"Buckle up for your journey to airport hell"

Sunday, October 22, 2006

Buckle up for your journey to airport hell
GETTING THERE | Your flight will be leaving this morning . . . tonight . . .
tomorrow . . . maybe
BY SCOTT SIMMIE
Canada - The Toronto Star


This is an unusual travel story.

It involves nicotine, outer space, the chaos theory and human waste. It
begins early last Monday morning.

You get up at 4:45 a.m. for a trip to New Mexico. You're going to Las Cruces
to cover the X Prize Cup - a nascent world's fair of private-enterprise
rocketry and space tourism. You're also planning on quitting smoking this
week. It's bad for you.

The drive to Pearson goes smoothly and you arrive 90 minutes before flight
time - as specified on your itinerary. It calls for an 8:25 departure on a
small Continental Airlines jet from Toronto to Houston with a good
connection to El Paso. From there, it's about a 60-minute drive to Las
Cruces. Your car and hotel are confirmed.

The Continental check-in is quiet. You're quickly given a boarding pass and
clear U.S. customs just after 7 a.m.

Soon, however, your day will irrevocably change. Small things at first,
gradually compounding until they become a cascade of leaden dominoes -
except less predictable.

Usually, it's a quick walk down the long Terminal 3 hall to the security
area. Today, however, that hallway is jammed with an undulating single line
of hundreds of people. It loops up and down the hallway several times,
creating four human columns that are all part of a single line.

The security people, in crisp white shirts, are sniffing around for liquids.
Toothpaste, hair gel - you name it, they want it. They're also providing no
information. 

"I'm a human being! I deserve some answers," says one angry woman. The
security person says all flights are delayed. 

Why the delay? No explanation is given and there are no video monitors in
this part of the airport.

It takes at least a half-hour to move down the line. You're starting to
worry - since you haven't even reached the formal stockyard that zig-zags
through those taut black ribbons to security. Twice, you express concern
about making your flight to the people with those weird emblems on their
shoulders. 

All flights are delayed, they say.

At about 8:10, you finally walk through the metal detectors.

Your gate is nearby, but the guard manning the sniffer machine wants to wipe
and test all your electronics. He wipes and analyzes your gear not once but
four separate times. 

You run for the gate, blazing down the final escalator. You see the jet on
the tarmac, the ladder device still affixed. The door is open, as is the
gate door to the tarmac. 

"I'll have to radio," says an attendant. Please, you say - security was a
nightmare.

"The pilot says no. They're closing the door." 

You put your hands together in some meek sort of prayer, willing the pilot
to see you and take pity. The door closes. Deep in your gut, you know this
is the beginning of an imperfect storm. 

You're re-booked on the next flight to Houston, departing in about 2 1/2
hours. You cool your jets with coffee, banana bread, nicotine gum. You kick
yourself for taking that one extra smoke this morning; those few minutes
might have made the difference.

Smoking truly is bad for you.

The flight departs slightly late and you're soon in conversation with your
travelling partners in the cramped commuter jet. 

About 30 minutes out of Houston, the pilot announces a diversion. There's a
huge storm, he says, and the flight will have to put down in New Orleans. It
lands at 1:53 p.m. local time, sitting alone out on the tarmac.

It refuels, but there is no information on when it will depart. 

The toilet stops working and passengers start clutching their bladders. The
flight attendant, meaning well, offers free drinks.

The jet sits there, condensation dripping from the ceiling onto passengers,
for more than three hours. 

Two passengers depart, taking their chances with finding a new flight. You
ask if you can do the same. "You're welcome to leave, but you'll have to
leave your luggage in the hold." 

And when might you be reunited with said bag - which contains all your
clothes? 

"One or two days." 

The only food on offer: microscopic bags of pretzels - and they're in short
supply. 

Passengers are eventually escorted, five at a time, to the terminal for
washroom breaks. Some delay their return to buy popcorn. One guy buys a
shirt - delaying the entire pee-chain. 

