“Can we go somewhere for a holiday and it not be an adventure?” pleaded my wife. “Can we just get there without any issue, and relax, and have a good time?”
I took a bite of soda bread and broke off a piece of cheese before answering as honestly as I could. “I’m afraid I can’t guarantee that.”
“Yeah, I didn’t think so.”
I’m not sure if it’s a gift or a curse, but every time I travel I have an adventure. My escapades provide endless fodder as a writer, but I think my family is beginning to lose patience – especially when the adventures (or misadventures) begin in the airports.
On my first trip to southern Arabia, I was delayed for almost three hours when a disintegrated seat cushion was thought to be a bomb. The waiting room got hotter and hotter until one woman fainted and seven ambulance attendants on bicycles showed up to wheel her away. Air Canada offered juice and cookies as an apology to the rest of the passengers.
Our flight home (seven months later) didn’t leave until just before midnight, and we were hoping to get through security without any issue before sleeping on the plane. The man behind the Oman Air counter mindlessly punched in our passport numbers and was about to send us on our way when there was a loud mechanical beep.
“Mmm…” the man mumbled.
“Problem?” I inquired, with a hint of panic in my voice.
“Come, please. This way.” He sat up, left his post, and walked us to a small room.
“This can’t be good,” I whispered to my wife. “Leaving the post means bad things.”
The man in the room didn’t say much, but typed and typed, sometimes frowning, sometimes taking long sighs, and other times twisting his beard. Fifteen minutes of agony slowly dragged on and on.
“Ahh… no problem,” he finally said.
“No problem?”
“No problem. Not same number.” He showed me my youngest son’s passport and compared it to what was on the screen. Someone had punched in a ‘3’ instead of an ‘E’. We were cleared to exit the country.
I’m currently working on a book about my travels across Ireland. While my first trip there was uneventful, my second trip started with an unfortunate (and expensive) mix-up.
I was told in Calgary that I had to pick up my luggage in London and check in again before flying on to Dublin. The airline employee didn’t tell me why, and I didn’t bother to ask. I assumed it was a new security measure. I was wrong.
After the nine-hour flight, I found my luggage on a turnstile, headed over to the British Airways check-in counter, and handed over my ticket. A young lady punched in my information. After a few minutes, she typed something more before making a disapproving noise that meant she had no idea what to do next. “You don’t seem to be booked with British Airways,” she said. “I think you need to go to the Aer Lingus counter.”
“Oh, okay,” I said. I couldn’t recall any mention of Aer Lingus before, but I thanked the lady and went in search of the airport map.
The Aer Lingus counter was all the way across the Heathrow airport, in a completely different terminal. A young lady punched in my information. After a few minutes, she typed something more into the computer before making a disapproving noise that meant she had no idea what to do next. “You don’t seem to be booked with Aer Lingus,” she said. “I think you need to go to the British Airways counter.”
“Right, okay,” I said. “But I was just there and they told me to come here. Now you want me to go back and try again?”
“Yes,” she said.
“I see,” I said.
Without any further argument, I headed back to the British Airways check-in counter. While waiting in line, I noticed the general information desk and decided to talk to someone there instead. As I approached, a uniformed gentleman was looking out into the abyss of airline travelers.
“Hello,” he said as I approached the counter. “How can I help you?”
I explained that I had just spent almost two hours crossing terminals and traveling by underground train, and I didn’t know what to do next.
“Let’s have a look, then, shall we?”
I handed over my ticket, and the uniformed gentleman punched in my information. After a few minutes, he typed something more before making a disapproving noise that meant he had no idea what to do next. But then he thought of something, and this was followed by more typing and soft grunts.
Finally, there was a moment of clarity. “Huh,” he said. “That’s interesting. I think I solved the problem. But it’s not good news, I’m afraid. Here’s the thing…”
I was afraid to say anything.
“So you arrived from Calgary and landed here in Heathrow,” he continued. “But it seems your next flight – your flight to Dublin – leaves from Gatwick. Not Heathrow. Gatwick is a different airport all the way across the city and there’s no way you will make it in time.”
I tried not to panic. “Is it possible,” I asked, “to book a flight from here to Dublin, without having to go to Gatwick?”
“I will check,” he said as he typed away.
I waited patiently.
“It is, yes,” he finally answered. “But it will cost you £115.”
“Damn,” I replied. I didn’t know what else to do but hand over £115. It felt like a hostage situation. “When is the flight?” I asked.
“Three hours from now.”
“Do it.”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “But next time I’m booking my own flight.”
