Lesson learned from the train ride to Rome: planning ahead and not doing things last minute makes life a lot easier and avoids stress. Application of lesson: confirm flights from Madrid to Atlanta a day in advance. End result: let’s just say it was a little *dramatic*…
Exposition: sometime in March, Jorge and I received our acceptance letter from the UNC Study Abroad office. It was official; we were going to go to Spain and it was time to book our flight. Sitting on a couch in the Great Hall of the ATO house, getting ready to watch the UNC basketball game, we logged into STA (a student travel agency that offers great deals for trips around the world) and began to plan our trip. We were on the same flight going over on May 9; however, as I planned on staying in Europe a week longer than he did, we had different return dates and flights. All was booked without incident and we anxiously awaited our journey.
The set up: four days ago, this happened. No way would there be a repeat incident.
First rising action: I log on to STA’s website and find that there is no “Manage My Bookings” option. Frustrated but not yet discouraged, I go to the Air Canada website (my flight back home was with Air Canada with a connection through Toronto) and select their “Manage My Bookings” option. I plug in the reservation number that STA had assigned me with the last name “Reeves” (… you know, because that’s my last name). Nothing. Did the same with “Reeves III.” Again, nothing. Frustrated, a little discouraged, but not yet aggravated, I find the Air Canada phone number and place an international call at 0.15 Euro per minute. The machine that answered me was predictably unhelpful and after wasting around 1.50 Euros of my time, it was nice enough to transfer me to a hold line with annoyingly almost-soothing music. As I sat listening to the screeching violin, my aggravation slowly rose at about the same rate as the phone fare. Finally a representative answered and heard my case. She said I could not pull anything up on the Air Canada for two reasons. The first was that my reference number was for STA, not Air Canada; I would need the Air Canada reference number to “Manage My Booking” online. Understandable. The second reason was because Air Canada no longer flies from Madrid to Toronto on Friday; rather they changed that flight to Thurdays. For some reason, nobody (STA) cared to inform me of this. Frustration, discouragement and aggravation flew out the window; bewilderment, rancor and lividness took their place.
Mini-dénouement: Thankfully, the lady on the other end of the line was nice, helpful and patient. She told me that she would “transfer my reservation” (remember this key phrase) to a Continental Airlines flight that connected through Newark instead of Toronto. She promptly did so and connected me to a Continental bookings agent so I could confirm my booking. The playlist on the Continental Airlines hold-line was just as unnerving as that for Air Canada, however I was a little more at ease given the Air Canada lady’s help. When a Continental Airlines representative’s voice interrupted an unimpressive piano solo, she told me that my new 6-digit confirmation number was a valid one. All I had to do was present it at the airport and I was set to go to Atlanta through Newark. Success.
Not quite. But more on that later.
Intermission: I sat back satisfied with my preparation; by calling to confirm, I avoided a looming catastrophe in the airport. Now, I was booked, packed, CONFIRMED and ready to go home. But first, I had to enjoy my last night in Madrid. Colin, Shannon and Hillary had just gotten in and we met at Puerta del Sol before going out for dinner and drinks at El Tigre and Mercado de San Miguel. Although my flight was an hour after theirs, I agreed to meet them at Puerta del Sol again at 7:00 am (what is it with me and early mornings?) and we’d all go to the airport together.
The detail of my getting to the airport an hour earlier than I normally would have would prove to be crucial.
The climax: I say “bye” to Collin/Shannon/Hillary at Terminal 3 and proceed to Continental Airlines in Terminal 1. Before reaching the check-in desk, a Continental agent ensured that all the travelers in line had their passport and flight information ready. When he reached me, he asked for my passport and scanned it without issue. He then asked if I had an itinerary with my information on it. I told him an abridged version of the above story and gave him my “valid” 6-digit confirmation code. As he reviewed my documentation, a puzzled look crossed his face; he excused himself for a second and spoke to the check-in clerk. When he came back, he asked me to join him (skipping the line) at the check-in desk. My first thought: Air Canada / STA / Continental Airlines / Karma felt bad for the fiasco that had transpired and I was being upgraded to first class. Oh how wrong I was. Here is about how the conversation took place: “So you originally booked your flight with Air Canada?” “Yes.” “Do you have a ticket number?” “Yes, its (the 6-digit number I was given).” “No sir, that’s your reservation number; did Air Canada never give you a ticket number?” Dreams of first class quickly evaporated. “No.” I then continue to orate my entire phone conversation from the day before, culminating with how Air Canada had booked my Continental flight for me while I was on the phone with them, and then the Continental lady had told me that the 6-digit code would suffice.