At 5:39 p.m., your group finally departs for Houston. 

You do not reach Houston. Shortly before 7 p.m., the pilot announces that he
will have to put down in Corpus Christi for more fuel.

"Too many planes in the sky," someone mumbles. "You'd think they would have
known that before taking off." 

(The storm, which you later learn has killed at least four people in Houston
while dropping 25 centimetres of rain, has long passed.)

The jet slams the runway, hard, at 7:03 p.m.

"It's a sign from God," says the guy across the aisle, an electronics
recycler who looks like Matthew Broderick. "I'm not sure I want to fly any
more today. What if the next time we go up, we crash - and we had the chance
to get off?" 

You offer to bet him $20 that the next flight won't crash. It's a no-lose
gamble; even if he's right, you won't have to pay.

The jet reaches the terminal. The pilots and flight attendant, exhausted and
hungry, have been in the air too long. They simply leave, as required by law
and sanity. Continental says it will find a new crew. 

"You'll definitely be in Houston tonight," says an agent.

"We could have been in London by now," says a fellow hostage.

"We could have been in China by now," you reply.

Stuck in Corpus Christi, you ponder your options. 

Continental keeps saying it's awaiting a decision on the crew (and your
immediate future) from some distant overlords. You picture them in some
basement bunker, watching specks representing aircraft on an LCD. 

They're thinking about statistics, not passengers like the older Russian
woman who's desperate to get to San Antonio. "Kashmar," she says more than
once. Russian for nightmare. 

It's nearly 11 p.m. when you decide to take Continental's offer of a room at
the Holiday Inn. Making the same decision are a guy from Magna en route to a
plant in Mexico and a woman who works for a Canadian electronics giant (a
delightfully smart HR specialist who needs to finish a PowerPoint
presentation by morning). 

Special rate of $59, courtesy of Continental, though no meals. The airline
also books you on two American Airlines flights for the morning, first to
Dallas and then on to El Paso.

There are, in the morning, more problems. The connection Continental has
booked is "illegal," American informs you when you check in at 9:30. There
won't be enough time to transfer the luggage. You accept your fate and head
out for one final smoke. You really do need to quit.

Security at the tiny airport is tight. You and a man dressed in a military
uniform are singled out for special attention. Pat-down, electronics, the
whole 8.2 metres.

The Continental gate is filled with tired-looking people. One flight is
delayed; the other is overbooked. An agent offers $200 to anyone willing to
wait another two hours. Ten minutes later, she ups the ante to $300. There
are no takers.

At the American Airlines gate, Ms HR is on her plugged-in laptop, working on
her presentation. She says her boss has offered to take her for some "retail
therapy" - shopping - to get over yesterday's kashmar. She's smiling.

You reach Dallas around noon and manage to snag the earlier El Paso flight,
running and SkyCar-ing through the massive terminal. You know your bag won't
make the flight, but you'd sooner sit for a couple of hours in El Paso and
eat something decent than spend any more time in airports. 

You reach El Paso at about 1:30 p.m. local time, meaning you've now been in
transit close to 36 hours for a trip that should have taken about seven.

The jet makes a flawless landing and begins the taxi to the gate. The flight
attendant gets on the p.a. system.

"I'd like to point out that we have five members of the military on board
our aircraft," she says. "Let's show them how we appreciate what they're
doing for us. And let's wish them safe travels."

The plane burst into applause. Despite your own opposition to the war in
Iraq, you find yourself softly clapping your hands. Whatever your thoughts
on the conflict, there's a certain respect for those who take on service.

Outside, after a much-needed meal, you phone to reconfirm your hotel.

"They've booked you as a no-show," a voice explains before you're put on
hold forever, while a recording extols the numerous virtues of the Ramada
Palms Las Cruces.

Overhead, there's a roar. You look up to see a military transport plane,
like the ones that take troops to Iraq. You think of what's going on there,
and what's been going on here.

You light a cigarette. Smoking really is bad for you. But some things are
much worse.

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