Thanks, American Airlines, for sucking.

I finally made it home to New Mexico, where I sat open-mouthed in front of a Mexican food buffet and guzzled green chili, but it was a harrowing experience to get here.

It began with a light snow.

Actually, it began with my dad purchasing plane tickets for me, because he’s a benevolent soul and I’m barely employed, and he wanted to know my preference—would I like to fly out of Boston in the morning or in the late afternoon?

 

Given that my lifestyle mimics that of a 22-year-old, I chose late afternoon, which was the exact worse thing I could have done. Because I chose the late flight, I was caught the height of a winter storm, my connecting flight to Roswell happened to be the last one of the day, and because I ended up missing it, I was stuck in Dallas overnight.

I should have known it was going to be a bad day of travel when I nearly missed the train to Boston.

I had asked my friend if he could give me a lift because he lives a mile from my house, and I thought driving would be the easiest way to get to the station with my luggage (as opposed to, say, a bus). We both live about ten minutes away from the train station, so as long as we left by 11:00a.m. I would be able to make the 11:15. To be safe, I asked my friend to pick me up at 10:50ish.

Here is what transpired that morning.

10:50- I receive a text from my friend saying, “On my way.”

I tell Tiff’s parents, who are offering to give me a ride, that my friend is on his way, so they bid me Godspeed and leave.

10:52- I roll my two suitcases to the curb and stand there as the first snow flurries begin to fall.

10:53- I see several cars drive down my street. None of them are my friend.

10:55- I look at the time thinking, As long as I leave before 11, I’ll be okay. My fingers go numb. I look to the left and to the right, but there are no cars in sight.

10:56- I send a text message to my friend saying, “I’m waiting outside!” hoping that will motivate him to drive faster.

10:57- I regret not taking the ride from Tiff’s parents. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

10:58- I check the train schedule to see if there’s a later train I can take and still get to my plane on time.

There isn’t.

10:59 – I send another message: “Are you close? The 11:15 is the last train I can take to Boston to get there on time.”

11:01- I receive a reply: “I’m trying dude.”

11:02- I panic.

11:03- I receive a phone call. “Sorry! The roads suck and people don’t know how to drive.”

“But you live, like, one minute from my house!”

“I don’t know what to say. I’ll be there soon.”

11:04- I look at the bus schedule to Boston, just in case.

It’s even worse than the train schedule.

I panic again.

11:05– My friend arrives just as I’m seconds away from vomiting.

I must have looked stricken with nerves because I was full-on freaking out. If I missed the train, I would have no choice but to drive to Boston, and the thought of driving in Boston, and parking there for a week, was enough to make me start hyperventilating.

“We’re going to get you there on time,” said my friend. “Just ignore every traffic violation I make.”

He then went into New-York-driver mode, speeding, half-stopping, and cutting people off, but we pulled up to the station at 11:12. I ran, with my luggage rolling behind me, over ice, wearing heeled boots, and after I nearly went careening face-first down the stairwell, I got onto the train just as the doors closed behind me.

“The Currier Way,” as my family would say.

However, this is not a blog about my poor planning, but rather why American Airlines sucks.

Despite the delays all over Boston Logan, my flight said it would still depart on time. I remained hopeful as we boarded only ten minutes later than planned.

We boarded, and I immediately made friends with my neighbor, a sophomore at Tufts who was headed home to Orange County to begin a semester’s hiatus from school. She spent the summer couch surfing across Europe, so naturally I wanted to be her BFF.

I was so invested in our conversation, in fact, that I failed to notice we had not moved an inch in the hour and twenty minutes we’d been sitting there.

It turns out our plane had to be defrosted in a lengthy process that could not possibly have started until we were all on board. I’d never experienced defrosting before, but it involved dumping liquid over the plane that closely resembled blood. I watched in startled curiosity as red waves poured down the windows—it was like stepping into the final scene of The Shining. 

I had a feeling then that I might not make my connecting flight.

Zoom ahead four hours.

Our landing time was approximated as 7:15pm. My flight to Roswell left at 7:45. I asked the flight attendant if there was any way I could de-board the plane in an expedited manner because I was, of course, in the third-to-last row, and exiting the plane takes an ungodly amount of time.

He said, in essence, no. There were no seats available to move me closer to the front; the pilot could make an announcement, but people rarely heeded those; other passengers had connections, so they’d likely deem their own connections as more important, etc.

So as soon as the plane stopped moving, I leapt over four people to get closer to the exit, but that was as far as the population allowed. I was stuck waiting for fifteen minutes while everyone else took their time getting off the flight.

I then had a George Costanza moment on the jetway, pushing old folks and children aside as I ran up and into the airport. I paused at the top of the ramp to ask the AA employee at the desk if he could tell my gate I was on my way, which he agreed to do, yelling after me “They’re boarding right now!”

The Dallas airport requires use of the “Skyway” air tram thing to transport passengers from one terminal to another. I landed in C terminal and had to get to B, and despite the fact that alphabetically, B and C are next to each other, in Dallas, they are not. I was at the farthest point possible from where I needed to be, and I rode the air tram in a state of on-edge, I will kill you if you make small talk with me, jitters.

Yada, yada, I arrived at my gate at 7:40 for my 7:45 flight. The doors had already been closed, the sign read “Departed” (that’s the new thing, apparently—planes taking off EARLY), and there was not an AA employee in sight. I couldn’t even beg to be let on the plane. I thought if I could at least fall prostrate on the ground, weeping in front of the gate, an employee might pity me and let me on. But alas, no one was around. I had to walk down for four gates before I found someone to talk to.

I was stuck in Dallas.

To make matters worse, American Airlines did not provide accommodations for the evening. The best they could offer me was a hotel that had free shuttle service to the airport. I angrily chose the cheapest option, Super 8, and it looked the part. But for being a super-shady hotel, the staff was surprisingly friendly and accommodating. They gave me everything from a toothbrush to contact solution. I slept soundly with my door triple locked and bolted, and was treated to a quaint breakfast in the morning.

The next day, I made it to my gate two hours early and had no problem getting to Roswell. During my painfully long wait at the airport, I made friends with a kind soul whom I approached with total disregard to social boundaries because I wanted to use his laptop charger (I left mine in Providence). I just went up to him and said, “Hi. I noticed you’re charging your laptop. Do you mind if I use it when you’re finished?” and he was so friendly and nonjudgmental, and he seemed (mostly) unphased that a perfect stranger sat next him and helped herself to his power chord.* We chatted for over an hour, and I hope he made it safely to Mississippi.

Overall, the trip could have been worse. I survived, and my vacation was not ruined. I’m just annoyed that American could not have held the last flight to Roswell for FIVE MINUTES, knowing that one of the passengers was on her way.

*this is not meant to be a euphemism

For now, though, I will bask in Mexican food and happiness.

[for all my New England friends, this is what Mexican food looks like**]:

**It appears that foods smothered in chili do not photograph well. But they are delicious.