I knew I hated to travel, even aside from (and even before) the TSA made things worse.

I am stranded in the Miami airport. I arrived here with — so I thought — plenty of time to board my connecting flight to Parts Unknown. But no … the online company that ticketed me set me up with “only” an hour and 45 minutes between my arrival and my scheduled departure. Turns out that I must check in two hours before the flight or no go. I had tried to check in for the international flight both online yesterday and at my origination airport this morning and was told I couldn’t.

(Yes, I knew about the recommendation to arrive at the airport very early for international flights. That’s why I was at the first airport three hours before departure this morning. Nobody — certainly not the company that ticketed me, either of the two airlines, or any of their reps who looked at my etickets — ever mentioned that I should have three or four hours between connecting flights if they’re not on the same airline.)

So anyhow, I spent an hour rushing back and forth between U.S. carrier A and foreign carrier B — who are located in far corners of the terminal — with each of them passing the problem off on the other until finally a helpful woman at A put me in touch with a supervisor at B, who helped me with a new, strictly stand-by, booking for tomorrow morning.

I couldn’t really blame them for passing the buck. Neither airline was at fault. Both ended up being helpful.

But then things got even crappier.

Foreign carrier B. gave me a certificate for a Marriott Courtyard hotel. I would have to pay (“merely” 80 bucks), but he checked room availabilities and sent me out to wait for a shuttle. In the next half hour I flagged down three Marriot Courtyard shuttles — only to have the driver of each tell me (in one case extremely rudely) that his vehicle didn’t go to that Marriot Courtyard. There are apparently seven different Marriot Courtyards whose shuttles fly by here.

But the one for my Marriot Courtyard never did.

So I went in and explained the situation to U.S. carrier A, who gave me a certificate — same terms, I pay, but they guarantee room availability, to a Howard Johnson’s. Even cheaper. “Merely” 70 bucks. Oh good. (I would be staying in a $8.00 per night hostel if I’d actually made it to my destination.) And shuttles arrive every 15 minutes or so.

Nearly an hour later, a Howard Johnson’s shuttle finally pulled up. I checked. Yes. Right Howard Johnson’s. Whew. Relief at last. I’ll be able to get comfortable, get a meal, and try to make some calls away from the deafening airport roar.

We rolled 200 yards or so. Then the driver pulled over, made a call on his cellphone — and there we continued to sit 15 minutes later while he talked. Not moving. And with loud rap music blasting out of two speakers on either side of me.

I got out. Walked back to the terminal. And here I am. The air conditioning is arctic and I’m colder than I’ve been in my little trailer in the high desert. Back there, there are blankets, sleeping bags, and heaters. Here, only a cotton and silk tropical wardrobe. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to pay $70 and put up with another hour of waiting for a shuttle just to have a few hours in a bed. (Especially knowing I’d be spending most of that time wide awake wondering if a shuttle will actually get me here by 5:00 tomorrow morning.)

To top it all off, this damned, wretched, unfriendly airport doesn’t even have free wifi. Nor does any business within it. Oh, but if I stay at the one hotel that’s actually within the terminal — for a “mere” $175 a night, I can get wifi there.

Yeah. Exactly. Like I’m gonna do that.

Instead I paid 10 bucks for a month of wifi from a private company. It seems to work, though the airport system it’s riding on cuts me off every half hour.

The good news is that there are now only 9-1/2 more hours of sitting here freezing my arse off before I can check in, and only another 2-1/2 after that before I’ll know whether I’ll actually be on that flight. Oh, and only one more TSA probing before I get where I’m going. And the “security” lines here are something beyond nightmares. Far worse than the airport I started at.

Did I mention I hated traveling?

Thanks for bearing with me through this rant.

I can say only one thing in my own favor. Apparently, several other American travelers were booked on these exact same flights. As I stood waiting at U.S. carrier A on my first stop there, one of those was screaming her lungs out at the poor airline rep — who was in no way at fault for anything. There was a time, years ago, when I would have made that kind of ass of myself over a situation like this. But now … so far, at least, I’m keeping cool (in more ways than one). And I’m glad not to be that sort of ugly traveler.

But OMG, if somebody gives me a bad time about anything around 3:00 this a.m. after I’ve been sitting here on the floor, leaned against this pillar all night, I really can’t be held responsible for how I respond.

