2008-09-18

Prologue: Jetting Means Getting The SHAFT.

Wednesday, September 17th, 2008. 3:00 AM PST:
You really don't know the meaning of "desolation" until you've spent the night at Portland International Airport. There are no flights coming in. There are no flights going out. Hours ago, gates shut with ominous clangs. A lone Hudson News stand is open, as is a small coffee shop clear across the terminal. Your only company is your fitfully sleeping husband, a handful of airport employees, a few other unfortunate souls who are awaiting ridiculously early flights, and a small band of unintentionally hilarious junkies who aren't going ANYWHERE, they're just hanging out in the airport because they've apparently nowhere else to go.

Such is the situation I have found myself in.

Our final day in Portland was a good one; we spent it in the company of my cousin Mike, who happily carted us, and our belongings, around the city, showing us various points and neighborhoods of interest. We had a fantastic dinner at Screen Door, and bade Mike a fond-but-sad farewell at the airport. We checked the flight information, and saw that our JetBlue flight to NYC was "on time" for its scheduled 11:59 PM departure. We were about an hour-and-a-half early, as we like to allow time for any problems we may encounter. Because there are ALWAYS problems, chickens. I have been traveling by airplane since my infancy, but it has only been in the last couple of years that I have developed a true fear of flying. I am not afraid of the plane crashing in a fiery spectacle. I am afraid that it's going to suck in myriad annoying ways. And in the last couple of years, this fear of mine has proven to be quite founded. This evening will be no exception.

There was no agent at the wee little JetBlue counter. We figured we were early yet, so we'd give it a little while. A little while passed. A couple of other passengers for this particular flight arrived. Still no agent at the wee little JetBlue counter. The houseboy called JetBlue. The surly, oh-so-put-upon lass on the other end didn't know what we were talking about: WHAT flight to New York City? Um, the one that's listed on the monitor right in front of us? Oh, THAT one. Yeah, that flight was cancelled...back in July. "It must be the moon or something," our JetBlue "customer service representative" sighed wearily, "...the last few people I've spoken to tonight have been SO CURT WITH ME."

(Note to JetBlue: people are being curt with your representatives because despite all your clever advertising, "jetting" -- as defined by your aforementioned advertising -- is about as pleasant as gum surgery, performed sans novocain by someone suffering from delirium tremens. People are being curt with your representatives because while it's nice to be able to watch VH1 and eat blue potato chips during your flight, it's vastly preferable to depart on time, NOT be charged for pillows, and have the promised JetBlue agents to meet your flight and tell you where the fuck you're supposed to go when you now have less than 10 minutes to make your connection. People are being curt with your representatives because you SUCK, JetBlue. Harder than a ten dollar whore attempting to swallow a bowling ball through a garden hose. If you won't take MY word for it, ask Kay.)

Meanwhile, a passing security guard looked up at the monitor and chuckled: "I dunno why that flight's still listed on there; JetBlue's not flying anymore on Tuesdays and Saturdays." Great.

According to JetBlue, we had been informed of this cancellation. Now, in fairness, perhaps this was the case (although I have no recollection of receiving any sort of communication stating that this flight was as nonexistent as Lynne Spears's parenting skills)...but it still doesn't explain why a flight which was cancelled TWO MONTHS AGO was being listed on the departure monitor as effectively being good to go. To add insult to an already festering injury, JetBlue couldn't get us out of Portland until Friday night.

I'm not proud of myself for the way I reacted: I crumpled. I bawled. All I wanted to do was go home, have a long hot shower, and play with my cat. I'd had a lovely time in Oregon, I'd enjoyed spending time with my family, but I was all done with living out of a suitcase, all done with crappy hotel showers, all done with being a tourist. I was supposed to be back at work on Thursday morning, Foot Foot was no longer being visited by her petsitters, and the houseboy's various and sundry medications for the week were gone. Leaving on Friday would be hugely inconvenient at best. On top of it all, the other airlines had closed up shop for the night...except for Continental.

We had a choice -- we could go on a waiting list for Continental's final flight of the evening, to Houston, MAYBE get on board, and then make a connecting flight to Boston from there, or (as our lovely, beautiful, saintly Continental agent informed us amid a choir of singing pink-assed cherubim) we could get a direct flight to Boston on Alaska Airlines at 7 o'clock in the morning for nine hundred dollars and change.

Well -- hello, Alaska Airlines! Is that a frozen salmon in your pocket or are you glad to see me? Your governor is a hosebeast from below Hell, but YOU, Alaska Airlines, you're what I believe the kids nowadays call "the bomb."

By the time we made all of these arrangements, it was around 11:30 PM. Going back to the Radisson was not really an option. Given that we just spent 900 bucks on a flight home, we sort of couldn't afford however much it was going to cost us to get a room for one more night. And besides, we would have had to wake up at 4:30 to catch the shuttle back to the airport. May as well stay put, we reckoned.

