A Traveling Travesty
LJ Idol, Week Eight
The IATA, International Air Transport Association, recently extolled air travel in 2011 as being the safest year since 1945. Unfortunately, the diminishing threat of fatal injury doesn't seem to have improved the industry's rating here in the United States all that much. In fact, according to the American Customer Satisfaction Index, airlines ranked dead last out of all the forty-seven industries they measured in their most recent survey.
As for me, I've been regularly flying on airplanes as a blind business traveler for over fifteen years, and after a while, I think you become somewhat accustomed to the constant indignities which airline and security personnel demand from you.
"Take off your shoes, and your belt, and anything else that might set off the metal detector. Do you have a laptop in that case?"
God forgive me, I have two. In fact, I sell electronics for a living, so you're going to have lots of fun with that bag.
Southwest, the only airline who managed to score a passing grade on ACSI's survey, often tries to lighten passenger frustrations by making a joke of all the ridiculous regulations which they're required to enforce.
"For takeoff, please bring your seats to their upright and most uncomfortable position. If our cabin begins to lose air pressure, please stop screaming, let go of the person sitting next to you, and pull down the mask which will hopefully pop out of the ceiling above you. Oh, and if you don't want to follow all the instructions we're giving you, please feel free to step out on the wing and do your imitation of Gone with the Wind."
Every once in a while though, the indignities you're forced to suffer aren't so minor. A few years ago, I was traveling with my guide dog on a trip from Austin, TX, to Tyler, TX. Since Tyler was far from being a huge metropolis, my itinerary had me flying from Austin to Houston, and then catching a much smaller plane to Tyler.
When I checked in at the gate that morning, having safely passed through security with all my electronic paraphernalia, the customer service rep politely asked me if I wanted to change seats.
"I have a seat in the bulkhead that's available," she said.
"Actually, I prefer to remain in my assigned seat," I answered. "My guide dog can fit under the seat there and will be out of the way, whereas he tends to slide around and lie on top of other people's feet in the bulkhead."
"Oh," she said thoughtfully, and then agreed that I could stay in my assigned window seat, a few rows back from the bulkhead seats of joy.
When I boarded the plane however, things quickly degenerated.
"What seat are you in?" the stewardess who met me demanded.
"I believe I'm in 11F," I responded, offering my ticket stub as proof.
"That won't do," she sighed, ignoring the scrap of paper in my hand. " Weren't they able to switch you to a bulkhead seat?"
"Yes, they offered to do that," I explained, "but I told them I'd prefer to remain in my assigned seat." I then gave her the same spiel which had worked so successfully for me earlier.
"Well, you're required to sit in a bulkhead seat," she proclaimed. "If you'll come with me, I'll show you where to sit, and then I'll have the gate agent change your seat."
"Ma'am," I said indignantly, not budging, "I've been flying for years, and no one has ever told me that I'm required to sit in the bulkhead."
Other passengers had begun boarding the plane by then, and our little confrontation in the aisle was beginning to cause quite a traffic jam.
"Well, I've also been a flight attendant for years," she sneered back at me, "and FAA regulations say that you have to sit where I tell you to sit."
I stared at her in disbelief, and while standing there, realized that I had a decision to make. I could raise Hell, refuse to do what she was demanding, and eventually be proven right. That was the plus side, I knew I'd eventually win because, although there were regulations regarding passengers with disabilities not being permitted to sit in airplane exit rows, there certainly wasn't any regulation stating that blind passengers had to be seated in the bulkhead. The crone in front of me had probably been shown a training film when she started working for Neanderthal Airlines, and at some point it had recommended that all cripples should be placed in bulkhead seating. Over the centuries, recommendation had morphed into FAA regulation in her tiny brain, leaving us at the current impasse.
The main drawback was that the key word was eventually. As a frequent flyer, I knew all too well what tended to happen to people who fought with security personnel and flight crews, and it was never pleasant. I could continue to argue with this fool, but if our disagreement went on much longer, they'd just pull me off the plane and take me to a small room somewhere.
I took a deep breath, and said, "Okay, you're flight crew, so I'm not going to argue with you. If you tell me I have to sit in the bulkhead, that's where I'll sit."
The crone harrumphed, obviously pleased with her victory.
