Monday, September 25, 2000
IN MY LIFE
Airline adventures: Hurry up and wait
By Janelle Gelfand
The Cincinnati Enquirer
An estimated 5,800 travelers stranded overnight. Loudspeakers telling people to leave and come back tomorrow. Cots for 1,600; others curled up on blankets on the floor and on baggage carousels.
A bad dream? No, Chicago's O'Hare International Airport on the night of Sept. 11.
I was connecting through Chicago from Edmonton, Alberta, where my husband and I had concluded a vacation in Canada. I was traveling alone. He was remaining an extra day on business.
12:30 p.m.: My flight from Edmonton arrived in Chicago in plenty of time to make the 2:18 United connection to Cincinnati. The plane was overbooked for the 46-minute flight. Volunteers were asked to give up seats. Suddenly, the flight was canceled.
“Maybe we should rent a car and drive,” I joked to a woman named Susan, who was flying to the Queen City on business.
“Come with me; we'll get better service,” Susan said, taking me as her guest into the “Red Carpet” room. I hoped her VIP status would rub off on me, and we'd both be transferred to another carrier.
As I stood in line, Susan whipped out her cell phone. She told me the bad news: she was getting a flight on Delta. I had to wait six hours for the 9 p.m. United flight because I had an award ticket.
“Because no money has changed hands, no other airline will accept your ticket,” the United agent confirmed, not unkindly.
Before she left, Susan gave me a scribbled pass to re-enter the lounge, should I go out.
4 p.m.: This wasn't so bad, I thought, as I slid into one of the executive chairs with my backpack and a slice of leaden pizza. Nearly every chair had a phone nearby; I started dialing rental car agencies.
More bad news: not one agency would allow me to drop off a car in Cincinnati.
8 p.m.: I headed for the gate. Lines had become throngs. On the way, I passed the customer service counter, where a few agents were trying to rebook the horde of humanity whose flights had been canceled.
There were no agents at my gate. I checked the monitor. Most of United's flights were canceled. Mine was “DELAYED.” Outside, the storm was gathering steam.
9 p.m.: The agents arrived.
“We don't know where the plane is, but when we find it, we'll tell you,” a woman announced. I asked an agent about hotel vouchers. The airlines do not provide them if the problem is weather-related, she said.
10 p.m.: Still no plane. Agents told us a decision was imminent.
10:30 p.m.: It came. Canceled.
The crowd rose en masse and lurched toward the service desk. I knew there were two early flights in the morning. Pay phones had been hopelessly tied up for hours. I crossed my fingers and ran.
At the Red Carpet room I flashed my scrap of paper and entered.
Inside, passengers waited patiently to be rebooked. Those on cell phones confirmed that there was not a hotel room left in the city. If I wanted my luggage, it would take four hours.
I was already too late for the earliest flights; I settled for 10:30 a.m. “What about rooms?” I inquired.
“They are setting up cots in the Continental baggage claim area,” said the agent sympathetically, offering me a toothbrush.
Beginning to panic, I dialed an aunt and uncle who live in Chicago. “Of course, you can stay here,” my aunt said warmly.
11 p.m.: I power-walked through two terminals to the world's longest taxi line.
Midnight: I was sharing family snapshots with my relatives, feeling silly for not calling them sooner. A shower, clean sheets for six blessed hours and breakfast.
8:45 a.m. : I returned to the airport. The sky was blue, but chaos reigned. My husband's flight from Edmonton was CANCELED. Mine was DELAYED.
I picked up a Chicago Tribune. Severe storms had knocked out the airport radar; deadly wind shear had been in the area.
Then I saw a familiar face: The distinguished pianist, Menahem Pressler, 76, of the Beaux Arts Trio, slumped in a chair.
“I've been touring Europe with the trio,” he said, looking haggard. He had arrived yesterday from Frankfurt, Germany, and had spent the night in his chair.
Another man walked up; they embraced. It was Uriel Segal, music director of the Louisville Orchestra. He too had arrived yesterday from Europe.
Maestro Segal had spent the night in the Swissotel, downtown. His transportation, hotel and meals were gratis. He had gotten his bags in five minutes.
“Maybe it's because I showed them this,” he said, flashing a Lufthansa Gold Card.
Mr. Pressler looked crestfallen.
10:30 a.m.: My plane and pilot were there — but no cabin crew.
12:45 p.m.: Three flight attendants ran up. We boarded quickly and took off, more than 24 hours after I had arrived.
Meanwhile, my husband called United to ask whether I was on Flight 562. They could not give him that information.
“My wife has been missing in O'Hare for 22 hours,” he begged. The agent relented. “There is a very good chance she is on that plane.”
2:45 p.m.-3:55 p.m.: Our planes touched down in Cincinnati about an hour apart —
What did I learn from it all? Stay in touch with relatives in hub cities. Bring a cell phone. Don't fly with award tickets in bad weather. Make friends with someone who has a pass to the Red Carpet room.
Will I ever fly the Friendly Skies again?
Maybe. But not for a while.
In My Life is about recent significant moments — big and small — in people's lives. Readers are invited to submit columns, which become the property of the Enquirer. E-mail nberlier@enquirer.com.
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