I'm Afraid of American (Airlines)

As some of you already realize, a dramatic turn of events came about this weekend delaying both this blog post as well as my return to the state of Oregon. Upon my sign off from my weeklong gig in the Bahamas I was already composing posts regarding the lady who informed me emphatically how to pronounce Oregon “correctly” or the cruise-long saga of continued technical malfunctions and Jake the drunk. However, as I stated in a voicemail to Mr. G & T, I was involved in a situation which may well be the jumping the shark moment on this blog (which may say something unflattering about this blog’s resonance and content that is also most likely quite true, as I have my doubts whether I can ever top this).

I signed off the ship early on Friday morning, after successfully making a small packet of money and successfully avoiding the purchase of any of my alcoholic beverages. I was not looking forward to my day of travel as I’d spent more time on the back deck drinking with my coworkers than I did in my small bunk bed, and my flight wasn’t due to depart until 520 pm. Yet, the airport looked more like a mall that happened to conduct air travel, complete with a hotel the airport terminals were built around, and had plenty to keep me entertained.

My first flight was rather uneventful, and left me in Dallas safely, without any memorable moments to share. I then found myself feeling an odd sense of déjà vu as I wandered through the arrivals terminal and made my way to the train which would take me to the departing terminal. As I walked toward the train stop, I overheard two traveling companions wonder aloud if this was the correct train/place for them to be. I asked them which gate they needed to find, and assured them that they were in the correct place. A small-statured southern blonde, standing nearby then gasped at the intimidating sprawl of the airport indicating that it was far more impressive than the local Kentucky airport she was used to (not terribly surprising to anyone thinking clearly). I learnt that the original traveling duo was from Vancouver, Washington and that we’d be on the same flight. Apparently the younger of the two hadn’t flown for seventeen years, and they seemed quite taken aback by my life of travel on the high seas and sense of ease with air travel. I found myself mildly amused and too tired to continue the conversation, the large coffee from hours ago no longer working its magic.

I managed to while away the nearly three hours in the airport terminal without drooling on myself or falling in a comatose heap onto the floor. I was silently proud of my accomplishment. I had no sense of foreboding as I took my seat on the flight, which tells me that I’m more of a 14 year old boy than a mysterious and intuitive female (which I knew already, but had verified later). I met my seat mate who seemed both remote but also curiously chatty. He immediately asked me about myself and my line of work, without the benefit of offering any personal information. As I was exhausted and my line of work involves being overly friendly and polite to everyone regardless, I was rather curt in my replies. I then looked over and saw that his reading material of choice had a distinct gold leaf edge to the pages, and I silently cursed my luck at having a missionary as my seatmate. I then allowed myself to close my eyes and look forward to the ache in my neck as I slowly found some semblance of REM sleep…

Which was rudely interrupted by three simultaneous events. The distinct smell of burning (my interior monologue was desperate to utter, “This plane smells like burning…” but realized that it wasn’t actually that funny as it was true); a rather swiftly moving set of flight attendants; and the captain coming over the intercom informing the passengers that due to a lack of any navigational controls, we would be returning to the airport in Dallas. There was an immediate sense of heightened, unspoken tension throughout the cabin. We were asked to return our tray tables in an upright and locked position, and to return our seats upright as well, as we would be landing rather crudely. We were later given a refresher course on emergency evacuation and landing procedures, being informed that in the event of a crash, the emergency slides would inflate and that we would not be allowed to bring anything with us and to take off any sharp objects such as stiletto heels as this could damage the slides. I sat in my seat, my mind racing, trying to remain outwardly calm.

I have been in worrisome situations while in the air, circumstances where my thoughts led to my impending death. At these times my interior monologue often went like this: “Well…this may be the end. I’m not ready to go, nor do I especially wish to end it like this. However, I’m happy with my life thus far, and if this is my time, so be it. I guess it’s my time.” This time was a little different. Upon hearing the intercom announcement, I muttered aloud, “Are you fucking kidding me?!” My interior monologue stated, “Fuck that! I’m going to Venice in a week. Screw this ‘don’t bring anything with you’ shit.” I reached down to my messenger bag and grabbed my passport, my wallet, and my mobile phone. Yes, I fully intended on getting back on a plane a week after crashing, no matter the extent of mental anguish or physical harm that may occur. As my friend Stephen said, I’m a retard.

