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An Airline Story
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July 5th, 2009UncategorizedI had traveled to Rome to join a host of Les Clefs d'Or concierges from around the world for our annual International Congress. Over the course of a week we had been feted and pampered and eaten endless amounts of incredible food; we had been given a private audience with the Pope (John Paull II, who my grandmother never really thought was a real pope because he wasn't Italian); we had meetings and galas and partied until the wee hours. I was tired.
My flight was on Air France, through Paris. I don't even need to explain how challenging Charles de Gaulle Airport is - everyone who has ever been there has a horror story. I arrived at the terminal from Rome, and had to run across the airport to make my connecting flight to Boston.
God decided that it should rain. And that I would get lost. And that the entire population of the earth should visit Charles de Gaulle airport at exactly that time and all of them would need to ask me directions. Asking a concierge a question, no matter where or when, triggers that instinct in every concierge to help. There simply is no other choice - it is a moral imperative.
Naturally, my flight - for the first time since the dawn of time - pulled away from the gate early.
Without me.
As I looked at the plane through the plate glass windows, I thought to myself, "well, it's right there; they could just wheel it back up a bit and open the door for me." As it turns out, I must have said it out loud, because the perky Air France lady behind the counter was looking at me as if I had suggested that Jesus was sitting on the fuselage wearing a beret and waving a French flag.
"Oh no, monsieur, I am very sorry," she said in a tone that made it quite clear that among all the possible emotions she could be feeling, sorry was not one of them.
"The doors are closed."
"Yes, but the plane is right there, and it's leaving early."
"Yes, it is."
"And I am here."
"Yes, monsieur, you are."
"Yes."
At this, she stood there looking at me with a perky smile.
Impasse.
Realizing that the plane was gone and nothing was bringing it back, I asked her what I should do. She let me know that there was another Air France flight, to Montreal, leaving in two and a half hours, with a connection home. She booked me on that flight. Everything was going to be fine. I would be able to change into dry clothes and --- oh. My luggage.
After exhaustive searching through the computer system, she informed me that unlike myself, my luggage had actually made the flight, and was on its way. It would be waiting for me.
Now, you all know what happened. I made the flight to Montreal and on to Boston, and my luggage was not there. After several calls, it turned out that my luggage, learning that I was flying to Montreal, had become so overcome by a need to be with me that it convinced Air France to fly it to Montreal to be with me. And there it stayed, having no-one to claim it.
For two weeks, I called Air France every day to ask them when I would be getting my luggage back. Over the course of those two weeks, I heard every imaginable permutation of "We're sorry, but..." I got to know several of them quite well; I began asking after individual Air France employees' children by name.
Finally, I told the guy at the other end that if he could not tell me where my luggage was - exactly - and when it would be delivered to me - exactly - then I wanted him to put me on hold; the very next person I wanted to speak to was the person who could give me the information I wanted.
"But this may take quite some time."
"I understand that, Jean-Francois. I am at work for the next 6 hours; I can wait."
I have never flown Air France since.
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