Travel karma FAIL, yet again
I used to love airports. Till I lived in the Houston airport overnight two weeks ago and had to deal with a canceled flight out of Atlanta yesterday.
Two hours outside of Atlanta is the Unclaimed Baggage Center (pictured). This is where unclaimed baggage is delivered — 7,000 new items per day, or something like that.
It’s disgusting. It looks and smells like a K-Mart. There are racks of lingerie and jackets and sleepwear and bustiers and electronics. Lady L and I bought books there, and that was it. Wearing someone else’s lost clothes creeped us out.
Besides, there was only one of each item. You like a shirt in a small but you’re a large? Good luck with that.
There were tons of Coach purses and Ferragamo shoes and Donna Karan jeans and all kinds of leather coats. Of course, there were also overalls and frosted jeans and other items for which family members probably paid off the TSA to kidnap those bags, so that no one ever saw that ugly crap again.
Anyway, I type all of this to say that when I deplaned in Atlanta and went to look up my connecting flight yesterday, I saw that it was canceled. And when I called Delta’s customer service (WAY more helpful than Continental — er, Cuntinental), they asked if I were willing to fly into another airport. (Heavy sigh. Yes.) And they rebooked me on a flight that was leaving in, oh, five minutes.
Unlike Cunt/Continental that wouldn’t let us board even though it was still sitting at the gate, I made the connection with ease.
Trouble is, my bags didn’t.
When I landed (mercifully) in Florida, I went straight to baggage claim. Whereupon I was told that my bags were no longer in the system.
Comforting. If I didn’t have a 100-degree fever and a cough and laryngitis to boot, I would have been madder that my makeup, meds, perfumes, souvenirs and leather coat (sigh) were somewhere in Georgia … just a two-hour drive from Scottsboro, Ala., and the Unclaimed Baggage Center. Hmmm.
The good news was that today my bags MAGICALLY appeared at my original destination airport, and they were delivered to my door. Which made the $60 in baggage fees seem SO MUCH more worth it!
The amazing part of the story is that my mother — yes, she who does not leave the house EVAR — got up the gumption to come find me. God bless her. Now, I’ve never ridden I-95 at 40 mph before. But hey, it was a ride that saved my life and, quite possibly, my sanity — which was stretched WAY thin at that point.
Somewhere in Atlanta, I got a message from my boss, reminding me that today was potluck day. Ugh. God bless Mom, yet again, for getting up early and making a big pan of rigatoni for me to take.
The woman finally showed some spunk. Who knew she still had it in her?
Anyway, I’m exhausted. I’m hot. I’m cranky. And my throat hurts. But life is as back to “normal” as it’s ever going to get.
And right now, I’m perfectly OK with that.