All I really want is to go home — to my dogs, to the relative warmth of my icy highlands, to places where TSA agents never go. I wish, I wish, I wish, I had never left. I can’t imagine any tropical paradise making up for this kind of travel.

Share or Bookmark

I knew I hated to travel, even aside from (and even before) the TSA made things worse.

I am stranded in the Miami airport. I arrived here with — so I thought — plenty of time to board my connecting flight to Parts Unknown. But no … the online company that ticketed me set me up with “only” an hour and 45 minutes between my arrival and my scheduled departure. Turns out that I must check in two hours before the flight or no go.

(Yes, I knew about the recommendation to arrive early at the airport very early for international flights. That’s why I was at the first airport three hours before departure this morning. Nobody — and certainly not the company that ticketed me — ever mentioned that I should have three or four hours between connecting flights.)

So anyhow, I spent an hour rushing back and forth between U.S. carrier A and foreign carrier B — who are located in far corners of the terminal — with each of them passing the problem off on the other until finally a helpful woman at A put me in touch with a supervisor at B, who helped me with a new, strictly stand-by booking for tomorrow morning.

I couldn’t really blame them for passing the buck. Neither airline was at fault. Both ended up being helpful.

But then things got even crappier.

Foreign carrier B. gave me a certificate for a Marriott Courtyard hotel. I would have to pay (“merely” 80 bucks), but he checked room availabilities and sent me out to wait for a shuttle. In the next half hour I flagged down three Marriot Courtyard shuttles — only to have the driver of each tell me (in one case extremely rudely) that his vehicle didn’t go to that Marriot Courtyard. There are apparently seven different Marriot Courtyards whose shuttles fly by here.

But the one for my Marriot Courtyard never did.

So I went in and explained the situation to U.S. carrier A, who gave me a certificate — same terms, I pay, but they guarantee room availability, to a Howard Johnson’s. Even cheaper. Merely 70 bucks. Oh good. And shuttles arrive every 15 minutes or so.

Nearly an hour later, a Howard Johnson’s shuttle finally pulled up. I checked. Yes. Right Howard Johnson’s.

Less than 200 yards later, the driver pulled over, made a call on his cellphone — and there we continued to sit 15 minutes later. Not moving. And with loud rap music blasting out of two speakers on either side of me.

I got out. Walked back to the terminal. And here I am. The air conditioning is blasting and I’m colder than I’ve been in my little trailer in the high desert. Back there, there are blankets, sleeping bags, and heaters. Here, only a cotton and silk tropical wardrobe. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to pay $70 and put up with another hour of waiting for a shuttle just to have a few hours in a bed.

To top it all off, this damned, wretched, unfriendly airport doesn’t even have free wifi. Nor does any business within it. Oh, but if I stay at the one hotel that’s actually within the terminal — for a “mere” $175 a night, I can get wifi there.

Yeah. Exactly. Like I’m gonna do that.

Instead I paid 10 bucks for a month of wifi from a private company. It seems to work, though the airport system it’s riding on cuts me off every half hour.

The good news is that there are now only 11-1/2 hours of sitting here freezing my arse off before I can check in, and only another 2-1/2 after that before I’ll know whether I’ll actually be on that flight. Oh, and only one more TSA probing before I get where I’m going. And the “security” lines here are something beyond worst nightmares.

Did I mention that there were reasons I hated traveling?

Thanks for bearing with me through this rant.

Share or Bookmark

Lessee … he calls it “the ultimate bubble.” Then a couple of weeks later, George Soros doubles his gold holdings. What’s that about, I wonder?

—–

Writing to you from today’s first airport, where I managed to get through “security” with nothing worse than a pat-down search and a hand swabbing. And why did they choose me for a pat-down? Because the baggy Thai-style pants I was wearing had large (obviously empty) pockets. The hand swabbing, apparently, is now part of the routine.

I changed from pants to skirt as soon as I got through Checkpoint Charlie. Don’t want to have to go through that again when I pick up the international flight on another airline later today. It’s not clear to me whether I’ll have to go through security all over again for that. Probably will, since I’ll have to switch terminals between arrival and departure. Lovely.

Every time I see a TSA screener — even the ID checkers wear the blue gloves these days — I think “two by two, hands of blue …”

If you’ve seen “Firefly,” you know what a happy thought that isn’t …

Share or Bookmark