From one of the terminal staff, I learned that I needed to take the monorail shuttle to Terminal A. I was at Terminal E… hopefully it would not take too long, as there were only 40 minutes left until take-off. I hastened to the boarding area to the shuttle, sprang aboard as soon as the doors opened and found a seat. On removing my cap, a small trickle of sweat ran down my temple; they always overheat airports. The ride presented a wonderful, panoramic view of the runways and the waiting aircraft, but taking snaps was the last thing on my mind as the minutes ticked away. Ten minutes later, with just 30 minutes to my connecting flight’s take-off (final boarding was supposed to be 35 minutes before take-off), we arrived at Terminal A… which to my consternation was spookily quiet, with hardly anyone around. Glancing up at the departures board, I saw the reason: my flight to Amarillo had been switched to gate B14! Cursing under my breath, I re-boarded the shuttle for a 2-minute journey to Terminal B and, alighting, ran to join the throng of passengers queuing to get through the security checks. Surveying the immense mass of people, I have to confess that I pretty much gave up hope of getting to my flight on time, but miraculously one of the officials temporarily opened another channel and allowed just me and two or three other people to pass through. Perhaps I still had some residual magic working for me, for the checks were conducted in seconds. I collected my back pack and feverishly laced up my boots. 18 minutes left… ignoring the protests from my rickety vertebrae, I sprinted through the terminal to B14 where yet another horde of people was already queuing to get another flight; I pushed past them to the desk. “Please”, I panted, sweat running down my face and drenching the front of my T-shirt, “I need to get aboard to flight UA 4666 to Amarillo. It should still be waiting to take off.” The attendant looked at me blankly for a few seconds. “I’m sorry sir. That flight is delayed. It’s now scheduled for 21.00 hours.”
Too exhausted even for indignation, I mutely turned around and headed for the bars and food outlets. A beer would not make the flight come any faster, but it would pass some time and make me feel a little better. I needed to recharge my batteries, and also that of my mobile ‘phone so that I could send a text to Laurie and let her know what was happening. Some time later, sipping at an overpriced Michelob and watching the charge gradually accumulate on the ‘phone, I listened to the announcements on the PA system; it seemed that mine was not the only flight to be delayed, for there was a constant stream of information concerning rescheduled departures and gate changes. All the more reason to stay on the ball, even though the time by UK reckoning was 1 a.m. and I had been awake for 23 hours apart from an hours’ dozing on the flight from England. The boarding gate was now B84, on the other side of the terminal, and again the area was milling with tired but resigned passengers. Another hour later, there was a ray of hope – my flight was billed in bright red, illuminated characters above gate B84: UA666 Amarillo. Boarding should start any minute, and with a sigh of relief I joined the small queue. Soon I was nearly at the front, where the woman before me was holding a discussion in rapid Spanish and apparently trying to get a seat despite not having booked in advance. She was turned away and I stepped forward. The male attendant held up his hand to block me with an imperious “No mas!” – no more!
That did it. I had had enough and the anger and frustration surged up and boiled over. Slamming my palm on the desk, I bellowed “No! No! I have waited THREE BLOODY HOURS for this flight! I have a boarding pass and I INSIST you honour it!” Somewhat deflated, the little Napoleon took my boarding pass and examined it. “But your pass is for the flight to Amarillo, Señor. This plane is going to Guadalajara.” I stared at him, then raised my eyes to the sign. Incredibly, it did now read ‘Guadalajara’ instead of ‘Amarillo’. “But.. but… when I joined the queue, the sign announced boarding for Amarillo”, I stammered, by this stage half expecting the attendant to turn into a white rabbit or a teapot. “Oh yes, sorry”, he replied, “is changed. Amarillo flight will soon be at other gate, B85A.”
I stepped back, bemused and dumbfounded. Houston, we have a problem. Which film was that from? Oh yes, Apollo 13; Tom Hanks was in that. Another expression came to mind, FUBAR – Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition – a phrase memorably used in ‘Saving Private Ryan’. Hanks was in that too, wasn’t he? It was all his fault. Hollywood was affecting reality. As long as ‘Forrest Gump’ didn’t come into it: I had done enough running around for one day.
