned for him to remove himself from the security area – and if you’ve ever suffered through the stupid security check, you know that giving up that “pass” status once you’re inside is tough.

By this time, I was rather cranky, and I garbled out the problem as he started rifling through his pockets from top to bottom. This is the part where you start re-checking all the places you’ve previously checked, twice, three times, four times, thinking maybe you just overlooked it. *snort*

Finally, I realized the only possible place the passport could be was on the previous plane from Phoenix to San Francisco, and knowing our once-a-day New Zealand flight would be leaving shortly, I could feel my blood pressure percolating. Like a Vietnam War soldier, messily sprawled upon the ground among such items as balls of yarn and knitting needles, trashy magazines, my iPod, and a Barack Obama biography, I cried out to Beau, “Go on without me! I’ll be fine! I’ll take care of it! Just don’t miss that flight!”

Beau just looked at me, now a bit of a hot mess, like the pathetic psycho I was and said he wasn’t going anywhere. Well, might as well stop freaking and go take care of it. I marched to a, thankfully, nearby Information Station which was surprisingly staffed by not one but two people! After telling them the situation, I asked if we could call the airline immediately, since they were very likely still cleaning the plane. The first man basically kept giving me the “We can’t help you” line and told me to start hoofing it back to the gate. When I informed him that “my gate” was about 4 terminals away and my international flight was soon to depart, he had little sympathy. The woman was slightly more sympathetic, but that went as far as handing me a phone number. I said, “Great, can we call them” and she looked at me as if I had just farted. Petulantly she replied, “Don’t you have a cellphone?”

I paused in shock for a moment – I’m still always surprised when someone is unwillingly to make that tiny extra effort which is fairly minimal on their part, but will make a more substantial difference in the receiver’s life. I felt this way doing retail as well as an administrator. It’s the sales clerks who tell you, “If it’s not on the shelves, we don’t have it” while turning their back on you, or the administrator who does nothing more than transfer you to another incompetent, unhelpful person. Recovering my senses, I said, “Um, yeah, I guess I do,” and walked back to my carry-on bag with its puked up contents and Beau standing sentry. Pulling out my cellphone (in that same “special” area the passport was supposed to be in, *grumble*), I opened it up and tried to dial.

Nope. Our cellphone service had ended THAT DAY, naturally, since they don't work in New Zealand, and the cellphone was now a metallic pink paperweight.

Fuck!

Again, the information desk was unsympathetic and pointed me toward some public payphones quite aways down the terminal. So, I had to march back, get my wallet, blabbing out the update to Beau in a stressed jumble, again pleading with him to go on ahead, him refusing, and then jogged back to the public phones.

I can only explain the next 20 minutes as a period of desolate frustration. The number that the Information desk had so "helpfully" handed me was a recording, and the U.S. Airways number displayed next to the courtesy phone sent me to their main 1-800 number – from which, they were unwilling to even transfer me to the San Francisco office. There were no phone books, and every number I tried ended up in recordings or someone who said, “Sorry, can’t help you.” By this time, I was in near hysterics. With a payphone reciting another recording pressed against my right ear, and one of those “White courtesy phones,” also with a recording, pressed to my left ear, I must have looked like a lunatic. I was a lunatic.

I finally got a courteous woman on the courtesy phone, who did manage to give me a more direct line to the “lost baggage” department of U.S. Airways within the SFO airport. FINALLY! Calling that number with a slight shred of hope, again, I got...you guessed it...a RECORDING, despite the fact they were indeed, open for business and no, it wasn't lunchtime.

Now at my breaking point, I left a half-pissed, half-hysterical message in a trembling voice asking that pathetic question, “Why can’t I get anyone to help me?” while giving them every scrap of information I could, including email address, since without a cellphone, how could they reach me anyway? Now, basically I knew we were fucked, and the thought of shelling out a few more thousand dollars for plane tickets gave my state of panic a whole other level of guilt to go with it.

Tears flowing freely now, I returned to Beau and said, “I just have to walk back to the domestic terminal; there’s no other way for it.” I started packing up my carry-on bag, while continuing to plead with him to go on to Auckland. I figured, at least if he went ahead, we’d save the cash on one fare, and I could just as easily work all this out on my own. Again, he was adamant, and with heavy hearts, knowing we probably already missed the flight, we started the return Bataan Death march.

Continuing to sob, and also heatedly bickering with Beau for coming with me (oh how wonderfully we treat our better halves when stressed!), we tiredly walked on. At one point, Beau marched off toward the left. “I have to go the bathroom!” he said. “Um, I do too, can’t that kind of wait!?” I guess not. I stood stewing as he wandered around aimlessly and at one point looked like he was going to go down an “employee’s only” stairway to the airplane area. In an unexpected move, he dropped his bags in a flourish and began circling, head up looking for the bathroom. Stupified, I yelled out, “What the hell are you doing?” while frantically pointing toward the bathroom just a few feet away. Without even bothering to look abashed, he found his way to the bathroom and emerged shortly thereafter. One man sitting off to the side watched all this as if it was dinner theater.