"What I will do though," I continued before she could celebrate further, "is file a complaint with your airline's customer service department as soon as I reach my destination." I hesitated for dramatic effect, "Do you still want me to sit in a bulkhead seat?"
She did, and unfortunately for my guide dog, it was an aisle seat. My boy was truly amazing at cramming himself into the smallest of spaces, but there was only so much the poor guy could do on this flight. Both of the seats to my right were full, and although he tried not to, he was frequently forced to back up on to the feet of my fellow passengers. Even worse, whenever someone with a suitcase rolled through, or when Neanderthal Stew shoved her cart passed, he had to scrunch up even further. Despite my best attempts to keep him safe, by the end of the flight, both his paws had been repeatedly squashed.
To say that I was angry when I finally arrived in Tyler would have been the understatement of the year. I called the airline, worked my way through numerous customer service lackeys, and eventually reached a manager with a sufficiently high enough pay grade to do something about my complaint.
After telling him my story, I said, "I want the flight crew of that aircraft retrained, but since I'll probably never know whether you actually bothered to do that, you're going to immediately refund me for the flight from Austin to Houston I just took. If you do that right now, I won't call a press conference and tell all the reporters how your airline's employees tortured my service dog throughout an entire flight, while also insisting that it was FAA regulations which gave them the legal authority to do so."
I got my refund.
The story doesn't end there however. When I traveled home three days later, I had a strange surprise waiting for me in Houston. Typically, when I transfer from one flight to another in a large airport, the airline I'm flying will assign a staff member to guide me in-between gates. On this occasion, I had not one, not two, but three people appointed to escort me from one gate to the other. The entourage greeted me, insisted upon carrying my bag, and then guided me to a waiting airport cart.
"Is everything all right, Mr. Brown?" I was repeatedly asked. "Are you comfortable? Can we get you anything?"
The whole experience was extremely surreal. There I was, the blind celebrity with my entourage and guide dog, rolling through the airport in blissful comfort, while all around me fellow travelers were being searched by airport security, frantically running to catch their flights, and attempting to locate lost luggage. I know, I know, I should've probably tried to enjoy my moment of fame and fortune, but all I wanted to do was go home.
Dan
The IATA, International Air Transport Association, recently extolled air travel in 2011 as being the safest year since 1945. Unfortunately, the diminishing threat of fatal injury doesn't seem to have improved the industry's rating here in the United States all that much. In fact, according to the American Customer Satisfaction Index, airlines ranked dead last out of all the forty-seven industries they measured in their most recent survey.
As for me, I've been regularly flying on airplanes as a blind business traveler for over fifteen years, and after a while, I think you become somewhat accustomed to the constant indignities which airline and security personnel demand from you.
"Take off your shoes, and your belt, and anything else that might set off the metal detector. Do you have a laptop in that case?"
God forgive me, I have two. In fact, I sell electronics for a living, so you're going to have lots of fun with that bag.
Southwest, the only airline who managed to score a passing grade on ACSI's survey, often tries to lighten passenger frustrations by making a joke of all the ridiculous regulations which they're required to enforce.
"For takeoff, please bring your seats to their upright and most uncomfortable position. If our cabin begins to lose air pressure, please stop screaming, let go of the person sitting next to you, and pull down the mask which will hopefully pop out of the ceiling above you. Oh, and if you don't want to follow all the instructions we're giving you, please feel free to step out on the wing and do your imitation of Gone with the Wind."
Every once in a while though, the indignities you're forced to suffer aren't so minor. A few years ago, I was traveling with my guide dog on a trip from Austin, TX, to Tyler, TX. Since Tyler was far from being a huge metropolis, my itinerary had me flying from Austin to Houston, and then catching a much smaller plane to Tyler.
When I checked in at the gate that morning, having safely passed through security with all my electronic paraphernalia, the customer service rep politely asked me if I wanted to change seats.
"I have a seat in the bulkhead that's available," she said.
"Actually, I prefer to remain in my assigned seat," I answered. "My guide dog can fit under the seat there and will be out of the way, whereas he tends to slide around and lie on top of other people's feet in the bulkhead."
"Oh," she said thoughtfully, and then agreed that I could stay in my assigned window seat, a few rows back from the bulkhead seats of joy.
When I boarded the plane however, things quickly degenerated.
