Getting There
So we left for Nashville on Thursday morning. Our flight was supposed to leave at 6:30 a.m. and we were supposed to get to Nashville at 2:30 p.m. That would get us plenty of time to get hot chicken from Prince's and scope out the old neighborhood.
God decided it would be a good day to test my patience instead.
Our plane left on time, but we sat on the runway for nearly an hour waiting to take off. Then the pilot announced that there was a problem with the navigational equipment and that we would have to taxi back to the gate for a technician. They made the promise that there would be NO PROBLEM in catching connecting flights. That was one of the boldest lies I had ever heard, and I loudly announced my thoughts on their honesty. Everyone was clucking open their cell phones and calling Boston, New York, Dallas, St. Louis, and a myriad of other destinations to reiterate the aforementioned lie to their unsuspecting friends and family.
Long story short: They cancelled our flight. AFTER TWO HOURS OF SITTING ON THE PLANE. Do you see the bold faced letters? Can you sense my indignation? I know, English teachers, that I just wrote a fragment in bold letters. Forgive me. Anger is clouding my judgment even as I type. Frustration is creeping into my fingers as I write this tale of woe.
What really made me, ahem, upset (I am trying to refrain from using a word that starts with a "p" and rhymes with hiss.), is that they wouldn't let us off to make alternate arrangements. I don't like to be at the mercy of an unknown entity, namely a faceless bureaucrat who couldn't decide whether to cancel the flight or not. Instead, they trooped us off the plane and MADE US GO BACK TO THE TICKET COUNTER AND REBOOK OUR FLIGHT. Which meant we would have to go back through security, AGAIN. Which meant I would have to stand in line while strangers around me removed articles of clothing and fumbled with their laptops, AGAIN.
I was not happy.
I could write buckets about what the airline should have done or what I would have done, or how patiently The Rev. waited while I tried not to throttle someone, but instead, gentle reader, I will tell you how hard I tried to remain calm. I know that problems happen on airlines. I know that it is better to have navigational problems on the ground rather than in midair. I know that the gate agent didn't mean to be rude. And I know that it is far better to be rational than to be emotional, but I was...upset.
I tried to channel patience by thinking about the mission videos I had once seen about African women who walk 20 miles one way with their sick child strapped to their back only to wait another 6 hours to see a mission nurse before having to walk 20 miles back home. THAT takes patience.
It didn't work.
Instead my jaw nearly locked because I was clenching my teeth so hard. We finally got rebooked for a later flight, but we wouldn't arrive in Nashville until 11 o'clock that night. We could have taken an earlier flight, but it was be highly unlikely that our luggage would have made the connection with us. The thought of running around in dirty clothes with no make-up and unwashed hair did not appeal to me. I wanted my luggage. We took the later flight, and we were rewarded with a voucher to get something to eat. By this time The Rev. was holding my hand and rubbing my shoulders and neck as I ranted. I work in customer service, so I spared the gate agent my indignation. It wasn't her fault that they cancelled the flight, nor was it her fault that our only real food choice was McDonald's.
As we made our way over to the restaurant, The Rev. asked me what I wanted to eat. I could not tell you the last time I had McDonald's, so I had to look at the menu to decide what I wanted to order. I said, Maybe I should get a Happy Meal." He replied, "I don't think that will work for you."
There was much truth to that remark.
To make a longer story much shorter, we eventually got to Nashville. The trip was punctuated by relatively smooth flight to Dallas, several trips around the airport on the SkyTram to kill time, and a beer at an Irish pub in Terminal D at the Dallas airport. If you are ever stuck at DFW airport, go to Terminal D. They have the best choices for food and drink. Trust me. The Rev. and I had plenty of time to scour every terminal during our layover.
On the flight to Nashville, we made peace with the possibility that our luggage would probably not be there. As we made our way to the baggage claim, I told The Rev. to make the rental car arrangements and I would check on the bags. And there, standing in a halo of celestial light, sat our bags. They had come on the earlier flight. The one the gate agent told us not to take because they wouldn't make the connection with us.
