Forgotten Sleep

After the family trip to visit the In-Laws last September, I was pretty sure we could never have an equally horrible travel experience. Next time I have a thought like that, someone wrap my brain in duct tape to keep me silent. Having productive thoughts is clearly not my forte.

For months, I looked forward to Loving Husband’s business trip to Rotterdam, Holland, because it meant a chance for the two of us to get away, leave Little Man and Big Girl with my parents, and have some time to ourselves. If I knew that getting some time away would be this difficult, I would’ve stayed home and just pretended that I wanted to leave the country.

As a bit of background information, Loving Husband shipped a large container of display screens via DHL to Rotterdam a few days before we left. The nice woman behind the counter assured him that he needn’t worry — it was out of his hands and in the capable hands of the company now. They handled this type of shipping all the time. Remember that for later.

We arrived about an hour and a half early for our flight to Newark, from which we would connect to Amsterdam. Our flights were booked on Continental. After the obligatory Heineken (going to Holland and all), we strolled to the gate, sat down, and waited for boarding to begin at 2:55. It was 2:30.

And, now, my fair readers, we have reached the Gates of Hell.

The lady next to me gasped and said, “Oh my goodness! The flight is delayed by an hour?!”

Loving Husband and I turned, and there, in bright red electronic lighting was the beginning of our personal journey through Hades. Departure: 3:47 p.m. We stared at each other in utter disbelief. We were going to miss out connection to Amsterdam. There was no question.

I started frantically searching the Web on my phone, and Loving Husband bolted to the check-in desk, trying to find another flight that would get us to Europe that night. Not only had the Continental staff not made an announcement about the hour delay in the airport, but no one answered the 1-800 number on the Continental Web site that was supposed to connect you with a customer service agent who could re-book your flight. I got a recording that told me all agents were busy and that I could call back later. With that, the recording hung up on me. Nice, Continental…good business plan.

After much discussion, Loving Husband got us on a connecting flight to Brussels with bar coded tickets that would put us at the front of the line to schedule a flight to Amsterdam once we landed in Belgium. That would’ve been so easy.

Continental delayed us again for an additional hour. You would think with so many international travelers trying to get home, someone would’ve announced the change. No, that would’ve made sense. We finally got on the plane and asked the flight attendant what the hold up was in Newark. It was nothing really. They just wanted to get all the international flights into the airport so all the domestics had to wait. That. makes. no. sense. How can you re-board international flights unless you pack them with passengers from connecting domestic flights. Clearly, logic isn’t Continental’s strong suit.

We landed in Newark with five minutes to spare before the Brussels flight was airborne. It just wasn’t mean to be. We hoped someone at the customer service desk would help us. I swear, no offense to my New Jersey friends (of which I have a few), I felt like I was talking to the lower-level of the Mob. Granted the gentleman helping us was Haitian, but his co-worker was born and bred stereotypical New Jersey. Wow.

Mr. Haitian told us that there were no seats available on any flights from Newark to anywhere in Europe until Monday morning. This was Friday. No. No. No. He clearly didn’t understand that we would be leaving the country that night, and he was going to be the one to make it happen. Loving Husband was smart. He walked away. He let me work my magic. I smiled, I laughed, I cracked a joke or two. I just asked in my nice way, “Are you sure there’s nothing we can do? We’ll even take a train if you can just get us somewhere.”

What do you know, there were two seats available on a 9:30 p.m. flight to Paris that he could book for us. Do it, sir. We’ll take care of the train. Thanks for your cooperation and for making my travel experience with Continental so smooth and enjoyable.

In the midst of begging for two plane tickets (which, by the way, were not next to each other), I heard a woman with a small boy and Mr. I’m-from-Jersey, You-Got-a-Problem-Wit-Dat get into a screaming battle. She screamed that he was responsible for helping her, and he screamed that he wasn’t going to help her because of her attitude. He yelled at her to leave the counter, that there was no f’ing way he would book her on any flight. Mr. Haitian told Mr. I’m-From-Jersey to walk away and go to the break room. I seriously thought I was going to see hand-to-hand combat. What’s with some people? Yelling doesn’t work, folks.

