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The story of Julie Love-Templeton, a part-time reality contestant, former beauty queen and full-time trial attorney, wife and mother.

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

Fly the Friendly Skies

Fly the Friendly Skies

 As I prepared for our fun, family vacation I tried to put my usual Scrooginess aside and was determined to have a positive attitude. Travel never seems to work out well for me. Early sailors believed it was bad luck to spot an Albatross while at sea.  Pirates believed that a woman on board a ship would bring bad luck. It appears I am the flying equivalent of both. I rarely reach my intended destination without casualties. We were to leave the Birmingham Airport on December 27, 2010, and arrive in Traverse City, Michigan, rent a car and drive as easy fifty minutes to beautiful Boyne, Michigan, for a relaxing ski vacation. We were to return to Alabama on January 1, 2011, having greeted the New Year on holiday. Each and every detail of this adventure had been planned a year in advance by my in-laws and husband, Captain America, all of whom are eternally optimistic and never sick.

On December 24 I came down with some sort of funk that on first swallow appeared to be strep throat. “I shall remain positive,” I mumbled to myself, and in affirmation of my mantra, I did not seek immediate medical attention as is my usual custom regarding anything related to my ear, nose, throat, or even a hangnail. I spent Christmas Eve in bed, hacking and now convinced I had pneumonia, but still clinging to my mind- over- matter philosophy. Christmas Day I crawled from the bed long enough to see my son, the Boy Wonder, open his gifts and then slunk back to what I was convinced was, in fact, my death bed.

Unfortunately, I came to my senses a little too late. There are no medical offices open on Christmas Day and I dared not go to the emergency room, as my Blue Cross co-pay is now so high that I might have to leave my son as partial payment. So I suffered through until December 26 and lined up with 70 of my closest friends at the local doc-in-the-box where I was diagnosed with one of my semi-annual sinus infections. Five hours, two shots and five prescriptions later I was on my way home.

 Captain America met me at the door, “due to bad weather Delta has cancelled our flight.”

I struggled to find my inner chi, but I was high on a steroid shot at this point and the lawyer in me, which I thought I had tucked safely away while on vacation, reared her ugly head, “they did not cancel our flight they put someone else on it because they over book these flights and one flight delay due to bad weather topples their house of cards!” It was at this point that I realized he was still on the phone with Delta.

The attendant scurried around a bit shuffling paper and clacking the keyboard of her magic Delta Computer and managed to find two seats on a plane leaving before sunrise. That would be wonderful had we not been a party of five passengers! I wondered, silently this time, if this is what it felt like as they drew straws for rowboat seats on the Titanic. It was agreed that Captain America and the Boy Wonder would fly on and I would follow with the in-laws on our newly booked flight the following day Tuesday, December 28. Happy to have one more day of bed rest and antibiotics I helped the men pack, carefully weighing the bags so as to avoid the additional $5,000.00 overweight luggage charge and returned to bed.

They arrived in Michigan without incident having traveled on a plane with many empty seats. I remained positive. “Vacation, vacation, vacation,” I repeated to myself and took a swig of cough syrup.

 We decided I would stay the night at the home of my in-laws to make the early morning trip to the airport easier. When they arrived to pick me up on Monday evening, the cell phone in my mother-in-law’s hand should have been a warning sign. It was Delta again. They were cancelling our flight and rebooking us for Wednesday, December 29. The customer service representative first said that due to the weather no flights were going into Traverse City until Wednesday. My father-in-law pointed out that he had children fly into Traverse City from both Arizona and Alabama, opposite ends of the United States that afternoon. Never missing a beat, she moved on to excuse number two: the fact that there were three of us traveling together made it virtually impossible to place us on a plane. There was a faint snapping sound as the last straw broke. I began shouting at the little I-Phone speaker that I was hardly to blame for Delta’s incompetence and that they had many flights that were flying their friendly skies at least one of which went to our destination and was not full! I insisted that she go ahead and book my in-laws and I would remain behind and draft the lawsuit, as I felt positive there was nothing in the contract language that allowed them to over sell flights and then kick people off because there was no room when bad weather caused delays. She was quiet for a moment, as were my in-laws, and then I heard the nervous clatter of the computer key board. “I found a flight! It’s leaving at 5 a.m. from Atlanta, Georgia.” To add insult to injury, she added, “Thank you for flying with Delta” and quickly hung up before I had the opportunity to shout back, “That remains to be seen!”

So we woke at midnight to make the three hour drive from Tuscaloosa to Atlanta. Well, my in-laws were awake. I was still in a cough syrup induced coma, so I actually missed the drive over. We finally boarded and made it to Traverse City, where interestingly, planes were flying both into and out of the airport without problem. I guess they did not have direct access to Delta’s Magic Computer.

I would love to say that the rest of our journey went without incident but that would go against everything for which Delta stands. On the return flight we had a small four- hour layover in Detroit, Michigan. No worries I thought, I can watch The University of Alabama’s bowl game while I wait. The first sign of things to come was revealed during our trek down the concourse in search of a television. There, alone on the runway, bravely staring down a small plane was a single red suitcase. Captain America immediately brought it to the attention of the nearest Delta agent, who looked over in the direction of the window, mumbled, “yeah, we know,” and went back to her conversation. As we walked away the Boy Wonder looked over his shoulder and asked, “Is that our suitcase?”




