Wheaton’s Way: Lost luggage funsies

You know when you bump into someone and ask how they are? Really, we all – by default – expect them to say they are ‘fine’ or ‘great’, even if they aren’t.

Yeah … you won’t have to worry about that lack of honesty from me. If you make the decision to ask me how I am, prepare to pull up a chair and hear the whole ghastly business. Don’t take that ice cream out of the freezer until after we’ve talked.

Most of the time, I’m actually pretty good, but my recent trip to the UK would have tested the patience of Job. Travelling can be rough at the best of times, but this was one for the books.

Put the Häagen-Dazs back in the ice box, Muriel, and I’ll begin …

I had decided to organise a pre-Christmas visit to my parents in England, as they weren’t flying over here this year. I bought the flights on Friday to leave Cayman on the Monday.

For starters, my Saturday plans went out the window. Every task I’d set myself took triple the time, and I desperately needed to get to the supermarket to buy a few essentials. By the time I reached Foster’s, I couldn’t be bothered to make informed choices. I basically wrapped my arm behind the shelf of cold medicines, painkillers, antacids and Anbesol, and waterfalled them into my cart. Enough for me, and the newly established Wheaton Dispensary.

Sunday was spent packing. It had been a while since I’d gone anywhere properly wintry, which meant digging into the deepest reaches of the closet to find warm clothes. Just when I thought I was going to have to wear a Santa costume or Grinch pullover in central London, I found the treasure trove of jumpers and cardigans. I’d forgotten just how nicely wool adds another 10 pounds to one’s rotund form, but it was about 30°F on the other side of the pond, so nothing else for it.

Based on ticket prices and my availability, I had to fly through Miami on the way out and take the direct flight back. I had a good layover time in MIA and I had Global Entry, so I figured I’d be able to treat myself to a little British Airways lounge love before heading to the gate.

Well, it wasn’t long before that hope evaporated. My plane out of Cayman was delayed; and delayed; and delayed … I kept recalculating my trip schedule. Things were starting to get tighter. I had to collect my bag and check in at the BA desk in Miami – they couldn’t tag my luggage through – so it was becoming a little hairy. Another couple was in a similar position, leaving on an earlier flight on Virgin. We went from relaxing with a beverage to fingernail biting and furtive glances at the status board.

Finally, we were wheels-up from Cayman. I reckoned I had about an hour once we touched down in MIA, before the BA desk closed.

Of course, it couldn’t be as simple as landing and rolling to the jetway. We landed, moved, then paused.

55 minutes to get to BA.

We started moving again, then paused again. Was this a tyre issue? Was there a plane in the way? Had our jetway collapsed? Why was no one telling us what was going on?

50 minutes to get to BA.

Move, pause, move, pause, move, pause … death by paper cuts.

The couple and I were asking the flight attendants what we were to do if we missed our connection. “The agent at the door will be able to help you with everything,” the flight attendant assured us.

As soon as the door opened, the agent was there.

45 minutes.

“Hi!” we said, three voices as one. “We have tight connections here because our plane was late. What do we do if we miss them?”

She looked at us like we’d asked for a crab salad. Her furrowed brow immediately told us we were onto a loser, so we rushed past her to try and make it on our own.

I sprinted. Yes, sprinted, to passport control. Thank God the moving walkways were actually moving, but even still, it was like trying to propel a square-wheeled wagon through thick mud. How had I become this unfit? Other passengers instinctively moved aside, forewarned by the heavy panting of some mammoth creature approaching from behind.

“ALPHAAA!!!” (‘28 Years Later’ reference.)

I got through Global Entry in a trice, then it was down to baggage claim. My eyes barely left the face of my watch, as I hoped from foot to foot at Carousel 9 (naturally – the absolute furthest away), silently pleading the light to start flashing, indicating movement.

15 minutes to get to BA.

Suddenly, the machinery sprung to life. My bag wasn’t the first, second, or third, but it was the fourth, and I grabbed it like a woman possessed. Next came the game of Frogger, bobbing and weaving through wheelchairs, strollers, and families towing multiple bags, in order to get to the customs exit.

10 minutes to get to BA.

Most of you probably know that once you get out, you either have to wait a lifetime for the lifts, or you take this circular ramp going down to the arrivals area. I had to take the ramp – no time to waste – which took core strength to keep control of the rolling suitcases. Once at the bottom, I flew through the glass doors, yelled “EXCUSE ME!” as I barged past waiting well-wishers, and took the escalator to the ticketing concourses.

5 minutes to get to BA.

As I approached the desk, with – I am not exaggerating – three minutes to go, I was practically in tears. The agent at the desk, sensing a woman on the edge, said, “Don’t worry, you’ve made it.”

They took my bag, sent me to the gate (no lounges for Vicki), and about 15 minutes later, I was boarding.

Whew. I had done it. The worst part was over.

Ha!

On the Tuesday, I stood by the baggage carousel in Heathrow for an hour, along with five other concerned-looking souls, until it was made clear that our bags were not showing up.

The woman at customer service said not to worry, they would deliver it to my address. Like they were doing me a favour.

I went to get my rental car, and was told it had 18 miles of petrol left in it, but not to worry – I could just return it with the same amount left. But they recommended I get to a fuel station ASAP.

Did they not have another vehicle I could rent instead? Yes, they had two others in the same class, but they had even less petrol in them. What were customers supposed to do? Push them to the nearest pump?

And by the way, that ‘return-it-with-the-same-amount’ thing drives me crackers. How do I gauge putting enough in that I return it with 1/32 of a tank full and no more? These people are raking it in.

Over the next four days, I called British Airways and the courier company hired by the airline to return lost bags, both of whom kept giving me different information. It had been picked up at Heathrow on the Wednesday, then returned, then put on a flight to Manchester… Because my parents’ house was more than 75 miles outside London, a whole lot of extra delays kicked in.

BA would tell me that it was out of their hands and an issue with the courier company, as I screamed down the phone (with my arm firmly planted at my side, as I was on day three of wearing the same clothes) that they were the ones that had hired said company!

On day four, I buckled and went into the small town nearby to see if I could get any clothes. Tesco seemed to be fashion central, and I had a choice between some spangly, sequined festive numbers, or jeans and tops. I got a pair of jeans that I thought I’d be swimming in. Got them back to my hotel, couldn’t get them up past my impressive derriere.

The ghastly olive green jumper that made me look like I was in the Territorial Army, unfortunately fit just fine. I was so grateful for something different, I really didn’t care, although it smarted when in both Lidl and Waitrose, I was asked by customers if I worked there.

I finally got my bag delivered on the Friday at 9:30pm, after lots of phone calls, providing reference numbers, and monotone apologies from countless representatives.

It was scratched, dented, and a wheel had been ripped off.

Happy &^%$#@ Holidays.