After a spring chuckling at other people's travel woes* and thinking smugly, "Amateurs!" we found ourselves in the middle of our own comedy of errors trying to get from San Diego to Budapest.
The morning we left was a whirlwind of packing and tidying and fretting. Well, I was fretting, Rick wasn’t. But don’t worry. I fretted enough for five men. We did finish on time, as Rick predicted, and we even had time for a final burger on the beach at the Catamaran.
The flight to San Francisco was a breeze. We were on our way!
We had our champagne and got settled in our seats on the 777 to Frankfurt. But right when everyone was ready and starting to choose what movies they’d be watching, the pilot announced that there would be a delay while maintenance checked out a broken instrument light. Turns out, according to the pilot, “the thingy won’t thing” so maintenance was coming aboard.
That didn’t work like they thought, though, and they needed to cut power to make the repair. But to do that, we had to get all our personal belongings and de-board. We all waited in the gate area for maybe 45 minutes. I changed our flight from Frankfurt to Budapest and I’m sure everyone else was working on something similar.
We could see into the cockpit from where we were sitting, though, and the lights never did come back on. Just technicians’ flashlights waving around. The flight was delayed another 15 minutes, and another 15 minutes, then 45 minutes. We used our vouchers to go eat some dinner before heading up to the lounge again.
Then, at roughly 10 o’clock at night, the flight was just plain canceled. The chat agent texted that because ours was a miles ticket, he couldn’t touch it.** And the woman at the counter at the Polaris lounge said she couldn’t help because they were “closing in a half hour.” Clearly she had to race to her second job at 10:30 at night. She sent us to the United Club because they were open to midnight.
The woman at the other lounge was a massive help. No kidding. She spent over an hour working the system to get us options. In the end, after I nixed the idea of leaving and coming back to the airport within the next 4 hours, we decided we should spend an extra day in San Francisco to wait for a Sunday flight. She set us up with a hotel and issued travel credits. I think I glimpsed a halo over her head.
At that point we claimed our checked bags and hunted down a hotel shuttle for a Hilton nearby. Which. Took. Forever. An epic 12-hour Journey to Nowhere.
The next morning*** we treated ourselves to a downtown hotel with, you know, a comfortable bed and fewer bedbugs. Turns out Heidi was still in town because she’d hosted some crazy successful fundraising dealbob the night before. So we hijacked her for lunch, and we walked around Fisherman’s Wharf. We even dragged her into the fabulous Musée Mécanique. So much fun. The only downside was saying goodbye, again.
The next day, our flight was…wait for it…delayed. Because why wouldn't it be?
Unlike the other one, though, this plane actually took off. I’m not sure if all the thingies thinged like they were supposed to or if the pilot had simply had enough. But I didn’t care.
We finally arrived in Budapest! But our bags did not.†
Rick checked on his phone while I was waiting at the carousel, so we knew right away. As I was filing the report with Celebi Ground Handling, I realized that the gate agent had clearly decided that even though we were headed to Budapest, our belongings would be much happier in Frankfurt.
Thus began the Great Bag Hunt of 2023,†† We spent the entire day calling United, Lufthansa, and Celebi. Each one told us earnestly that it was the other company’s problem, but they had people on the case.
Of course, we could see our bags in the Frankfurt Airport because we have AirTags. I was begging any of them to just send an actual human to Lost and Found and they would find our bags. Mostly I just got icy replies because I think they were mad that we knew things they didn’t.
But finally, five days after our departure, Big Red††† was returned to us, delivered right to our door in downtown Budapest.
So I guess we’re finally ready to face this whole retirement thing. Wish us luck!
* One pair of friends took 72 hours to get from London to San Diego. I’m pretty sure both of those cities are on the map, so I’m not quite sure what happened. They told me, but it was a tale that spanned 72 hours and I’m more of an Itchy & Scratchy-length kind of guy.
** Really? 'Cuz the guy an hour ago had no trouble at all rebooking us on a later flight. Weird. Protocol must’ve changed in the past 60 minutes.
*** And by “next morning,” I mean 5 hours later.
† You didn’t think this was going to be a short story, did you? Buckle up. There’s so much more to go.
†† I’m dating these because I’m sadly certain that it’s going to happen again. With hopefully only annual regularity.
††† You don’t name your luggage? How do they find it when it’s lost?
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