We continued again on our panicked walk, when suddenly I heard over the P.A. system: “J., please *garble garble garble*. J, *garble garble*.” Thankfully, SF airport has an ingenious thing where they’ve put TV monitors up all around displaying the names of those called for a courtesy phone, since hell, no one can really understand those intercoms anyway.

Rushing to the nearest phone, I picked it up and was told that US Airways wanted to see me in their baggage claim area downstairs. Yes! We turned around and rushed back the way we came, then down a flight or two, and threaded through crowds of people waiting by the baggage carousels. Entering the cramped office which had enough space for about two people to stand, I fidgeted as the person before me was asking how he could lodge a complaint. The woman was trying to tell him the various ways, but obviously, he wanted to do it his own way. He was being obstinate, and taking his time. I was about to burst a blood vessel in my forehead. “Get the fuck out of the way, asshole! Go online and do this shit!”

Okay, once again, I did not say that, just thought it…loudly…over and over...and over.

Finally, when I spoke to the woman behind the counter, she handed over my passport --- yes!! We grabbed and took a breath. We were pretty sure our flight was gone by now, and that our next step would be to make our way to the Air New Zealand desk and see what our options were. As we walked back, we looked on the Departures board and noticed it hadn’t left yet. “Hmm, we might as well try to make it if it’s still here,” I said, “since if we miss it, we’ll just be back where we are now anyway.”

Again, we did our quick, uncomfortable walk to the TSA gate, where meeting the Filipino lady once again, I handed her my passport and boarding pass. “Air New Zealand?” she gasped. "Yes." With that, she held up my passport and boarding pass like a flag, turned to the other TSA agents and yelled, “Air New Zealand, Air New Zealand, right here!” while pushing us forward. “Salamat!” (Thank you!) I said in Tagalog, and without even blinking, she replied, “Walang anuman (you’re welcome),” while giving me a shove forward. With that, Beau and I were ushered to the front of the line (other passengers just love that) and were through the security checkpoint within minutes.

A small, plump, middle-aged woman stood just outside security waiting for us. She grabbed both of our passports and boarding passes, once again confirming, “Air New Zealand?” (Shit, it’s like a magic word!), and with that she trilled, “Come with me!” and to my utter astonishment, took off in a dead sprint.

Okay! With that, I took off after her, Beau following, enormous and heavy carry-on bags in tow (one including our laptop, which seemed to have doubled in weight by this time). She was frickin fast and as we sped down those moving walkways, her waving her arms and shouting for people to get out of our way, I felt like miles were passing below my feet. Every once in awhile I’d peer back at Beau, who was lugging heavier bags, puffing behind me. On one walkway, a group of languid flight attendants very begrudgingly stepped aside to let the little lady and I get by – assholes – and immediately closed ranks as soon as we passed, so by the time Beau caught up to them, he was confronted by their wall of snootiness. Surrendering, he halted, panting, behind them.

I continued on, though I was seriously laboring for breath by this time. Our leader, the little lady, was still blazing a trail ahead. Here and there she’d look over her shoulder and send out words of encouragement, but after running the full length of a terminal carrying two 30-lb bags, I was damn near spent. After walking for about 30 seconds, I started a brave, but pathetic job the last length, ending in a heap of sweat at the gate, where I mutely handed over my passport, panting like a dog. Beau arrived shortly thereafter.

Her quest completed successfully, the little lady wished us well and departed, while Beau and I gasped out “Thanks!” as best we could. Now that we were no longer in motion, the sweat began to pour down, profusely. I could feel how hot my face was, and knew grimly, what that meant – beet red, RED RED RED, super-embarrassing face. The kind where people look at you and go, "Are you okay?" And it doesn’t return to its lovely ghostly hue all that quickly either. It takes it’s sweet time, even if splashed with cold water or sat in front of a fan. My face was burning, my chest and back felt wet – wonderful! Great way to start out a 12 hour flight in close quarters with a couple hundred strangers! Not to mention, I was assigned the dreaded middle seat. Someone was about to get to know me real well.

As we sheepishly made our way onto the airplane, I made sure to keep my focus straight ahead to where our seats were (in the rear of the aircraft, naturally), in hopes of not catching the evil eye of a fellow passenger. If I was already seated, I’d probably have made a stink eye at oncoming me as well. It’s not that big of a deal to be delayed on a short flight, but when you’re about to embark on one of these test-your-humanity flights, delaying the long flight is unforgiveable.

As we finally made it to our seats, stowed our bags, and collapsed in a slump into our respective chairs, a flight attendant rushed over to us and said, “My, are you two okay?” (see!?) I figured we looked pretty bad, but her startled face didn’t help. “Um, let me go get you some water,” she said, rushing off. We looked at each other, happy and shocked to have made the flight we had thought impossible, just in the nick of time too!

As the flight attendant returned with our Dixie cups of warm water, which we accepted gratefully, we explained to her our present state of hot, wet nastiness. She looked perplexed for a moment before saying, “Hmm, well, we aren’t set to take off for a little while yet. You guys still had time.”

Fuck.