I think my hashing name should be Lost Bag
Last winter, when British Airways failed to deliver to Paris the luggage of my former coworker Barry, I considered how much it would suck to lose luggage on an international flight. Because of this, I packed my two suitcases for my trip to Prague as though only one of them would arrive. Optimistic, I suppose, to think that I'd still get one, but that is exactly what happened.
So I packed underwear, bras, jeans, shirts, socks, and pajamas in both suitcases--allotting me a proper wardrobe if only one suitcase were to arrive. Unfortunately, there were a handful of things I neglected to split and when the luggage carousel only shot out one of my enormous red bags, I faced life without toiletries, makeup, and comfortable shoes.
This was no tragedy, and I told myself that everything was replaceable. Nevertheless, once my feet began to bleed from the sandals I thought I was smart to wear through security and I had no foundation to slather on a face that doesn't see daylight without a coating of skin-colored gunk, well, I could understand how Barry's lost luggage in Paris had ruined his entire trip.
Czech Airlines had handled my lost baggage claim, and they gave me a phone number to call. Once I got my Vodafone, I began calling them, but my first calls were outside of normal business hours, so I didn't think it was strange that they didn't answer.
But I kept calling. And calling. And calling. And no one picked up. The phone just rang. And rang. And rang. And while I told Caroline and anyone else who inquired that, yes, I wanted my suitcase but at least there was nothing in it that couldn't be replaced, I was actually quite panicked that I would never see my collection of Clinique bottles again--to say nothing of the wide-width tennis shoes I just bought and that I surely couldn't find anywhere in Prague.
I arrived in Prague on Thursday. By Saturday, the phone number had gotten me nowhere, so I decided to return to the airport and talk face-to-face with an agent of Czech Airlines. I took the Metro to a bus, got off the bus when I realized it was the wrong bus, boarded another bus to take me back, got on the right bus, and found myself back at the airport.
I went to the baggage claim window and the curtain was drawn and the lights were off inside. Another woman and I knocked at the window and no one responded. I tried to call the number again but I was now getting a message that the number had been disconnected. I went to one of those handy information booths and the woman there called the baggage claim and...no one answered. Shocking!
By the time I huffed back to the baggage claim window, though, the curtain had been opened and there was someone there and I received my bag. Everything seemed in tact, and I was so thankful and relieved that I didn't utter an unkind word for the terrible service I had received.
Okay, so this story doesn't have much of a point but it is rather funny how grateful you can be to have your own stuff--your own shoes and scrunching hair gel and soap and powdered foundation, so you can greet the world with the face you painted on.
So I packed underwear, bras, jeans, shirts, socks, and pajamas in both suitcases--allotting me a proper wardrobe if only one suitcase were to arrive. Unfortunately, there were a handful of things I neglected to split and when the luggage carousel only shot out one of my enormous red bags, I faced life without toiletries, makeup, and comfortable shoes.
This was no tragedy, and I told myself that everything was replaceable. Nevertheless, once my feet began to bleed from the sandals I thought I was smart to wear through security and I had no foundation to slather on a face that doesn't see daylight without a coating of skin-colored gunk, well, I could understand how Barry's lost luggage in Paris had ruined his entire trip.
Czech Airlines had handled my lost baggage claim, and they gave me a phone number to call. Once I got my Vodafone, I began calling them, but my first calls were outside of normal business hours, so I didn't think it was strange that they didn't answer.
But I kept calling. And calling. And calling. And no one picked up. The phone just rang. And rang. And rang. And while I told Caroline and anyone else who inquired that, yes, I wanted my suitcase but at least there was nothing in it that couldn't be replaced, I was actually quite panicked that I would never see my collection of Clinique bottles again--to say nothing of the wide-width tennis shoes I just bought and that I surely couldn't find anywhere in Prague.
I arrived in Prague on Thursday. By Saturday, the phone number had gotten me nowhere, so I decided to return to the airport and talk face-to-face with an agent of Czech Airlines. I took the Metro to a bus, got off the bus when I realized it was the wrong bus, boarded another bus to take me back, got on the right bus, and found myself back at the airport.
I went to the baggage claim window and the curtain was drawn and the lights were off inside. Another woman and I knocked at the window and no one responded. I tried to call the number again but I was now getting a message that the number had been disconnected. I went to one of those handy information booths and the woman there called the baggage claim and...no one answered. Shocking!
By the time I huffed back to the baggage claim window, though, the curtain had been opened and there was someone there and I received my bag. Everything seemed in tact, and I was so thankful and relieved that I didn't utter an unkind word for the terrible service I had received.
Okay, so this story doesn't have much of a point but it is rather funny how grateful you can be to have your own stuff--your own shoes and scrunching hair gel and soap and powdered foundation, so you can greet the world with the face you painted on.