My seatmate ignored the requests to raise his chair, seemingly disinterested in the quiet panic surrounding him. When I grabbed my personal items, he asked if I was alright/calm. I believe I blathered a bit. I indicated that I felt far safer on ships than I did in the air, as I had at least some semblance of understanding of safety/emergency procedures at sea, and could have partial control of my own fate. He didn’t seem terribly interested. He kept the remote look upon his face.

We landed safely, albeit heavily, and were immediately swarmed by the flashing lights of numerous emergency vehicles. But, at least we were safe. As we made our way to the gate, a hook and ladder truck made its way beside us, and firemen in silver, heat-proof gear swiftly monitored the engines and brakes for hotspots. I decided that I should photodocument the event, as it was rather impressive rather than scary at this point. My helpful seatmate chose to proffer unwanted photographic advice on the composition and execution of the shots. I accepted the truth in the statements, but resented his tone. Also, a combination of extreme exhaustion and too much caffeine colluded to make any attempt at photography an amateurish effort at best, despite the pointed coaching. (Additionally, I really didn’t feel like getting too close to the window and my seatmate… So clearly, he’d gotten under my skin.) He continued to critique my efforts and seemed to mock my excitement stating that he’d take my pictures with the firemen upon exiting the plane. Uh…yeah, no need for that, thank you.





We then made our way from the back of the plane through the emergency stairs, over the tarmac and up the gate steps to the terminal where we waited for further information and assistance. Everyone began phoning family and friends to discuss the situation and assure them of their own relative safety. We waited. We were informed that we would be issued a new plane, one which would be arriving soon from San Jose, and then we would try it again. We were given an estimated time of departure of fifteen minutes, which is the same amount of time my stepsister claims she needs to get ready to leave the house. And like my stepsister that estimate means it was closer to 45 minutes. Our next announcement informed us “you’re never going to believe this,” but the plane had a maintenance issue in the log which would require a mechanic to look it over before it would be allowed to leave. It was an issue that was not immediately fixable we found out later. We continued to wait. I wasn’t really even angry at this point. I was tired, and put out. But I was still riding the high of being happy to be alive, and frustrated by the waiting. Yet, I was still docile at this point. I even understood when the pilot’s voice came over the intercom and apologized for her decision, but as her crew had been working a 14 hour shift, they were going to throw in the towel that night, as they were in no condition to safely outmaneuver another emergency, and they’d retry our flight in the morning. I had originally assumed that the airline would put us up in a hotel upon our emergency landing, so this didn’t exactly come as a shock to me. The airline representative then stated that they would need time to find a hotel with space for all of us, and arrange transportation to said hotel. This took an extended period of time. We were finally issued vouchers for our hotel and lunch from any participating vendor in the airport the next day, and told to exit the terminal to wait for our three shuttle vans which would whisk us away to our hotel and to the promise of rest.

We were abandoned.

We found ourselves on the street level of the Dallas airport in sweltering heat at 1 in the morning, encapsulated by eerie shadows and the amber glow of distant street lamps. There were no security guards or any representation from the airline to maintain morale or to look after our safety. We waited for the promised shuttles. One of which came twenty minutes later at 130 am. It was clearly far too small to carry all of those who wished to board. Thus, we continued to wait for the other two…which never came. Hackles began to rise, and bitter words were exchanged with formerly passive and quiet strangers. Feelings for American Airlines were decidedly unflattering at this point in time. A shuttle not affiliated with the hotel stopped and we were offered to chance to go to the hotel and escape the oppressive humidity…for five dollars a person. It was widely agreed that no opportunists would be making money off of our small group. Fuck that. We didn’t ask to be put in the situation, and we would have rather sat there until the airport reopened in three hours than pay some asshole for taking advantage of those in need. It took three trips from the original shuttle to finally pick up the last passengers, the last of which arrived at the airport at 220 am.