"What seat are you in?" the stewardess who met me demanded.
"I believe I'm in 11F," I responded, offering my ticket stub as proof.
"That won't do," she sighed, ignoring the scrap of paper in my hand. " Weren't they able to switch you to a bulkhead seat?"
"Yes, they offered to do that," I explained, "but I told them I'd prefer to remain in my assigned seat." I then gave her the same spiel which had worked so successfully for me earlier.
"Well, you're required to sit in a bulkhead seat," she proclaimed. "If you'll come with me, I'll show you where to sit, and then I'll have the gate agent change your seat."
"Ma'am," I said indignantly, not budging, "I've been flying for years, and no one has ever told me that I'm required to sit in the bulkhead."
Other passengers had begun boarding the plane by then, and our little confrontation in the aisle was beginning to cause quite a traffic jam.
"Well, I've also been a flight attendant for years," she sneered back at me, "and FAA regulations say that you have to sit where I tell you to sit."
I stared at her in disbelief, and while standing there, realized that I had a decision to make. I could raise Hell, refuse to do what she was demanding, and eventually be proven right. That was the plus side, I knew I'd eventually win because, although there were regulations regarding passengers with disabilities not being permitted to sit in airplane exit rows, there certainly wasn't any regulation stating that blind passengers had to be seated in the bulkhead. The crone in front of me had probably been shown a training film when she started working for Neanderthal Airlines, and at some point it had recommended that all cripples should be placed in bulkhead seating. Over the centuries, recommendation had morphed into FAA regulation in her tiny brain, leaving us at the current impasse.
The main drawback was that the key word was eventually. As a frequent flyer, I knew all too well what tended to happen to people who fought with security personnel and flight crews, and it was never pleasant. I could continue to argue with this fool, but if our disagreement went on much longer, they'd just pull me off the plane and take me to a small room somewhere.
I took a deep breath, and said, "Okay, you're flight crew, so I'm not going to argue with you. If you tell me I have to sit in the bulkhead, that's where I'll sit."
The crone harrumphed, obviously pleased with her victory.
"What I will do though," I continued before she could celebrate further, "is file a complaint with your airline's customer service department as soon as I reach my destination." I hesitated for dramatic effect, "Do you still want me to sit in a bulkhead seat?"
She did, and unfortunately for my guide dog, it was an aisle seat. My boy was truly amazing at cramming himself into the smallest of spaces, but there was only so much the poor guy could do on this flight. Both of the seats to my right were full, and although he tried not to, he was frequently forced to back up on to the feet of my fellow passengers. Even worse, whenever someone with a suitcase rolled through, or when Neanderthal Stew shoved her cart passed, he had to scrunch up even further. Despite my best attempts to keep him safe, by the end of the flight, both his paws had been repeatedly squashed.
To say that I was angry when I finally arrived in Tyler would have been the understatement of the year. I called the airline, worked my way through numerous customer service lackeys, and eventually reached a manager with a sufficiently high enough pay grade to do something about my complaint.
After telling him my story, I said, "I want the flight crew of that aircraft retrained, but since I'll probably never know whether you actually bothered to do that, you're going to immediately refund me for the flight from Austin to Houston I just took. If you do that right now, I won't call a press conference and tell all the reporters how your airline's employees tortured my service dog throughout an entire flight, while also insisting that it was FAA regulations which gave them the legal authority to do so."
I got my refund.
The story doesn't end there however. When I traveled home three days later, I had a strange surprise waiting for me in Houston. Typically, when I transfer from one flight to another in a large airport, the airline I'm flying will assign a staff member to guide me in-between gates. On this occasion, I had not one, not two, but three people appointed to escort me from one gate to the other. The entourage greeted me, insisted upon carrying my bag, and then guided me to a waiting airport cart.
"Is everything all right, Mr. Brown?" I was repeatedly asked. "Are you comfortable? Can we get you anything?"
The whole experience was extremely surreal. There I was, the blind celebrity with my entourage and guide dog, rolling through the airport in blissful comfort, while all around me fellow travelers were being searched by airport security, frantically running to catch their flights, and attempting to locate lost luggage. I know, I know, I should've probably tried to enjoy my moment of fame and fortune, but all I wanted to do was go home.
Dan