We landed in Halifax, Nova Scotia, this afternoon.
It’s raining, but I don’t really mind. The forecast for tomorrow says showers and some sun. I’m good with that, too.
We got to our hotel, only to discover there is no lift and we’re on the 4th floor. It’s a very good thing that the staff offered to bring our luggage upstairs for us, because my suitcase is heavy.
So, we ordered pizza and we’re just chilling for now. The window is open and I’m enjoying listening to cars driving in the rain.
It had to happen.
Sooner or later, on one of our short changeover schedules, we were going to miss a flight.
I had a sinking feeling at 5am when the Captain announced that we had made excellent time but that air traffic control were not going to allow us to land until 6.20am.
That was going to make our connection schedule very tight. We had less than 40 minutes to get through immigration, collect our bags, clear Australian Customs and get from Sydney’s International Terminal across to the Domestic Terminal – a ten minute bus ride – clear security again, and get to the gate for our flight to Melbourne.
Naturally, that didn’t happen.
Customs was not so bad because I declared that I was carrying medications and nuts.
I’ve discovered you get through much faster if you declare something than if you don’t, because you get sorted into different lines than everyone else. It’s worth buying a bag of peanuts or cashews at the airport just before you fly, even if you have no intention of eating them.
I made it through Customs faster than my companions, but we were never going to complete the rest of the process in time.
Virgin Australia switched us onto the next flight at no extra charge, but there was no guarantee that all of our baggage would arrive at the same time as us because my bag had already been transferred through.
As we were leaving the plane, I looked out the window and saw my shiny red suitcase on the cart. That was a very happy moment indeed.
We collected our bags for the last time, piled them up, and hoped like crazy that my brother-in-law was bringing our Jeep to collect us.
After a 90 minute flight from Chicago to Atlanta, we had a 40 minute layover in Atlanta during which we had to get off the plane and go from the gate where we alighted on concourse B to another on concourse A, where we had to board our next flight, without any idea how to get there.
We got directions and took off.
The bullet train from concourse B to A was quick and easy. We found the gate without any trouble, bit with only a few minutes to spare. They were already issuing the final boarding call.
Ms Crankypants at the gate desk wouldn’t let us board because two of us had three bags, not two. The maximum, as she insisted, was two.
We were surprised – nobody in Chicago had said anything, nor had the flight staff who helped me stow both my carry-on bag and my laptop.
Ms Crankypants sent us away to consolidate our luggage. All we had to do was each slip the smaller one inside the bigger one, and she had to let us go through.
Once past the gate we had a good laugh. Nothing weighed any less. It wasn’t going to stow or carry in a more compact way.
We both took our handbags out again, stowed our larger bags and our laptop bags in the overhead lockers, and travelled exactly as we had from Chicago.
That woman achieved nothing except to become the butt of a joke, the subject of a blog entry, and the only unpleasant Delta staff member I’ve met. I hope she is proud of herself.
An Aussie Maple Leaf, adrift on the wind... 