The hotel was not impressive. It was clearly going through renovations, and even more distressing was the line snaking out of the sliding glass doors of our fellow passengers. This shouldn’t have surprised us, as our aggravated calls for assistance had gone unanswered by the hotel front desk, and looped to an automated system without benefit of voicemail. Helpful, that. As our final shuttle approached the hotel portico, we were flanked by several taxis, which had carried some of our fellow passengers too disgusted to wait any longer…and had left well before the final shuttle arrived. They paid their drivers who had managed to get lost on the way.





We then waited in line, watching our watches tick by the minutes that were taking away our hopes for a thorough rest. After all, the airline had promised to send their buses to pick us up at 8 am and 9 am (otherwise we’d need to take that trusty shuttle). Given the encroaching hour of 3, we were looking at naps rather than a true sense of sleep. As the hotel bar had closed, we had no other choice but to stand in yet another line; one further injustice in a night full of them. As this didn’t look like a hotel complete with minibar, any attempt at liquid relaxation was improbable.

I made my way to the room and was confronted by my amazing view of a brick wall, the always classy water-stained lampshade, and an empty can of Jumex Mango Nectar in the waste basket. I was too tired and too beaten down to throw a fit. Rather, I walked to the bathroom, grabbed a towel to place on the pillow, and slept in my clothes. I didn’t allow myself to reflect on the possibilities of bed bugs or stains only seen courtesy of black light.


I awoke in a panic, fearing that my fatigue had caused me to miss both alarms and my doomed flight out of the state of Texas. I hadn’t. I made my way to the lobby at 715 am and met up with my new friends and travel buddies who commiserated about our distaste for American Airlines’ handling of our situation. We made a pact to stick together in the face of our ensuing flight, and opted for the hotel shuttle, rather than wait for the promised buses, after all, the promises made by the airline had been rather hollow in our already lengthy experience. This turned out to be a wise course of action, as it did turn out that the airline couldn’t be bothered to send any transport to the hotel for their passengers. This added to our sense of indignation.

My travel buddies and I asked to speak to the supervisor about our experiences, and hoped to find an apology or explanation. At the very least, an offer of compensation for our trouble. We found none. No one had informed the supervisor on duty of our situation or our existence. Our rescheduled flight didn’t even appear on her duty list. She had nothing to offer us, other than the advice to complain to American Airlines through their website. She indicated that only corporate would be able to offer us travel vouchers or compensation (as if I really wanted to fly American ever again, even if it was free…). I nodded, and still plan on writing them tomorrow, though I doubt that the ether of the internet is really going to offer a sense of resolution or justice. After all, out of sight, out of mind, and it’s so terribly easy to delete unwanted email.

As I waited for the flight, I realized that I was very much dreading sitting next to my seatmate for another go around. I discussed this matter with my travel buddies, and it was decided that D. and I would ask his seatmate if he’d trade with me, as I had a more attractive seat in the front of the aircraft. We waited until the end of the line to board, watching my seatmate seemingly flirt with the pilot at the gate desk. We eventually boarded the aircraft, making confused eye contact as we both waited for our seatmates, which never materialized. Finally I saw my seatmate walk down the aisle, and turn into the first row of coach. And sit down. Apparently he wanted to avoid me as well. Which rather than feeling any sense of relief, I was slightly offended. It was like when my sister was looking forward to dumping her boyfriend, only to find that he wanted to dump her too…and did it first. The irony was not lost on me. Here are his pompous shoes, propped up against the wall separating coach from first class, where A. (another travel buddy) was firmly ensconced with her microwaved chocolate chip cookies and guaranteed thin polyester blanket:


Although, I am glad that I didn’t have to sit next to him.

All in all, it was a dramatic and eventful moment. I suppose it was easier to focus on the anger and indignation than allow myself to recognize the panic and fear. I’ve nearly drowned in a sailing accident, and I’ve experienced a fire at sea, but I’ve never been confronted with the real possibility of crashing while midair. I don’t recommend it. Especially on American. They didn’t even give us free cookies or snacks on the eventual flight. Perhaps they feared we’d choke on something and sue them for endangering our lives or emotional distress.

By the way, hello to my expanded readership of five! Thanks for reading through this massive post. Feel free to add your own thoughts in the comments section.