I had just bought my first piece of real luggage the day before the flight: a hunter green garment bag. It'd be easy to spot a green bag out from all the black bags. And it was: I noticed the other green garment bag every single time it went around the baggage carousel, checking it every time to see if it was mine. It never was. I was thinking the other green bag's owner took mine by mistake, and he'd be coming back any second now with apologies. No such luck. The bag's owner eventually showed up, after waiting twenty minute for the sole apparent reason of making me anxious.
There was a long line at America West's baggage complaint office, which I added to. There's a $2500 payoff for any piece of luggage that gets lost on America West, but it has to be lost five days to collect. And the first 24 hours after the flight arrives doesn't count, because then the bag's just 'delayed'. They'd send the bag to my hotel if they found it.
I went to my hotel (the Las Vegas Hilton, home of the cool Star Trek ride) and unpacked from my carry on bag the only clothes I had in this time zone. Changes of socks, underwear, and two pairs of shoes. I was going to be stuck at the Private Label Expo for the next two days with nothing but what I was wearing now, a pair of jeans and a Rocketeer t-shirt. Taking notes for two days of speakers, in my Rocketeer t-shirt. Meeting industry professionals, in my Rocketeer t-shirt. Might as well hit on twenty and bet my career.
At 10:30 P.M. (that's 1:30 in the morning for me and my E.S.T.), after wasting my first day in Vegas by trying unsuccessfully to find clothing in the gift shop that didn't say LAS VEGAS! on it, I got the call. My luggage was here. No explanation on which city it got flown to, just that nine hours after the fact, here it was.
The next two days were business as usual. I sat through some decent and some mind bogglingly stupid presentations, went on the aforementioned cool Star Trek ride, and ate in a Carl's Jr.
Friday was time to go home. My plane was leaving at 9:57. I always try to get to the airport early, in case there's horrible traffic or gigantic lines. I hit the buffet for what I thought would be my last meal in Las Vegas, then grabbed a cab a little before 9:00.
There was horrible traffic. Lights went by and the cab moved maybe a car length. My racist cab driver happily informed me that this was a nice city before the 'illegals' arrived. I got into the airport at 9:35. My cab ride was $25. Going to the hotel with no traffic, it was only $12.
There was a gigantic line to check my ticket. I had to pick up my bags, move them two feet, put them down, and lift them to move another two feet thirty seconds later. I'd normally just hang onto my carry on bag, but I went private label shopping for beverages, and each bag was stuffed with half gallons of juice and weighed about 75 pounds. Ten minutes of weight lifting later, I got a counter person.
I had to hand the garment bag over, also stuffed with private label, and warned the counter person she was receiving the weight of a small planet. She was thankfully quick, and gave me my boarding pass within a minute. "Your plane is leaving in, uh ..." She punched some digits into her computer.
"Ten minutes, I know. Thanks!" And I was off.
I ran through the terminal shifting the carry on bag from hand to hand. I was boarding at B2, which sounded real close, and it was. I reached B2 at 9:50, and saw my situation. Most every seat in the lobby was taken, and another gigantic line was by the help desk. Good news: I wasn't going to miss my plane. Bad news: It was delayed.
This plane was only taking me to Phoenix: I was changing over there for the Newark flight. There was a storm over Kansas that was slowing down incoming planes, such as the one that would unload and become my flight. However, my connection plane to Newark was already sitting on the ground in Phoenix, and it would be taking off right on time. So this is why everyone hates connection flights.
There were only two Phoenix-Newark flights for America West after that one. A 2:30 had every seat filled, but there was room for my luggage on it. (Goodbye, luggage; hello $2500.) A 5:30 was also taking off, with a few seats left. That was a seven and a half hour wait away. My other option was to transfer to a direct Vegas-Newark flight. This was taking off at 4:15, but it would beat the 5:30 from Phoenix in arriving. The counter person mentioned that she could bump me up to first for that one. Save an hour and fly first class. I picked that one.
It was now 10:00. I had six hours and fifteen minutes to kill. Good thing I brought a book.
I sat and read in the B2 terminal for half an hour. My new plane was boarding at B22, but I soaked up as much of the B2 scenery as I could, since I wasn't going to leave my carry on bag unattended, and carrying my carry on bag would give me a hernia. It was like having George Wendt for an egg baby.
The automatic walkway was broken, so no getting out of carrying it the whole way to B22. The strap cut into my hand like a plastic bag full of groceries. Which it was. I figured I'd be eating lunch at the terminal, and I saw a bunch of Burger King wrappers around, so I was expecting to find a Burger King. No luck: just a Taco Bell. Very nice choice of restaurants for just before going on a long cramped plane ride.
B22 was part of a circular hub with a few dozen slot machines in the middle. They were staffed by people fresh off the plane, and by people ready to leave but whose kids' tuition accounts would still allow them a semester of community college.
There's a part of Casino where DeNiro the casino boss watched some Japanese businessmen win a million bucks and then promptly head to the airport to fly home. He's not thrilled with this, so he calls the airport and gets them to fake weather disturbances so their jet's stuck on the tarmac. He calls the Japanese guys, apologizes for the weather, and comps them all hotel rooms for the night. While back at the hotel, the businessmen go back to the tables, lose the million bucks they just won, and a significant amount more.
I hadn't gambled a single quarter in Vegas. Not even a nickel. It wasn't a temptation to me, since I can't associate any slot or table game with me winning money. I can't even associate putting my luggage on a plane with getting my luggage from a plane. Was this Vegas's punishment, to keep me here until I paid the tithe? It was just an idle curiosity, but with so much time to kill, I developed this into a huge evil karma system, run by the ghost of Bugsy Siegel.
