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A Touch of Humanity in a Sea of Chaos
CHÂTEAU Each June for the past 15 years I have
made my annual trip from Paris to Aspen, Colorado for
the Food & Wine Classic, a long weekend where I
and other food writers and chefs conduct cooking classes,
give talks and do book signings and consumers have their
fill of wine tastings, seminars, special dinners, as
well as mountain hikes and the unbeatable summer skies
of Aspen.
Each year I gear up for that endless trip in the sky,
the series of planes that usually take me from Paris
to Chicago, Chicago to Denver, Denver to Aspen in a
single day, with usually a travel time of 24 hours if
all goes well. It usually does not. Most often I arrive
in Denver late or really late and barely make the last
flight to Aspen. By that time, tough as I am, my lower
lip trembles with exhaustion and -- I will be honest
-- I could break at any moment if the ticket agent suggests
I may not reach my destination that evening. There are
almost always snags, delays, lost luggage, but if all
goes well I arrive in sunny Aspen around 8 pm wishing
they would take those bright lights away and hand me
a firm pillow.
This year, for the first time ever, all signals were
go. I even had a felicitous check-in in Paris , when
the United Airlines agent and I began to chat, and before
I knew it Bruno and I were exchanging recipes (he promised
to send his famous terrine de lapin), business cards,
and well wishes. He also complimented me on my tiny
red bag and applauded me for traveling light. So this
time every plane was on time, there was no lost luggage,
and there were cheery faces greeting me in Aspen to
whisk me to my usual room at the Hotel Jerome.
The return – with a three-day stop in New York
for business -- was less successful. On Sunday, the
short flight from Aspen to Denver almost landed in Colorado
Springs. The Denver flight to NY took off a bit late,
and was so crowded it seemed as though it took centuries
to board. Once we were close to LaGuardia airport, we
circled until we almost ran out of fuel. The pilot announced
that the airport was closed due to storms and we would
divert to Dulles airport outside of Washington, D.C.
There, we would hopefully refuel and return to the New
York City metropolitan area at first chance.
We landed late, very late, at Dulles and from the second
we landed it seemed as though Untied Airlines dumped
us. As we deplaned they announced that the crew had
worked their maximum hours, there was no replacement
crew, and we should deplane and wait for instructions.
I, among many others on the plane, had a crucial need
to be in Manhattan on Monday morning. I had a cooking
class to give at Macy’s DeGustibus and needed essential
prep time. Once we gathered in a long, long line with
two United agents to handle us, we were informed that
we had two choices: Maybe a 10:30 am flight to LaGuardia
the next morning or a 3:30 am Amtrack train to Manhattan.
In situations like this, I feel it is important to
move toward your final destination with each decision.
So at 12:35 A.M. I climbed into a taxi with three other
like-minded travelers heading for the train station
in downtown D.C. a good 40 minutes away. As we began
to explain our tale of woe to the taxi driver, he offered
to drive us to Manhattan. We took a quick startled glance
at one another, negotiated with the driver, and we were
off! By 6 am I was comfortably ensconced in my friends’
New York City apartment. I felt smug and happy and exhausted.
Three quick days in Manhattan and I was off on my trip
back to Paris. United Airlines does not fly direct from
New York to Paris, so I was ticketed New York-Dulles-Charles
de Gaulle airport in Paris .
This is where it gets rugged. To keep it short and
sweet, the flight from LaGuardia to Dulles was late,
extremely late, and I missed my connection to Paris
. Once again, I found myself in the Dulles airport taxi
line past midnight, again a one-hour wait for a cab,
sharing this time with three other men for the trip
to D.C. United Airlines had given me a voucher for dinner,
a hotel room, and breakfast. Too late for dinner but
a firm pillow seemed like a good idea at the time.
When I arrived at the Hilton Hotel at 3:30 am the desk
clerk looked at me and said: “I don’t’
know why they keep sending people here when they know
we have no rooms.”
My lower lip trembled. My eyes welled up. The clerk
took pity and found me a room.
I forgot to mention that an hour was spent at Dulles
trying to trace the famous tiny red bag that did not
come off the belt. The United agent assured me this
was no problem. The bag would be transferred to my Paris
flight the next day without incident.
I was too tired not to believe her. But when arrived
in Paris a day late there was no trace of that bag.
I filled out the usual forms and went home, assuming
the bag would show up the next day. Each day for four
days United Airlines called. Since I don’t stay
home waiting for the phone to ring, they only left messages.
Each day, many times a day, I called the Paris number
they had given to me, only to listen to the same voice
say day after day that the message line was saturated.
I even tried the U.S. lost baggage number, hoping to
find a friendly voice. Same frustrations. What answered
was (to my ears) a sophisticated voice recognition system
that identified itself as Simon and talked me through
a series of steps to track down the lost bag.It began
badly because among the choices Simon listed was, in
essence, "none of the above." "Say 'help,'
" Simon instructed. But when I did, Simon just
repeated himself, seemingly with a tone of rising vexation.
Finally, I yielded to one of the other options. "Lost
bag," I said. "Where was the bag lost,"
Simon in effect said. "Paris." "Did you
say 'Paris France,'" said Simon. "Yes,"
said I. "We're checking" came the reply. Convincing
"Star trek" gurgles were audible in the background.
"This is impressive," I said, though not to
Simon.
"We need to connect you with an agent," said
Simon, after more gurgles. "If you'd like to speak
with a representative, say 'Agent.'" "Agent"
said I. "Did you say 'Agent?'" asked Simon.
"Yes," I responded, wondering if Simon was
one of those Frenchmen who always screw up their face
when they hear an American accent. . "One moment
while I connect you with an agent."
That was the end of my high tech Simon Says adventure.
The call rang over to a line that was busy, then shut
off. Back at square one.
Four days later, as I was in a Paris taxi about to
arrive at the Gare de Lyon for a trip south, my portable
phone rang. It was Bruno of terrine de lapin fame. He
had been walking through the lost baggage section and
spied the famous tiny red bag. He took out my business
card, called me, and arranged delivery just a few hours
later.
After four days of being treated line a non-person,
what a delight to have that fabulous injection of the
human element. Moral of the story: Always talk about
food. Always travel with a red bag.
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