hell is airports
One thing that was instilled in me as a child was a propensity to be early. Being on time will do, in a pinch. Lateness is unthinkable.
As a result, I showed up at YVR (Vancouver International Airport) at about 9:20 for my 11:35am flight to Ottawa via Toronto. I know that you only need to be there an hour ahead, but what with it being the last weekend before Christmas and the weather being bad, I figured there would be lineups.
Actually, the lineups weren't that bad. I figured I could even skirt those by doing the electronic checkin at the machines, but when I tried I was told to see a Customer Service Agent. Hmm. Fifteen minutes in line later, I'm talking to Eric. Eric asks me my name and where I'm going. I tell him. He gulps. This is not a good sign, I'm thinking. He spends an overly long time typing at his computer. This is also not the best sign I've ever seen, I'm thinking. He clears his throat. I brace myself.
It seems that YVR was unprepared for the weather. It seems that YVR had neglected to get the warming mats or the heating towels or whatever form of blanket it was that he was talking about out onto the runways or planes or something in an expeditious manner. Therefore, it seemed that my flight would be delayed by two hours.
"That's alright," I say. "Things happen," I say.
Eric looks a bit shifty-eyed before clearing his throat again. This has moved on passed 'sign' and is merrily speeding along to 'portent.' "Actually, it means that you'll miss your connecting flight in Toronto."
"Oh," I say as the other shoe drops.
There proceeds a telephone call and more desperate typing.
Eric clears his throat again. I think that Eric either needs to get a damned cough drop or I'll clear his throat for him. If you know what I mean. And I think you do. "I can actually book you on a direct flight to Ottawa," he says with brittle cheerfulness.
"Oh good," I say with relief. When will I ever learn.
"It's leaving at 4:30 and should get in at midnight." His grin slowly skewed toward rictus.
"Ah," I said. There was quite a lot of meaning in that one syllable. I'd repeat it, but I wouldn't want to offend your delicate eyes.
"Shall I book you on that one, then?"
"Sure, why not?" It's not like I'd been planning on having a nice dinner with my folks and getting to bed at a reasonable time or anything. I move to place my bag on the scale.
"Oh, actually I can't check you in just yet." The cough resurfaces, and I restrain myself from removing his Adam's apple.
"When can I check in, then?" I ask in what I think is quite the polite tone of voice.
"Not until three hours or less before your flight."
Forget the fact that I really wanted to correct him to 'three hours or fewer,' I was just doing the mental math and realising that I had four hours before I could get rid of my damned suitcase.
"If you want to leave the airport, just make sure to call before you come back and make sure there aren't any more delays," Eric says. He coughs again as I give him a Look. "Which there shouldn't be," he adds. I'm surprised he doesn't say "Er..." at all.
I called my parents and told them to take a nap.
To make the story somewhat shorter, I dragged my bag around for four hours, killing time and reading the first of the two books I'd bought in the airport shops. At 1:30, I checked in my bag and went through security. Apparently, security was tighter than usual because everything from the rivets on my jeans to the underwire in my bra sent the thing to beeping, and I can usually walk through without a thing going off. I pity people with piercings in unusual places.
At 4:00, they faked us all out by calling pre-boarding. After 15 minutes of old people and children standing around, they said what amounted to "Psych!" and said it'd be a bit longer. I called my parents yet again to say that our flight was delayed to "5:12pm" but that I wasn't buying it since by that time it was about 4:45 and we hadn't even started boarding yet. Boarding eventually commenced sometime after 5:30, and we took off at about twenty past six.
After almost 7 hours of waiting in YVR and 5 hours on a plane, I landed in Ottawa at 1:20am. My luggage took forever to come off the plane, and then we drove back to Perth. I walked in the door of my parents' house at 2:59.
I hate airports. Truly.
As a result, I showed up at YVR (Vancouver International Airport) at about 9:20 for my 11:35am flight to Ottawa via Toronto. I know that you only need to be there an hour ahead, but what with it being the last weekend before Christmas and the weather being bad, I figured there would be lineups.
Actually, the lineups weren't that bad. I figured I could even skirt those by doing the electronic checkin at the machines, but when I tried I was told to see a Customer Service Agent. Hmm. Fifteen minutes in line later, I'm talking to Eric. Eric asks me my name and where I'm going. I tell him. He gulps. This is not a good sign, I'm thinking. He spends an overly long time typing at his computer. This is also not the best sign I've ever seen, I'm thinking. He clears his throat. I brace myself.
It seems that YVR was unprepared for the weather. It seems that YVR had neglected to get the warming mats or the heating towels or whatever form of blanket it was that he was talking about out onto the runways or planes or something in an expeditious manner. Therefore, it seemed that my flight would be delayed by two hours.
"That's alright," I say. "Things happen," I say.
Eric looks a bit shifty-eyed before clearing his throat again. This has moved on passed 'sign' and is merrily speeding along to 'portent.' "Actually, it means that you'll miss your connecting flight in Toronto."
"Oh," I say as the other shoe drops.
There proceeds a telephone call and more desperate typing.
Eric clears his throat again. I think that Eric either needs to get a damned cough drop or I'll clear his throat for him. If you know what I mean. And I think you do. "I can actually book you on a direct flight to Ottawa," he says with brittle cheerfulness.
"Oh good," I say with relief. When will I ever learn.
"It's leaving at 4:30 and should get in at midnight." His grin slowly skewed toward rictus.
"Ah," I said. There was quite a lot of meaning in that one syllable. I'd repeat it, but I wouldn't want to offend your delicate eyes.
"Shall I book you on that one, then?"
"Sure, why not?" It's not like I'd been planning on having a nice dinner with my folks and getting to bed at a reasonable time or anything. I move to place my bag on the scale.
"Oh, actually I can't check you in just yet." The cough resurfaces, and I restrain myself from removing his Adam's apple.
"When can I check in, then?" I ask in what I think is quite the polite tone of voice.
"Not until three hours or less before your flight."
Forget the fact that I really wanted to correct him to 'three hours or fewer,' I was just doing the mental math and realising that I had four hours before I could get rid of my damned suitcase.
"If you want to leave the airport, just make sure to call before you come back and make sure there aren't any more delays," Eric says. He coughs again as I give him a Look. "Which there shouldn't be," he adds. I'm surprised he doesn't say "Er..." at all.
I called my parents and told them to take a nap.
To make the story somewhat shorter, I dragged my bag around for four hours, killing time and reading the first of the two books I'd bought in the airport shops. At 1:30, I checked in my bag and went through security. Apparently, security was tighter than usual because everything from the rivets on my jeans to the underwire in my bra sent the thing to beeping, and I can usually walk through without a thing going off. I pity people with piercings in unusual places.
At 4:00, they faked us all out by calling pre-boarding. After 15 minutes of old people and children standing around, they said what amounted to "Psych!" and said it'd be a bit longer. I called my parents yet again to say that our flight was delayed to "5:12pm" but that I wasn't buying it since by that time it was about 4:45 and we hadn't even started boarding yet. Boarding eventually commenced sometime after 5:30, and we took off at about twenty past six.
After almost 7 hours of waiting in YVR and 5 hours on a plane, I landed in Ottawa at 1:20am. My luggage took forever to come off the plane, and then we drove back to Perth. I walked in the door of my parents' house at 2:59.
I hate airports. Truly.