News from Camp Jeff

The Trip into Hell and Back

Report from Camp Jeff

After you read this, if you fly on Mexicana Air, you are a fool.

Stacy,Dan, Grace & Eli picked my wife, Maria, and I up at our condo on the East Side of Milwaukee at approximately 6:00 pm on the afternoon of February 12, 2010. Our plan was to go to Chicago and spend the night at a hotel, so we would be able to easily get to Chicago O'Hare's International airport for our Saturday 10:20 am departure to Akumal, Mexico via Cancun.

After having dinner in route, at the Chancery Restaurant in Pleasant Prairie, we easily found our hotel, The Renaissance Inn and restlessly watched the Winter Olympics on TV. The room was a bit small for the six of us, but it was clean and well located. Most of all, it offered free parking while we were gone and a shuttle service to and from the airport. As planned, we were shuttled out to O'Hare International, arriving at the International Terminal at 6:30 am on Saturday morning. We came to see a terribly long line of travelers at the Mexicana Airline desk. After some discussion with our line-mates, it became apparent that two groups were attempting to fly out—one group on the 8:20 flight and another on our flight at 10:20.

The line moved agonizingly slow. I found a bench and set up what went from being a joke to a focal point, "Camp Jeff." In about an hour, we got to the front of the line, but instead of giving us boarding passes, we were shunted into a gaggle of about twenty-five to thirty people. Conversation with our fellow travelers produced rumors of problems. Was the flight overbooked? They canceled the 10:20 flight? After a lot of confusion and the efforts of individual people trying to get information and mediate their own circumstances, an official from the airlines admitted that both rumors were true. They had canceled the 10:20 flight the afternoon before (he was so sorry some of us had not been informed in advance) and that the 8:20 flight was full and closed. We were going nowhere close to Mexico that morning.

The desk people seemed less informed than the passengers, and when things got a little tense, as things tend to get when people feel ignored and cheated, their tactic was to go behind the counter into a private office and pretend they were doing something productive.

Let me take a break from this drama and add a personal note. I am, and I freely admit this, a coffee snob. Not only do I like my coffee in the morning, but I like premium coffee well prepared and some relative peace and quiet to enjoy and savor. It is now 9:00 am. I've been up since 5:30, and I've turned down two opportunities for coffee because they weren't good enough quality for my delicate palate. My need for taste and quality is sliding into a bare-faced need for caffeine, the other side of the addiction, that element of the addiction that I don't want to talk about. Let's just say that my lack of this indulgence is raising the tension level at Camp Jeff.

Moving on, the conversation around the booking desk is getting louder and more heated. People argue and try to cajole the agent. The agent runs back into the office and hides. Soon another agent with another story comes out to confront what is turning into an angry mob. For, and this is an exciting element, the passengers are becoming bonded. They have had time to share their individual stories, and sympathy is spreading amongst this gang like a virus. If not one for all and all for one, it's at least at the level of us against them. Adam, one of our new best friends, is vocal and brusk with the airline reps. Stacy, my daughter, is reasonable and understanding but persistent. Neither seems to be getting anywhere. We don't care if it's the older gentleman, who looks like he's in charge, but no one behind the desk listens to him or the young lady agent who looks like she just came from a Catholic high school class. We hate them.

Passengers were suggesting that Mexicana should be contacting other airlines. They were assuring us that they had thought of that, but nothing was available. All flights were full. Now, this is reasonable to believe. Most rentals in the area of Cancun run from Saturday to Saturday, so it is the busiest time to fly to Cancun. But the rumor spreads that someone has Black-berried the issue and found that United and American have seats. The other part of the confusion comes as one agent tells people the departure time for a flight, and then the other gives them the boarding time, which in most cases is a half-hour to forty-five minutes before the departure time. Initial conversation amongst the gang spreads the fear that these people are just making it up, and no one knows who to believe.

I settle for the airport coffee, which I overloaded with milk to counter the coffee-left-on-the-heater-to-long taste. Given that it takes a while for the coffee to do its magic, things are a little better in Camp Jeff.

As I put my nose to the glass and watch, it is clear to me that the airline personnel is totally unprepared for this crisis. They have no knowledge and, therefore, no plan. Each agent is on their own, and they scramble as individuals to solve the problem in front of them. I think it was the retreats to the backroom that finally gave the scene structure. I think they got together and said, 'We aren't getting anywhere here. What is the best plan? And returning to the front better armed, they slowly worked through booking people on the flights leaving the next day, Sunday, at 1:50 am and 8:20 am.

Stacy was wise. She had initially booked us with this airline because it was a direct flight. We now had to change planes in Mexico City. She reasoned the if we were overbooked on the 1:50 flight, they would almost be compelled to get us on the 8:20. The tension arose when we contemplated making the connecting flight in Mexico City.

