The Long Road Home, San Juan Surprise, American Airlines Strikes Again

After a few blissful weeks in the Virgin Islands we bade farewell to our luxurious rental villa and our ever-smiling Spanish speaking staff, and headed to the marina. Captain Bennu arrived promptly at 9:30am to ferry us safely across the Caribbean Sea to the island of Tortola, from which we would be flying home to San Francisco after having been away since June. We checked in at the American Airlines ticket counter and soon discovered there was a slight problem. The decidedly unsmiling woman at the counter informed me that although David was scheduled to fly to San Juan, Puerto Rico and then home via Miami that day, the kids and I were only scheduled as far as San Juan with an overnight stay, and then the flights home the following morning. I felt the blood instantly rush to my head in a panic. “There must be a mistake,” I said calmly, “can you please see how you can get us home all together today?”

The agent looked to her right and spoke wordlessly through some secret island eye contact language with her fellow female agent, who in turned eyed her back in a clear show of solidarity that did not bode well for me. Of course the peacock blue eye shadow abundantly piled atop the neighboring agent’s eyelids made this wordless conversation far more intimidating than it might otherwise have been. The flashes of iridescent blue were downright menacing, like male peacocks in a battle for mating rights, and I wondered whether and how I might respond. The be-shadowed agent sauntered over to address me, she was obviously the heavy, and informed me that, “You will haft-eh cawl Ah-mehr-ee-cahn Ai-er-lines, and see whod dey ken do ‘bout it. Dehr’s nohtin’ she ken do fahr you.”

I blinked confusedly, and double checked that I was indeed standing at the American Airlines counter. “But this is American Airlines, you are American Airlines, can you please help me place the call?” I asked, compelling my voice to sound sweet, somewhere between helpless and hopeful. In my experience gate agents must first be made to feel totally superior to you before they are allowed to engage in even the smallest effort to assist a passenger in distress. I put on my best and most pathetic “distressed traveler” look and waited with pleading eyes, lowering my head slightly in deference to the mighty peacock. Some more secret eye contact conversation occurred and then the peacock lidded woman reached for a telephone, dialed some numbers and handed the received to the original agent. She then spoke some words at remarkably low volume to obscure my ability to understand and sauntered back to her counter.

The agent spoke almost inaudibly into the phone and then looked up to tell me. “Der iz nohtin’ I ken do, you ahf to fly ‘ome tomarrah.” I asked if I might speak to the person on the phone myself, and after she checked with the woman on the phone if it might be acceptable for me to speak with her, I was handed the receiver with only a mild look of disgust.

Soon the American Airlines agent on the phone had my full story, I was in a wheelchair and traveling with my three children and terribly sorry for the inconvenience but could she possibly get some or all of us home today? My submissive tone was found so agreeable that the woman managed to find a flight home almost instantaneously for my eldest daughter, at an albeit exorbitant increased fare. As for myself and my two other children, she could get us home first thing in the morning via Houston but we would have to overnight in San Juan. After thanking her for her assistance and handing the phone back to the agent, I explained the change in flights for us all and she began to input information into her keyboard with the tips of her impossibly long acrylic nails, which had some rather ornate rhinestone inlays.

Peacock lady sauntered back over and asked what had happened and when told of the change in flights, looked directly at me and asked, “Well how much dey gonna charge you fahr de change?” Her partner in crime offered up the figure jubilantly and Peacock lady looked at me with genuine amusement, “Well dats Am-her-eec-an Ai-er-lines farh you, dey don ker nohn fahr dey-er passen-geers sit-too-ehtion. But good you getting’ ohm tomarraw.” She chuckled, closing her phosphorescent eyelids for a long moment, before wandering back to the abandoned passenger at her counter.

I remain non-plussed as I sit here typing into my laptop at the Ritz Carlton Hotel in San Juan. Clearly Peacock lady is employed by American Airlines. She wears the AA uniform and nametag and works behind a counter labeled American Airlines, and yet she has somehow separated herself from this reality and carries on as though she were merely a by-stander to the travel atrocities being committed by said Airline. I cannot explain it, nor understand it, although I suspect it may be a suspended reality survival condition afflicting commercial airline flight crews and ground crews across the world. Clearly this sort of schizophrenia is a coping mechanism so that the airline employees themselves can carry out their duties shoddily (in accordance with union regs) yet bear no remorse or feeling about it whatsoever. I suppose this is the same type of desensitization military interrogators adopt in order to be able to carry out their duties. I do intend to write to American Airlines after my long awaited return to see if perhaps they can address it, although I am as doubtful as ever. Should I receive a reply, I will of course share it with you dear reader.

But for now, I will descend to the pool and join Livvy and Justin who are no doubt ordering virgin daiquiris in their lounge chairs and making the best of our unexpected return to San Juan.