We walked away, tickets in hand, and got dinner. As 9:30 approached, we meandered to our gate. Oh, nothing on this trip would be easy. The lovely electronic sign didn’t say “Departure: 9:30.” It read, “Departure: 11:30.” By this point, I felt like I was in an Albee play or maybe an Abbott and Costello skit. Of course, the flight was delayed. Why would the flight be on time?

We waited. Finally, our flight to Paris took off at 12:45. I usually have trouble sleeping on trans-Atlantic flights. Not an issue this time. Loving Husband and I both slept for at least five hours. We arrived in Paris relatively rested and awake, ready to get our train tickets and continue on to our ultimate destination.

Continental had other things in mind, again. We made it through immigration and found our baggage carousel. Those little conveyor belts really can mock you. Loving Husband’s bag tumbled out onto the carousel at last, but we waited and waited. After 15 minutes, we admitted defeat and accepted that my bag was not part of this particular Paris adventure. All my shoes, pants, shirts, skirts…everything I’d planned to wear — gone. At least I’m smart and packed my make-up and curlers in my carry-on. One must at least look like a human being when traveling.

I filled out the requisite forms, and we made it to the train station where we purchased tickets to Rotterdam. Of course, the man at the counter didn’t tell us that we’d have to change trains. That was so nice of him. Only after we started chatting with a couple who really didn’t speak a lot of English, did we figure out that we needed to switch trains in Brussels. Blast. It wasn’t clear from our tickets exactly which train we needed to catch, but we had to find it fast. We only had about 10 minutes maximum between this train’s arrival and that one’s departure. So, imagine if you will, Loving Husband and me running through the Brussels train station, heavy with luggage, me in kitten heels (not my finest choice), screaming “Rotterdam? Rotterdam?” in the hopes that someone would point us to the right locomotive.

We got lucky. Maybe 45 seconds after we sat down, the train pulled out of the station. Upon arriving at Rotterdam Centraal, we caught a cab for the ridiculously close three-block trip to the hotel. We stepped into our room 24 hours after we arrived at our airport of origin, a full 10 hours late.

To make matters worse, remember those lovely display banners that Loving Husband shipped via DHL? The ones the DHL associate had assured him would arrive without incident? The ones he paid $1,770 to have delivered directly to the convention site? Yeh, he got an e-mail just as we landed in Paris from our local DHL representative that his display banners were being held in customs and that he needed to call customs officials at Schipol Airport in Amsterdam to answer some questions.

Our lovely DHL representative wasn’t helpful in finding the appropriate people with whom to speak or the appropriate phone numbers to call. She gave Loving Husband the number for DHL media relations on a Saturday. That. Is. Not. Helpful.

Loving Husband navigated the problem alone. And, after paying a previously undiscussed import tax of roughly $400, the customs officials released his display banners. Crisis mitigated.

Our stay in Rotterdam was lovely, but clearly travel was meant to be heinous. Our original travel plan from Rotterdam to Amsterdam involved another train. Our cab driver to the train station convinced us that he could take us direct to our hotel in Amsterdam for 110 Euro. We were so tired, we agreed.

Now, he was nice enough. A bluesy-gruff voiced Dutch cabbie of Greek origin who drove a BMW taxi. He had a good sense of humor and was aware enough to let us chill out and talk between ourselves. It became apparent, however, when he passed the atlas back to Loving Husband, asking him to find the route to our hotel while he drove, that he really didn’t know where the hell we were going. This wasn’t part of the deal.

So, Mr. I-Really-Don’t-Know-Where-I’m-Going missed the appropriate exit for our hotel. We spent the next 45 minutes circling Amsterdam with Loving Husband and me attempting to find new routes to our hotel and our cab driver jumping out at stop lights to get directions from other drivers around us. Thank God we were so fatigued…it was ridiculously comical to us rather than infuriating.

Needless to say, the trip to Holland wasn’t the relaxing one we hoped it would be. I do now, sincerely, believe that the airline industry and the partnering airports have it in for me in some way. They don’t want to harm me, I think they just want to rough me up a little. Make me beg for mercy. Maybe next time, I’ll take a boat.