Oddly, most of the other waiting travellers remained calm and resigned as the gate was changed yet again and the departure time was put back by 30 minutes and then another 30 minutes. Perhaps they were used to it. Or just waiting until my back was turned to transform into playing cards.
Eventually, the plane was ready and waiting, and its red-eyed complement of passengers trudged aboard. The one flight attendant looked, if anything, even more tired than we were, but she managed to show good humour as she welcomed us aboard and went through the mandatory safety blurb, then served refreshments on the one-hour journey. Well, if she could do it, so could I, I thought, and my sense of humour cautiously emerged once more from whatever hole it had been hiding in. Without further setback, we touched down in Amarillo and, after collecting my suitcase, I made my way to the arrivals hall. It was nearly midnight and almost 24 hours since I had boarded the bus to Heathrow Airport, but there was Laurie waiting for me. All was well.
Too exhausted even for indignation, I mutely turned around and headed for the bars and food outlets. A beer would not make the flight come any faster, but it would pass some time and make me feel a little better. I needed to recharge my batteries, and also that of my mobile ‘phone so that I could send a text to Laurie and let her know what was happening. Some time later, sipping at an overpriced Michelob and watching the charge gradually accumulate on the ‘phone, I listened to the announcements on the PA system; it seemed that mine was not the only flight to be delayed, for there was a constant stream of information concerning rescheduled departures and gate changes. All the more reason to stay on the ball, even though the time by UK reckoning was 1 a.m. and I had been awake for 23 hours apart from an hours’ dozing on the flight from England. The boarding gate was now B84, on the other side of the terminal, and again the area was milling with tired but resigned passengers. Another hour later, there was a ray of hope – my flight was billed in bright red, illuminated characters above gate B84: UA666 Amarillo. Boarding should start any minute, and with a sigh of relief I joined the small queue. Soon I was nearly at the front, where the woman before me was holding a discussion in rapid Spanish and apparently trying to get a seat despite not having booked in advance. She was turned away and I stepped forward. The male attendant held up his hand to block me with an imperious “No mas!” – no more!
That did it. I had had enough and the anger and frustration surged up and boiled over. Slamming my palm on the desk, I bellowed “No! No! I have waited THREE BLOODY HOURS for this flight! I have a boarding pass and I INSIST you honour it!” Somewhat deflated, the little Napoleon took my boarding pass and examined it. “But your pass is for the flight to Amarillo, Señor. This plane is going to Guadalajara.” I stared at him, then raised my eyes to the sign. Incredibly, it did now read ‘Guadalajara’ instead of ‘Amarillo’. “But.. but… when I joined the queue, the sign announced boarding for Amarillo”, I stammered, by this stage half expecting the attendant to turn into a white rabbit or a teapot. “Oh yes, sorry”, he replied, “is changed. Amarillo flight will soon be at other gate, B85A.”
I stepped back, bemused and dumbfounded. Houston, we have a problem. Which film was that from? Oh yes, Apollo 13; Tom Hanks was in that. Another expression came to mind, FUBAR – Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition – a phrase memorably used in ‘Saving Private Ryan’. Hanks was in that too, wasn’t he? It was all his fault. Hollywood was affecting reality. As long as ‘Forrest Gump’ didn’t come into it: I had done enough running around for one day.
Oddly, most of the other waiting travellers remained calm and resigned as the gate was changed yet again and the departure time was put back by 30 minutes and then another 30 minutes. Perhaps they were used to it. Or just waiting until my back was turned to transform into playing cards.
Eventually, the plane was ready and waiting, and its red-eyed complement of passengers trudged aboard. The one flight attendant looked, if anything, even more tired than we were, but she managed to show good humour as she welcomed us aboard and went through the mandatory safety blurb, then served refreshments on the one-hour journey. Well, if she could do it, so could I, I thought, and my sense of humour cautiously emerged once more from whatever hole it had been hiding in. Without further setback, we touched down in Amarillo and, after collecting my suitcase, I made my way to the arrivals hall. It was nearly midnight and almost 24 hours since I had boarded the bus to Heathrow Airport, but there was Laurie waiting for me. All was well.