Assorted Afflatuses

Thunderstorms had rolled in over Philadelphia. As a result, the pilot informed all those on board that the plane needed to hold until the wether permitted a safe landing. So we circled for half an hour over the nondescript Pennsylvania countryside. The pilot then delighted everyone with news that, as we had held for half an hour, our plane no longer had enough fuel to safely fly in circles above the Philadelphia.

But rather than attempt a landing in Philadelphia or take the plane to an airport with flights to Paris, the pilot brought the plane down in Raleigh, North Carolina. And there I sat for over an hour, watching a pair of gray hoses funnel kerosene into the plane's wings. The temperature in Raleigh was, according to my iPhone, about 104° F with 85% humidity. Steam began to pour from the airplane's vents as the ventilation system moved gaseous water in the hot, humid outside air into the comfortable seventy degree cabin.

Airborne again, and finally back en route to Philadelphia, I thought the worst was over. Imagine my surprise, when, after taxiing off the runway in Philadelphia, the pilot informed the cabin that he had not secured a gate to unload the plane. I sat, trying to drown my annoyance with Mozart, for another forty-five minutes. Eventually, the plane rolled its way over to the A terminal, and, nine hours after wheels up in Portland, I finally stepped off the airplane.

By this time, of course, I had missed my connection from Philadelphia to Paris. It had departed without me while I was on the runway in North Carolina. Therefore it became necessary to rebook on another flight. The extraordinarily laconic and unhelpful people from US Airways had barked to passengers that, to rebook any connections, one needed to wait for help at what would become the infamous Special Services desk.

Eventually, I lost track of the amount of time I spent waiting in the seemingly endless queue. I would hazard a guess that I, along with the rest of my beleaguered family, stood in the Special Services queue for nearly three hours. When we did reach the counter at 2:00 AM US Airways issued us three meal vouchers, which served no purpose at that hour since every one of the airports hundreds of restaurants and food vendors had closed for the night.

By 2:00 AM other travelers, already stranded, had booked every hotel around the airport to capacity. So I took a taxi downtown, where I spent the night. After a few hours sleep, I spent the next day exploring the less than charming city of Philadelphia. Everyone, from the cashier at the drugstore to the male and female professionals marching down the streets, looked toughened and weathered somehow, with their waxy skin, and slightly over-worn and out-of-date clothing. That general roughness, combined with the utter lack of interesting sights and the dreadfully hot, humid weather, earned Philadelphia the distinction of "Most Unpleasant Big City I've Visited."

That afternoon I returned to the airport, where the flight to Paris eventually left the ground, though not before a thirty-minute boarding delay and another half hour spent queuing for a position on the runway. That flight passed as well as it could have. Unlike Lufthansa, US Airways served me a meal that was more or less inedible. The flight attendant on board who spoke French probably should have chosen a different occupation. And the plane did not seem terribly well cared for, as if it were a recently abandoned child.

Twelve hours later, however, I was strolling down rue de Rivoli past the Louvre, sipping Vittel and eating basket after basket of perfectly browned French bread. But, as the adage goes, all good things must come to an end.

And come to an end they did. The flight from Paris to Philadelphia passed without consequence. It was not until the plane touched down on US soil that everything slid back into chaos. After deplaning, everyone was forced to climb two sets of non-functioning escalators up to the international arrivals area to pass through customs. I stood there, in one of three dozen lines, which all moved more slowly than a glacier gliding down Mont Blanc, for an eternity. At some point a slightly punch-drunk American agent stamped my passport, permitting me to move into the baggage claim area and claim my checked luggage.

After suffering through more indignity to officially re-enter the United States (because we now treat our own citizens like terrorists and drugs smugglers) I made my way to yet another queue to put my checked bag onto the flight that would take me (and, I hoped, my bag) from Philadelphia to Portland. But just as I reached the front of that queue, another gruff and unhelpful US Airways employee told the assembled crowd to, "Go that way." Apparently, the conveyor belts in the international arrivals area had all stopped working.

So I took the indicated path, where another, slightly obese US Airways representative waved me through a door, not into another part of the airport, but into a parking lot. It was then that the whole scene digressed from airport nightmare to something ripped from the mind of Molière. Not one, but one hundred people were running, their enormous checked bags in tow, across the parking garage to a pair of elevators. I wish I had thought to videotape it.

And when I finally stepped out of the elevator and into the main terminal, hoping that I could finally put down my enormous suitcase, which held — in addition to six days worth of clothes and assorted gifts — five liters of French mineral water, I encountered more ineptitude courtesy of US Airways. The first US Airways desk, a man informed, also had a conveyor belt outage. So, I dragged my bag across the airport to another position, where a grumpy baggage man unceremoniously lobbed my suitcase onto a multicolored mound of valises.

As one might expect, all of the parking lot antics took substantial chunk of time and, especially with people crying, "I've missed my flight!" all around me, I figured that I would be stranded for a second time. Fortunately, the flight from Portland to Philadelphia arrived two hours late. Eventually I boarded that flight, which passed pleasantly enough and finally ended the purgatory.

The next time I fly to Europe, I will be in Lufthansa business class.