We set up camp in a lounge near the security gates. There were a couple of other people who were clearly in for the long haul, doing crossword puzzles or tappity-tapping away on their laptops. A young, neo-hippie-type fellow was making himself at home, having scattered various dog-eared paperbacks, crumpled bags and other assorted flotsam across several chairs and tables. He would put the flotsam and books in the various bags, put all the bags into another bag, then pull everything apart again and repeat the process. He would do this at least three times in the next four hours.

He was later joined by a couple of indeterminate age. The woman, stout and leathery, guided her rail-thin partner to one of the couches, where he proceeded to mumble something about "not wantin' to get hassled by the cops no more" before crumpling forward so that his head rested on his knees and his knuckles grazed the floor. The woman then announced, to nobody in particular: "Aw. He's TIRED."

Over the next few hours he would roust himself long enough to announce how many Vicodins he had on his person, or to ask the hippie how easily one could obtain prescription-strength cough syrup without a valid prescription in the Greater Portland area. I drew our bags ever closer, and resigned myself to the fact that I was not going to get any sleep.

One of the cleaning crew arrived to vacuum the lounge. She looked unfathomably tired, like she'd vacuumed this lounge hundreds of thousands of times, seen hundreds and thousands of stranded JetBlue customers. The hippie called to her: "Hey?"

She looked over at him.

"I just wanted to say 'thanks.' Thanks for vacuuming."

She stopped, momentarily stunned, then grunted, "Yeah, sure."

I tried to concentrate on my book, when I became aware of someone looming over me. I looked up to see the hippie. "Um, hey -- are you hungry? Because, like, I've got some FRUIT...and...nuts..."

"Thanks, but I'm okay."

He turned to the houseboy, who was dozing in the chair next to mine. "Hey, man...hey?"

The houseboy removed his earphones. "I'm sorry -- what?"

"Are you hungry? Because, like, I've got some NUTS...and...fruit..."

"No thanks."

The hippie then shuffled across the lounge and repeated his offer to the woman working on her laptop. I didn't make out her response, but she looked vaguely offended.

The stout, leathery woman smiled at me. "It's hard to get food around here so late at night." She turned to her partner. "Baby, wake up. Wake up, baby. I need ya to SCRATCH MY BACK for me."

I shuddered and returned to my book.

When I next looked up, a number of police officers had descended upon the lounge. They interrogated the hippie, then the couple. They searched the hippie, and then the couple. They found the Vicodin on the scrawny guy. The hippie, as it turned out, had missed his flight and was awaiting a later one. The couple wasn't waiting for any flight. One of the cops donned latex gloves and was running her hands across the couches and chairs where the group had been sitting.

The houseboy beamed at me. "This is like an episode of COPS!"

At around 4:30, the airport started coming back to life. Passengers booked for the first flights of the day filtered in. Gates were raised. The smell of coffee wafted through the terminal. The houseboy and I stared blearily at one another, triumphant for having survived this night. We could now get through security, and see an entirely different part of the airport, the one where they show old episodes of "Top Cat."

The flight home? Not too bad. We were at the very back of the plane, next to the restrooms, and the flight itself seemed to be populated predominantly by people with very small bladders. We were also flanked by two babies, one of whom had a knack for yelling "bucka-bucka-bucka-buck!" every time I attempted to doze off. But you know what? That plane could have been filled with poo-flinging monkeys and it still would've been better than flying JetBlue.

We got home, dropped our luggage and immediately started cooing and squealing at Foot Foot, who was delighted as all get-out to see us. Each of her three sitters left gushing notes about how much she fucking rules. She got her prezzie from us, a catnip-stuffed "George the Lame Duck" cat toy, which she has been beating the shit-eating fuck out of ever since. Good girl!

We'll get to the actual trip tomorrow, I promise.

lisamcc at 7:00 p.m.



3 comments so far
Jess
2008-09-19 17:33:06
Dude, that sucks! When I was in NYC in March, my flight got cancelled (no flights until the next day -- and maybe not then). I was all alone in New York (they wouldn't get me a hotel room either) and, I admit, I bawled my eyes out on the phone to Mr. Pibb. It was really scary! I was supposed to be meeting Pibb in Chicaco, but I got Delta (the airline I was supposed to be on) to book me a flight (for free!) back to LA. And they put me in first class that night! It ruled. I then took a taxi to Ventura with a psycho cab driver. I seriously feared for my life AND got charged, like $200 for it too. -------------- I just realized, I'm taking JetBlue to Boston next month. Oh no!
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Kellie
2008-09-19 21:38:46
Bless your heart - but you had me snickering, so at least you got a good story out of if. I'm flying Jet Blue to San Fran next week. Wish me luck! That FootFoot is a cutie.
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LisaMcC
2008-09-19 21:57:47
You know what -- both of you will probably have awesome flights. Most people seem to think that JetBlue is Jesus's own airline. It's pestilence, bitchery and abomination whenever I fly JetBlue. Hell, whenever I fly IN GENERAL. Maybe I should try Amtrak.
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