Boarding was scheduled to begin at 3:45. At 3:45, I noticed there was no plane at B22 to board. It was incoming from somewhere east of Vegas, and got caught up in that damn Kansas storm. Great: it was in Oz now. My wait got pushed to a seventh hour. I barely blinked at it. My life WAS waiting at that airport, so one more hour was just fleshing how a ghost could run a slot machine skim.
I didn't believe it when I heard that they were boarding. Nah, this was a mirage. Not The Mirage, because then there'd be an entertaining volcano going off every 45 minutes. Just an ordinary desert mirage. But there were people lining up, and first class always boards first. Had I waited out the Vegas curse?
There was still one bit of it left. Boarding first is a tremendous pain. There's an immediate bottleneck at the first class seats, and two seconds after you arrive, the next batch of passengers are trying to get by. At least when you're sitting in the back, you know you're not holding up the entire passenger manifest by standing in the aisle.
There were two bags in the overhead compartment, and mine couldn't fit with them. I pulled out a black briefcase, fit mine in, and tried to get the briefcase back in. Didn't fit. Someone in the seat behind me took it and put it in his overhead compartment. The briefcase owner might be curious how it hopped a compartment, but it didn't have a label on it, and it was my compartment, after all. I sat down and got out of the human logjam. A guy in the seat in front of me glared through tinted glasses. "Excuse me. Can I ask you a question?"
You just did. "OK."
"Why did you move my bag?" There's something about tinted glasses that just makes you look like a jerk. Maybe it's because you say 'polite' things like that.
"I was just trying to fit both of them up there. I thought they would."
"Why did you put mine back a row? Now I have to go back a row. Why didn't you put yours back there?"
Well technically, you have to go back two rows, since you already went back a row to fill up my space with your stupid briefcase. Is this what all first class passengers are like? "It's wasn't a conscious choice, I had just put mine in first, and then tried to fit yours also ..." It was getting hard to talk to someone when eye contact was broken by a rapid stream of humanity, as well as tinted glasses. He turned away, and I happily stopped talking. Great: a minute in first class and I've already made enemies. My four year old Radiothon t- shirt probably wasn't helping.
But all is well in first class. Your problems get forgotten. Your headphones are free, you get a pre-flight drink, plenty of drinks all through the flights, and the seats give you all the elbow room in the world. I got a choice of three meals to eat, all on actual plates and none of which came wrapped in foil. A salad, then a main course (I had salmon), then strawberry ice cream with a dark chocolate shell for dessert. When we flew through the Kansas thunderstorm, I barely noticed: I was too busy watching a free movie. If it wasn't for the Taco Bell forcing a visit to the dinky airplane bathroom, it would have been a perfect flight.
We hauled ass in the air, and landed at 12:30, a mere four and a quarter hours after our 5:15 takeoff. (If your math isn't adding up, try adding three hours for the time zones). First thing I did when we landed was get the black briefcase and politely hand it to the man in tinted glasses. "Thank you very much," he said. You act like a jerk, and I treat you nice right back. Eat that, you cocky bastard.
I lugged my carry on to the luggage carousel with dread. My luggage had beaten me here by a good hour or two, so it was either in the little baggage office, or dizzy as hell from being on the carousel too long. Or stolen from being on the carousel too long. Somehow, it was safely in the baggage office. Long odds to play, but that's what Vegas is all about.
I was glad I drove myself to the airport, and not arranged a ride from someone. I didn't have to phone in the escalating delays that would have eaten up multiple phone cards. All I had to do was take the shuttle to long term parking. I hauled the bags outside the luggage carousels to the arriving level, thinking this is where the shuttles would stop. One shuttle drove by, but had EMPLOYEE SHUTTLE written on it. Fifteen minutes later, I angrily hauled my bags up to the departing level. I guessed the shuttles only stop up here, and picked up passengers when they let off. I waited half an hour. One out of service shuttle whizzed by. I figured they'd be on a short schedule with this being past 1 A.M., but a short schedule is at least a schedule.
A second shuttle came up the ramp. I'd now been trying to get it for an hour. I dropped my bags and tried to flag it down. It whizzed by again. I did something I've never really done before: I gave the bus the finger. It felt surprisingly good to throw that out there, the ultimate futile gesture of disapproval. Like a shruiken of hate.
The shuttle stopped at the very end of the platform. Oh great, it decides to go on break right here and taunt me. I may never see home again. At least I have a change of clothes this time. The shuttle slowly began backing up. Oh, now you're just teasing me. Adjusting your break spot, almost as if you saw me and decided to pick me up. Hold the phone ...
I grabbed my bags and ran to the shuttle. A very nice woman smiled at me. "Are you trying to get to long term parking? I can take you there."
"Yeah. Thanks!" I hopped in, gladly dropped my bags, and was the only passenger for the whole route. Turns out the shuttles pick up and drop off at the courtyards by each terminal, which are not marked by a single sign anywhere in the airport. With all the construction at Newark Airport, this system might be changed further, so I'm just as screwed next time I fly, so long as this woman's not on duty.
She dropped me off right by my car. I meekly apologized for giving her the finger. She said it was fine. I act like a jerk, and she treats me nice right back. Yep, eat that, you cocky bastard.
I got in my car and drove home, pulling in at 2:30 A.M. When I go to Vegas next year, I'm bringing a gun.