So. Rush-rush-rush on Sunday to get everything packed up and ready to go between the time we returned from Bear Trap Ranch and the time I had to leave for the airport.
Bid Margie a fond au revoir and a big smooch, then drive off.
Car inspections at DIA are much the same. Park over on the east side lot, toward the south end — my usual locale.
Up to the United ticket lines, since I’m checking a bag. (It’s a longer-than-usual trip, and using my bag that I can actually take with me on the plane is likely to be insufficient, with all the extra crap I’m taking. Plus, I’m still not sure it’s allowed under the new regs. Datum: it is, since my briefcase/notebook case doesn’t count as carry-on, at least in the numeric limit.)
(Additional datum: According to various signs, tweezers and nail clippers and safety razors are now allowed on board planes, so long as you announce their presence. Or something like that. Walking sticks and umbrellas are also allowed, though pool cues are not, nor are corkscrews. Stay tuned for next week’s change.)
United ticket lines are long and messy. They are urgently trying to get people to check in via the skycaps out at the curb. I give in to the suggestion, and am overjoyed to find a line of two people. I check my bag — though I’ll still have to get a boarding pass at the gate. All there goes well, even though the skycap/screener wears an Argenbright patch.
Zip-zoop down to the security lines. That goes pretty quickly. They have separate lines, now, for folks carrying laptops. Oddly enough, all the other electronic stuff (PDAs, cell phones) they encourage folks to toss in the laptop case. Weird. I get through with no problem.
Take the train off to Concourse B. I’ve got an hour and a half to departure. Grab a bite at the Cantina upstairs. Notice that the Qwest business farm seems to offer free broadband access. Too bad, after dinner, I have no time …
… really, truly, since, as I get down to my gate, there’s a line of about seventy people in front of me. It’s an hour to our 5:00p take-off time, but, eep. Everyone must have checked in with the skycaps.
Well, no. Turns out (based on later info gathered), the flight originally was on a widebody plane. Delay in arrival or mechanical difficulty forced them to put a 757 into service — which means everyone has to check back in for a new seat assignment. Plus it means that the already-crowded flight is now overbooked. Joy.
Offers are broadcast for folks to voluntarily wait until Monday at 6 a.m. for a guaranteed seat — plus hotel accomodations, plus a free transferrable travel voucher to anywhere in the US. I consider it, but since I’m on my way to a Valuable Meeting, I don’t want to delay my arrival (plus my boss is planning on picking me up).
I eventually get to the front of the line, get a little card that says I have a seat, but not which one in particular. More solicitation of volunteers. Tick-tick-tick.
(Across the concourse, I can see another United flight to O’Hare, originally scheduled to go off at 4:50, then, I notice later, at 5:10. What I don’t know is that flight was originally scheduled for 1:30, and a comedy of mechanical errors has, so far, delayed it. Yeesh.)
About 5:10 I get a seat assignment. I rush to the gate — and get pulled over for a personal inspection. Nice lady. She wands me, goes through my brief case, my wallet, etc. She slows down toward the end, because otherwise she’ll have to inspect the next few folks coming over — I get the distinct impression that her instructions are to inspect people continuously as they are in line. The faster she goes, the more she has to inspect. That’s a change in policy from before, where it seemed that they culled a certain number of folks out at random.
I get seated, at last, in the plane. Tick-tick-tick. About 5:20p, the co-pilot comes on, announces that, because of positive matching security policies, they have to pull off the luggage of folks not on the flight, i.e., the people who have chosen to delay until 6:00a tomorrow. This takes them until after 6:00. According to a lady I spoke to later, whose window was over the cargo bay, they basically took out every cargo pod, emptied it, and scanned each piece of luggage to find the ones they needed to pull.
Around 6:15p, we take off. The pilot tries to make up time. He’s aware that on a flight going into O’Hare at this time of evening, a good proportion of the passengers are connecting to other flights. He also, in fact, has a connection to make.
I reflect, during the entire flight, on how, invariably, it’s just the person in front of me in any given row who decides to lean their seat all the way back, rending it nearly impossible to eat, drink, or read a book, let alone use a laptop computer.
We touch ground at 8:55p, CST. Nice passengers whose journey ends in Chicago stay seated, while the other half of us race out of the plane as fast as we can.
No joy, as I reach the Departure screens at 9:05p. Flight to Knoxville took off, on time, at 9:00.
I trot over to Customer Service. Businesslike lady books me into flight Monday morning at 8:49a. She also books me into the local Sofitel, a posh European-style hotel. I get meal chits, dinner for $5, breakfast for $4. Yippee.
In retrospect, I wish I’d taken the 6:00a flight option from Denver. I’d have gotten a free pass for it.
I am informed that my bag will be held and loaded on the flight to Knoxville in the morning. Meantime, of course, I can’t get it. Probably just as well, but it means no kit, and no change of clothes. Mercifully, it’s Chicago in February, not Chicago in August.
I follow the mangled instructions over to the hotel bus pickup area. I wait there for about twenty minutes, in the meantime leaving a message for my boss to pick me up in the morning, and calling Margie. She informs me that I’ve actually not packed my kit, so even if I had my suitcase, I still wouldn’t have a toothbrush.
Eventually the shuttle to the Sofitel arrives. Wow. Two guys in livery. Must be posh.
Another gent gets on, then a family of three, then another family of three. All have been forwarded to the Sofitel by United. One of the families was on the other Denver flight, the one that was supposed to leave at 1:30. It sounds like they ended up taking some of the overflow from our plane. They are a bit put out by the whole affair.
