A Bit to Read

(Image: White faced monkey on a branch; photo my own, rights reserved obviously)

I promise we will soon return to “The Day the Universe Stood Iffy,” but I wanted to greet everyone properly. So hello!

As you may or may not know by now, I was in Costa Rica, with limited internet connectivity, and it was a fantastic trip. Right up until the end.

When we could not leave Costa Rica. Please bear in mind this is an abbreviated version of events. And it’s long.

I was traveling with my dad, and we did a tour by Gate 1 Travel that went to a bunch of different areas by bus, and in one instance, boat. The last stop before returning to San Jose to leave got at least half of the remaining group sick, but it was the end of the trip, so we figured we’d deal with it when we got home.

After an initial delay that already had our connection canceled–believe it or not, no direct flights from Chicago to Costa Rica–we tried to call American Airlines to see what we could do. But even the callback time was 2 hours, and no one ever answered when we waited.

The tour had rescheduled our prepaid transport and could not get us to the airport so we took a cab through traffic only to be told all we could do is wait for the plane and spend the night in Miami. From there they had us going through Philadelphia and then to Chicago.

But the plane never came. We’d been sent to the wrong gate and I happened to ask where I could find an American Airlines agent just when people, down a flight of stairs at a gate below, were being rerouted back through customs, back to the desk to receive a hotel voucher, two meal vouchers of $12, and a new flight. I requested a different route, hoping that would help.

After a long wait for the shuttle, the driver contacted the hotel we were supposed to go to, and it was full so we were sent to a Holiday Inn next door instead. The restaurant with the vouchers was a Denny’s. The rooms were nice, though, and the beds comfortable.

We were told the delays were due to the storms in Dallas, but I learned there were people trying to get out of Curacao since the weekend, so I am unconvinced. And now there is talk of a flight attendants’ strike.

If there was any delay of our flight, I decided, I would try to get us different itinerary.

In the morning, I went to my dad’s room, and he checked the flight. On time. He packed up; checked again; delayed 20 minutes.

We both got our stuff together and headed to the airport. We tried to call but now the AI voice said without a shred of irony the callback time was 8 hours. EIGHT. HOURS.

Initial glitch, the cab couldn’t take a credit card, and due to the constant tipping and the discovery that Costa Rica will not accept “damaged” US dollars (anywhere, including the bank, which is, ironically where I got them) we didn’t have cash.

The Holiday Inn manager (I assume he was the manager, at least at the desk) got cash and paid for the cab for us, as transportation to the airport was supposed to be included in the delay. It was perhaps the most decisive moment for us in getting home, because I do think when we got to the airport mattered. Costa Rica is a country with so many lovely people, but he was among the loveliest.

We had splurged on seat upgrades which got us into the shorter line, and with only one other pair ahead of us we waited. And then finally it was our turn.

As the line grew behind us, the woman at the desk typed silently, bright red lips, impassive, reading eyes. There was nothing she could do, she said, all we could do is wait for the plane to Charlotte.

“Look,” I told her with one eyebrow raised, “you and I both know that plane is not coming.” At that point it was now delayed at least an hour. She said nothing, the ultimate poker face. She told me the problem was the connection to Chicago.

All the planes were full. She invited me to look for myself.

“With everything going on,” I told her, “I’m not going to invade your space, I believe you.”

I told her I didn’t care which route we took. Nothing. Finally I asked her to put us on another airline, stressing, again, that we were going to get out of the country that day. I’d already steeled myself to be polite but immovable. “Today you have today’s passengers and yesterday’s passengers,” I said to her. “Tomorrow it will be tomorrow’s too.”

“We can’t do that anymore,” she said about placement on another airline.

“Why not?”

“Let me talk to my supervisor.” While she was gone, next to us, a man also from the short line was refusing a seat that wasn’t first class on United.

And then, in slow motion as the lines expanded and expanded, the “short line” now reaching long beyond its confines, a mustachioed man who had given us an authoritative “wait” hand gesture the day before now advising her in hushed tones. Her eyes brightened a bit, only a flash, still the consummate poker player, and then eventually she told us we’d been routed through Panama, though we’d have to downgrade.

“Do we get a refund?”

We’d have to contact the airline, she told us, and as she walked us over to Copa Airlines, she looked relieved, with an actual smile. Already at least a day and a half as the person taking the brunt of the passengers’ frustration, and the restless corral of people still to go.

After we were checked in by their kind and friendly desk staff, I popped back over to the agent who helped us to thank her and wish her luck with all that was happening.

Copa Airlines, based in Panama, was absolutely lovely and the Panama City airport too glamorous to find a cheesy “Panama” mug, which I thought would be funny to have. But the planes left on time, both of them, though the Panama City airport kept us waiting for takeoff for an hour, and I learned that if you use them you can “stop over” in Panama for no extra charge so file that little nugget away.

Some time after midnight, we landed in beautiful, glistening “sweet home,” Chicago, after a pleasant flight with delightful seatmates, both Chicagoans. What you may not know about passport control in Chicago is at that hour they have about four agents. For thousands of passengers.

The line took two hours. But the officer was nice, we got our bags, got a fancy cab because it was right there and got home about 3:30 am on Thursday. Our travel saga began 9 am Tuesday. Costa Rica is one hour behind Chicago.

Some time yesterday I started to feel like a human again, thanks to the exhaustion and that extra little souvenir from that last city, so my plans to finish the story got a little derailed.

But now you know. I’m happy to be home, happy to be back here on our little corner of the internet with full tech access, and probably will not be happy to use American Airlines again but I guess we’ll see.

Have an amazing Monday.