Lost in transit

If you had asked me one week ago who I thought had the most difficult, important job in the world, I probably would have said a surgeon or a paramedic — someone for whom quick thinking and action is literally a matter of life and death.

However, a recent experience has caused me to revise my opinion and add to that list people who work in airports.

I’m only being slightly facetious. They may not have to perform delicate operations or feats of incredible bravery and strength in a race against the clock on a daily basis, but ticket agents, security personnel, ground crews and flight crews often see people at their most vulnerable, and the smallest gesture can mean the difference between a difficult-but-tolerable situation and a waking nightmare.

I have the worst travel karma of anyone I know. Thankfully, I’ve never experienced a real emergency, but minor setbacks such as flight delays, cancellations, bad weather, lost baggage and general organizational screw-ups tend to compound for me into epic detours. In 2006, I missed my own university graduation ceremony because of a one-hour delay on the first leg of my trip.

Last week, I arrived at the airport in Venice, refreshed after a weeklong vacation and ready to go home. I had a sinking premonition the moment the word “delayed” flashed on the screen beside my flight number that what should have been a straightforward journey home would be anything but. I was right.

The first leg of my trip took me to Rome. We were an hour late, leaving me with less than 45 minutes to make my connecting flight to Toronto. I ran through the maze-like terminal, growing more panicked with every passing minute. My gate was, of course, at the complete opposite end of the airport. I heard the final boarding announcement as I raced up the escalator to the Air Canada connections desk. Gasping for breath, I flung my passport at the agent.

“You might as well take a seat, Miss Pope,” she said. “The flight is full.”

Full?

“But I have a ticket,” I said.

“You’re in transit, and you’re late,” she said.

I explained about the delay in Venice.

“It’s Alitalia’s mistake, not ours. You’ll have to talk to them.”

Three hours, five different desks and one epic lineup later, I had a hotel voucher and a new ticket for the following morning. At the hotel, I peeled off my sweat-soaked clothes and tried to relax and not worry about my luggage.

The next morning, all seemed well; I checked in early, got a coffee and went to my gate … where I noticed with dismay that the flight had inexplicably been delayed an hour.

No problem, I thought. I still have two hours to make my connection in Toronto. It will be fine.

I hadn’t counted on Aug. 4 being the day a line of severe thunderstorms rolled through Toronto, causing utter chaos at the airport. Upon landing, the problems stacked up: there was no available gate because all planes were grounded; the ground crews were not allowed out to fetch the baggage or even bring stairs to get us off the aircraft; there was no one to unlock the gate to let us into the customs area.

As I sat on the floor beside the baggage carousel, waiting for a suitcase that turned out to be languishing in a lost and found in Rome, I told myself it could be worse — much worse.

Despite my attempts at reasoning, more than anything I wanted a magic portal that would transport me home to a hot shower and my own bed. The thought of my bed, still a four-hour flight away, sent tears of exhaustion and pent-up anxiety rolling down my face. I was not the only passenger on the brink of a nervous collapse.

For most people — myself included — air travel is a stressful enough experience without setbacks. When setbacks do occur, it’s enough to send even the most rational person into an emotional tailspin.

Airport staff bear the brunt of this outpouring of frustration. They’re working in the dead zone between home and away, a place no person wants to be any longer than they absolutely have to. They have to deal with rude remarks, belligerent passengers and bureaucratic backlogs.

I don’t blame the ones who end up snapping at the hundredth person who asks them when the planes will be allowed to fly again, or who take one look at the ticket lineup stretching around the corner and decide now would be a perfect time to take their 15-minute break. But I thank, from the bottom of my heart, the ones who make an extra effort to humanize the process of being lost in transit.

There was the supervisor who made announcements every five minutes updating people on the status of their bags and who had bottled water brought in for the families with young children. There was the gate assistant who prevented a passenger mutiny by keeping her tone light and sympathetic every time she announced another sliding delay. And there were the booking agents who worked overtime to get people out of lineups and onto flights or into hotels.

When I finally landed in Edmonton that night, I was so happy I wanted to kiss the tarmac (I didn’t).

I could swear never to fly a certain airline again, or write angry letters to every authority who conspired to keep me from my bed for 48 hours, but after a century of flight, this is simply the reality of air travel. We pay a steep price for the privilege of experiencing life in other countries in this jaded age of terrorism and economic turmoil.

Ultimately, the thing to remember is that, in this case at least, the destination is more important than the journey.