That was the cherry on top.
God decided it would be a good day to test my patience instead.
Our plane left on time, but we sat on the runway for nearly an hour waiting to take off. Then the pilot announced that there was a problem with the navigational equipment and that we would have to taxi back to the gate for a technician. They made the promise that there would be NO PROBLEM in catching connecting flights. That was one of the boldest lies I had ever heard, and I loudly announced my thoughts on their honesty. Everyone was clucking open their cell phones and calling Boston, New York, Dallas, St. Louis, and a myriad of other destinations to reiterate the aforementioned lie to their unsuspecting friends and family.
Long story short: They cancelled our flight. AFTER TWO HOURS OF SITTING ON THE PLANE. Do you see the bold faced letters? Can you sense my indignation? I know, English teachers, that I just wrote a fragment in bold letters. Forgive me. Anger is clouding my judgment even as I type. Frustration is creeping into my fingers as I write this tale of woe.
What really made me, ahem, upset (I am trying to refrain from using a word that starts with a "p" and rhymes with hiss.), is that they wouldn't let us off to make alternate arrangements. I don't like to be at the mercy of an unknown entity, namely a faceless bureaucrat who couldn't decide whether to cancel the flight or not. Instead, they trooped us off the plane and MADE US GO BACK TO THE TICKET COUNTER AND REBOOK OUR FLIGHT. Which meant we would have to go back through security, AGAIN. Which meant I would have to stand in line while strangers around me removed articles of clothing and fumbled with their laptops, AGAIN.
I was not happy.
I could write buckets about what the airline should have done or what I would have done, or how patiently The Rev. waited while I tried not to throttle someone, but instead, gentle reader, I will tell you how hard I tried to remain calm. I know that problems happen on airlines. I know that it is better to have navigational problems on the ground rather than in midair. I know that the gate agent didn't mean to be rude. And I know that it is far better to be rational than to be emotional, but I was...upset.
I tried to channel patience by thinking about the mission videos I had once seen about African women who walk 20 miles one way with their sick child strapped to their back only to wait another 6 hours to see a mission nurse before having to walk 20 miles back home. THAT takes patience.
It didn't work.
Instead my jaw nearly locked because I was clenching my teeth so hard. We finally got rebooked for a later flight, but we wouldn't arrive in Nashville until 11 o'clock that night. We could have taken an earlier flight, but it was be highly unlikely that our luggage would have made the connection with us. The thought of running around in dirty clothes with no make-up and unwashed hair did not appeal to me. I wanted my luggage. We took the later flight, and we were rewarded with a voucher to get something to eat. By this time The Rev. was holding my hand and rubbing my shoulders and neck as I ranted. I work in customer service, so I spared the gate agent my indignation. It wasn't her fault that they cancelled the flight, nor was it her fault that our only real food choice was McDonald's.
As we made our way over to the restaurant, The Rev. asked me what I wanted to eat. I could not tell you the last time I had McDonald's, so I had to look at the menu to decide what I wanted to order. I said, Maybe I should get a Happy Meal." He replied, "I don't think that will work for you."
There was much truth to that remark.
To make a longer story much shorter, we eventually got to Nashville. The trip was punctuated by relatively smooth flight to Dallas, several trips around the airport on the SkyTram to kill time, and a beer at an Irish pub in Terminal D at the Dallas airport. If you are ever stuck at DFW airport, go to Terminal D. They have the best choices for food and drink. Trust me. The Rev. and I had plenty of time to scour every terminal during our layover.
On the flight to Nashville, we made peace with the possibility that our luggage would probably not be there. As we made our way to the baggage claim, I told The Rev. to make the rental car arrangements and I would check on the bags. And there, standing in a halo of celestial light, sat our bags. They had come on the earlier flight. The one the gate agent told us not to take because they wouldn't make the connection with us.
That was the cherry on top.
posted by pastorschick at
1:10 PM
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