Now it gets exciting.
“Yes sir, I see your reservation, but the thing is you don’t have a ticket.” “Wait, I’m confused, I have a reservation, but I don’t have a seat.” “No sir, you have a seat, you’re booked for seat 34A, but you don’t have a ticket.”
I don’t know if it’s that I’m not well versed in the airline vernacular or if this concept goes beyond my realm of understanding, but this blew my mind. A reservation at a nice restaurant is not for a table that does not come with a waiter or silverware to eat with; a reservation at a hotel is not for a room that lacks a bed for you to sleep in or a bathroom; a reservation with Avis is not for a Pontiac PanAm that doesn’t have a transmission or battery or spark plugs. How can I have a reserved seat without a ticket to let me sit there? Especially when both the Air Canada and Continental representatives the day before told me that I was good to go. After I expressed a few choice words of disapproval, the agent told me that the best thing I could do was to call Air Canada or go to their ticketing office and try to find my original ticket number. You don’t even want to know what adjectives best describe my emotions at this point.
When I called, the wait to speak to an agent was an hour and a half. It was 9:30; the flight was at 11:30. To speak to the Canadian agent, MAYBE get a ticket number, get back to the Continental guy, MAYBE get my Continental ticket, and go through security all within the 30 minutes following the 90 minute wait was absolutely not going to happen, especially with the number of “maybes” in that sentence. Time to find the Air Canada ticketing booth to see if they could help. Oh wait, Air Canada doesn’t fly out of Madrid on Friday anymore – that’s why I’m in this predicament in the first place. Why would there be a representative on a day there are no flights? Next stop: online at the overpriced pay-per-minute public Internet computers. When I “Managed My Booking” with my real Air Canada confirmation number (that had been given to me on the phone the day before), it did not register because my “reservation” was now with Continental. Mount Harrisuvius was about to blow up. Madrid would be my Pompeii.
My new friend at the Continental check-in counter next directed me to the Continental ticketing agent across the way to see if she could pull up the ticket. She told me that which I already knew but still didn’t understand: I had a reserved seat, but still no ticket was showing up. The only way I could get a ticket would be to buy a new one… for 2000 Euros. I would need parental approval. After waking up Mom and Dad at 3:42 am Atlanta time, I gave them a brief recap and they told me I had to go ahead and buy the ticket home; I could always talk to each airline when I’m back in America and try to fix things then (oh don’t worry I’ll be contacting a few people and giving them a piece of my mind – you can count on that).
Luckily, when I went back to the ticketing office I spoke with a different agent who booked a round trip ticket to Atlanta for only 900 Euros. This I wasn’t even mad about; I just think it’s a nugget of comedic gold. A one-way flight from Atlanta through Newark costs 2000 Euros; the exact same flight + a return trip to Madrid in August is less than half the price of the one way. I don’t know if they expect OPEC to launch a Jos. A Banks-style buy 1 barrel of oil get 3 free sale in August, if the system is corrupt in some backwards way, if airline executives are dimwits or if, again, this concept goes beyond my realm of understanding, but something doesn’t add up. Anyway, I bought the ticket and got through security without incident and made it to my gate with no more than five minutes to spare. Like I said, I’m glad I got to the airport an hour early with Colin, Shannon and Hillary. The flight was a little delayed, but my layover in Newark was long enough where it did not matter. Finally, at 9:05 pm ET I touched down in Atlanta and had arrived at home sweet home.
Conclusion with a twinge of comedic relief: So I’m an only child who was home for all of three days between college and Europe; I had seen my parents for probably a total of seven days over the past six months. Much less, I was headed to Athens for the weekend early the next morning to celebrate Michael Steele’s 21st birthday, so my time at home would be short lived. I cringed when I thought about what kind of embarrassing welcome was awaiting me at the top of the Hartsfield-Jackson escalator that connects the arrival terminals to the baggage claim. Would it be a huge welcome poster with family and friends clapping? Would there be confetti, banners, noisemakers, etc? No. Au contraire. I texted my parents as I landed “I’m home!!” A minute later, I get a phone call from Dad: “Welcome home! We’re actually at a dinner party celebrating Mrs. Vincent’s xth birthday. There’s a hide-a-key in the garage if you want to take MARTA to Lindbergh station and then a taxi home? We’ll meet you there!” Appropriate conclusion, works for me.
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