We drive around the airport for a while, to different terminal areas, before scooting off to the hotel, which exists in solitary splendour amidst several other hotels and a convention center on the outskirts of the airport.
Lovely lobby.
I get checked in. The woman checking me in doesn’t understand how to handle the meal chits, and takes them from me, erroneously.
I get up to the room. There’s a robe on the floor. Is the room occupied? No. Must have been a housekeeping error.
Wow. A hotel room. How charming.
Mediocre “On-Command” TV selection. No movies I want to watch. “TV Internet,” but I don’t feel like spending $10 on it, and I don’t feel like screwing around for fifteen minutes breaking out my notebook. Nothing of excitement or particular elegance about the place, except that there’s a TV volume control in the bathroom. Wow.
I realize I’ve not brought my Blackberry e-mail pager with me. Might have offered some amusement or usefulness. I’m out of the business travel habit.
I check out room service, thinking of my $5 chit. Well, as it’s after hours, I can have them send up a lovely artichoke-romain-mandarin pomade al fresco with a love cranberry vinegrette. Or perhaps a cheese platter would do, or a pear with candied walnuts and fromage filling. Many lovely things, none of which sends me, and none of which is cheaper than $15.
I do call the concierge, though. I have no kit, and I must shaving cream. I expect a nifty little packaged mini-kit with the essentials within. Instead, the concierge appears, bearing in his cupped hands a Bic disposable razor, two packets of shaving cream, a toothbrush, two packets of toothpaste, and, since they had no antiperspirant, a comb.
I am underwhelmed by the Sofitel. I do not want to know how much this is costing United (though it is not enough).
I stay up late reading my comic books.
Early in the morning. I shower, steal the shampoo, and pack up, arriving down in the lobby at 5:45.
I’d gotten a mysterious message the night before that my meal chits were with at the concierge desk. Not mysterious in that I didn’t understand the message. Mysterious in that it was a voice mail, but I couldn’t access it, and had to call the front desk. Sheesh.
So I go to the concierge desk. Vacant. I rustle my belongings, using my mental powers to summon said concierge. A gent comes out in livery, mutters something surly about the concierge desk being closed until 7, then goes back into the back.
Well.
The gent returns with a helpful functionary, who retrieves my chits.
Hmmm. What now? Wait until 6 and eat at one of the many elegant Frenchish restaurants (spending my entire $4 chit on, no doubt, a single lovely glass of Mandarin Orange Juice)? Or hop in the shuttle and get to the airport early.
I pour myself a complimentary cup of coffee (decently good) and hop in the shuttle. Turns out the surly gent was the shuttle driver. He drives poorly.
No lines at the ticket counters (I have to check in as I only have a ticket receipt from the night before, not a boarding pass. I should have asked for one). But huge, massive lines at the security checkpoints. By going a long route to the F-gates (where United Express takes off from), I manage to get into a shorter line.
As I stand there, I once again marvel at the ability of the Mayor of Chicago to get his name plastered everywhere. Every banner. Every trash can. Every welcoming message. Everywhere. Amazing.
(Parenthetically, the relationship between United and the various regional airlines that franchise the name United Express is an odd one. United provides them with colors, magazines, name recognition, and is tied to them for reservation purposes. On the other hand, Sunday night they could not tell us about the status of the UE connections, since they’re “a different company.” Weird. They can share reservations, but not flight info.)
The helpful video monitor above the security gate, exhorting me not to carry explosives on board, demonstrates what it means by showing a bundle of dynamite with a timer counting down. Yeah, I’m sure everyone foolishly thought that would be a fine thing to bring on-board.
Long lines make for tension. I am confirmed in my belief that folks will endure anything but perceived unfairness. There’s one screening line that’s empty — it’s reserved, per the sign, for Northwest 1st Class passengers only. People mutter and grumble as their flight times approach. A few folks complain. So the security folks argue with the airline folks, and finally they agree to let the people with 7:00a flights (in fifteen minutes or so) use that line. But not the 7:15a fliers. Riots don’t quite ensue.
Through the gate. Ah. Cinnabon. Take that, Sofitel. I enjoy cinnamonny goodness for breakfast, and it’s under $4, though I can’t use the chit. (Actually, in retrospect, I wonder if I could have.)
I head off to Gate F5. I’ve finished Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning, and, after a few minutes of reading, finish off Goldman’s Which Lie Did I Tell? That leaves only comic book TPBs to read, which I do, polishing off the Kevin Smith/Quesada/Palmiotti Daredevil Visionaries (ironic title, that) volume.
(I recommend any of the above three works, btw, though for different reasons.)
This particular UE gate cluster is home to all the little regional jets. I hear flights leaving for Green Bay, Madison, Columbus, and, of course, Margie’s old commuting ground, Fort Wayne. I think of her.
A few minutes later, just as we’re getting ready to board, she calls with Katherine on the line. I make little baby noises. Then I talk to Katherine.
The flight, btw, is over an hour late in taking off. Mechanical difficulties. This plethora of mechanical difficulties makes me think that the Mechanics Union might be playing games with United management.
The plane is just barely large enough to warrent a jetway, at least on this end. Two-and-two seating, and that’s being generous. Maneuvering books in and out of my briefcase on the floor is real challenge.
An hour and a half of air time, and we arrive in Knoxville, land of no fences. And, miracle of miracles, my suitcase has appeared here as well.
As Travel Tales of Horror go, it’s pretty mild. But it’s been interesting, when it hasn’t been annoying.