When our time came to board the flight to Birmingham I told myself I was thinking positive thoughts, but out of habit I took a deep breath and waited for the worst. Delta did not disappoint me. The nice gentleman at the ticket counter, who I came to refer to as Mr. Delta, picked up his little, black microphone, attached to his very loud squawk box and advised us that we were overweight passengers and three of us had to go. Now I am still silently pondering how one makes a determination that a room full of total strangers are too heavy for an airplane when he comes back on the squawk box and doles out the following enticing offer: “If we have three volunteers each will receive a $200 Delta Dollars voucher, hotel and meal vouchers and a flight leaving tomorrow morning.”

Tempting, but seeing as how $200 Delta Dollars barely covers the baggage cost of the flight and having once been put up at a hotel compliments of Delta that required me to move the crime scene tape to enter I was not about to budge. Five long, silent minutes passed on the concourse and he tried again. This time the lucky participants would receive a flight they had miraculously located in their magic computer that was leaving at 5:30 the same day. No sleazy hotel or meal vouchers necessary. He was met with a wall of silence.

“O.K., no volunteers,” Mr. Delta croaked clearly losing his patience with our group. “Will the following three individuals please report to my desk? Do not, I repeat, do not attempt to board the plane.” I only had a moment to wonder what would happen if they did try to board the plane. Would an alarm sound and F.A.A. representatives usher them to a small room in the back of the airport? My thoughts were interrupted by Mr. Delta as he shot off the three names of the angry customers who were now rushing his desk demanding to know how their names were selected.

The situation was becoming heated as Mr. Delta, backed against the wall of his cubicle, shouted the name selection was the computer’s fault and that he had no control. Suddenly from behind the big steel door that separated us and our flight home appeared a friendly flight attendant. She snatched the squawk box from Mr. Delta and began to calm the crowd saying she was going to do a head count of the concourse because she felt sure we would all fit. As I pondered whether flight attendant training now required classes similar to hostage negotiation she made a bee line for me and the Boy Wonder. “Excuse me ma’am,” she said with a bright smile on her face. I stared straight ahead and debated whether or not I should pretend that I did not speak English. She cleared her voice, “excuse me,” she said again, making it clear she was going nowhere. I looked over my left shoulder and feigned surprise to find her standing there. “Are you and your son flying to Birmingham? How old is he? How many are in your party?” I felt like I was under an interrogation spotlight. All the while Captain America sat smiling and staring straight ahead, earphones in his ears as he listened to his Keith Richards biography.

“This is what I get for telling him he should read more,” I thought to myself. I nodded “yes” to her questions about my flight and felt a little sick until she turned to Mr. Delta and indicating to the Boy Wonder said, “We have a half here, as well as at least three others, I think we will be fine.”

            As she resumed her question and answer session with other travelers, the boy’s spine stiffened up and he mumbled, “Who is she calling a half?” “Shh!” I hissed.

Well, the nice flight attendant managed to squeeze each and every one of us onto the plane. At first I was relieved and then I began to worry. Weight limits are there for a reason. I once tried to explain this to a 290 pound boyfriend who lied and announced his weight at fifty pounds less to gain entrance to a water slide. I do not know that he ever made the connection of why weight was important when barreling down a thirty foot water slide but the video was clear enough as he shot off the slide and did not stop until he hit a chain link fence. The plane groaned and I prayed and somehow we made it back to Birmingham, Alabama.

Captain America ran ahead to get the car as I retrieved our suitcases from baggage claim. I rounded the corner and was greeted by a grave yard of abandoned luggage. Red, black, blue and polka dot suitcases were piled atop each other like casualties of war. The alarm sounded and the conveyor belt for our flight started and about ten suitcases came off of Delta Flight Bloated from Detroit, Michigan. I turned on my heel and went to the little office to the left to make my report and almost tripped over one of the lucky individuals whose bag had in fact made it home. It was completely shredded on one side, held together by half of its zipper. She sat on the floor and held it in her arms like a sick child as another passenger attempted to separate them and encouraged her to survey the contents for survivors.

The lost baggage attendant clicked around on the keyboard of that magic computer and said, “this is curious, your bags were loaded and then they were unloaded because the plane was too heavy.” Now my bags were to blame? “But they will be arriving on the next flight this evening, whoops, that flight was just cancelled, they will be delivered to you first thing in the morning. Thanks for flying Delta.”

Morning came and went. I dialed the toll free number no less than 400 times and was always greeted with a busy signal. Captain America finally outsmarted the system by calling Delta, as if planning to book another flight from hell, and once he secured a human being requested a direct connection to lost baggage. I was so proud of his sneaky revelation. At 11 a.m. the bags were reported to be en route. At 3:00 p.m., using the same trick, we spoke to lost baggage again and were directed to the courier, who, as luck would have it, answered the phone. Our bags were traveling along with many other overweight, lost, or otherwise unacceptable bags and though slow in their arrival, we were guaranteed they would arrive that day. Our bags arrived around midnight; at least the courier’s word was good. Attached to the top of my suitcase was a nice little Delta form tag that read, “Sorry for the delay.” Hah! I am holding on to the hope that once Oprah tires of owning an entire television network that she will take a crack at the airline business. Until then, I will fly down the friendly interstate via my trusty Mustang.