Stacy proudly comes from the podium with seat assignments and boarding passes on the 1:50 flight. Not only that, she has a room at a hotel and meal vouchers. We call the motel and, in a fairly reasonable time, we are shuttled and checked in. It was a little disturbing and certainly added to the tension when the desk clerk at the hotel let it slip that this was not an uncommon occurrence with Mexicana.

We are a resilient group, and we all realize the after we've vented our anger, the best thing to do is to rally, if for no other reason than to entertain the kids. No one has slept well the night before. We use our meal vouchers for a lovely brunch at "Tiffiny's," a family restaurant across the parking lot from our hotel. We have two rooms, so everyone has a chance to nap, shower, and regroup.

We kill time by watching TV. Dan, my son-in-law, takes the kids down to the hot tub. We order Pizza for dinner and begin to shape up for the shuttle back to the airport. We decide that midnight is good enough because we already have boarding passes. When we arrive at the airport, there is a relatively long line for the counter, and we still have to check our bags. We get our first and, as it turns out, our only break. Stacy busts to the front of the line and asks a gate agent if we have to wait in line, or is there a particular line for those of us with boarding passes? She tells Stacy that she can bring our luggage up front, and she will check us in next. Minutes later, we are on our way to the TSA and the gate for our 1:50 flight. We are gun shy, but the feeling is jubilant. We are on our way. Inline to clear security, we reunite with some of our new friends. Adam is there; the young couple, who might be honeymooning, and the two ladies from Chicago are all in line looking at the front of it as if any minute bad news would delay us again.

The coffee shop is open, but I can't take liquids through security anyway, so...

I always get pulled aside for one to one search in airport security. I have a condition that requires me to wear a supporting boot. I can't take off my shoes. In addition, I use a cane for assistance. So I expect to be pulled out of line, have my boots whipped and analyzed, and have a full-body, arms spread, wand up and down my crotch search. This opportunity is no different until I get to the point where I retrieve my luggage. My wife has pulled most of it, but they are holding my monopod. As I said, I use a cane for support, particularly on stairs and uneven ground. I reasoned that I would use my monopod for my anticipated camera work on vacation; why carry that and my cane? I can use my monopod as a cane, right? Not according to the TSA. My monopod is a potential club and, therefore, a weapon.

Now here's the thing, If in my decaffeinated state of mind, what with all of the crap we went through at the counter with Mexicana Air personnel, I didn't use my monopod as a club, why would they think I would now? Nonetheless, I was given the option of taking the "club" back to the counter and checking it with my luggage or surrendering to the former marine, cum TSA grunt, standing before me. I told him, "It's yours's" and limped down to the gate area.

Pause here. I still have had only about 8 OZ. of bad coffee. Style over substance is beginning to get into the back seat. But I'll be on the plane soon, and regardless of how little they feed you on a plane these days, there is always coffee, right?

Boarding time begins. Without my monopod to put me firmly into the role of one of those who needs more time to board, we wait our turn and get on the plane. Strangely, we do not celebrate, nor do the others. We are on the plane, but it has not taken off. Certainly, it will, but...

WARNING! This is the part of the story where it gets really bad.

Sitting in our seats, we are waiting for the door to close and feel that faint rocking motion as the push back begins. Good feelings start to slide into our consciousness. If this plane gets to Mexico City on time and we make our connecting flight to Cancun, we could be having a late lunch in Akumal.

It was like the feeling you get when you are backed into by a car in front of you in traffic. That solid crunch, where you just know that the headlight assembly will be laying on the ground in pieces, and the grill will have the other guy's emblem stamped on the shiny parts. The plane suddenly and violently lurches back a couple of feet and then forward to the original position. Some of us scream, Some just cry out in surprise. And then no one says anything. We wait like the little sardines in the can. We are all thinking the same thing, "I will never make my connection."

After what seems like an hour, but in reality, it was probably fifteen minutes. They announced that the plane would have to be inspected before they could take off. Then fifteen or so minutes later, they announced the mechanics were coming to fix the problem. Forty-five minutes later, they asked us to deplane but not take our luggage off as it would facilitate re-boarding. Our two-thirty departure and the excellent connection in Mexico City is now like the story that ends with a woman losing her virginity and the man promising to respect her in the morning. Lucy has once more and unbelievably convinced Charley that she will hold the football if he will only kick it.

Let me remind you that I still have not had a good cup of coffee in over twenty-four hours, and the 8 oz. I have had along with the caffeine is now in the Chicago sewage system.

No one ever complains. We are now entering the early stages of Stockholm syndrome. At 5:00 am, they start to re-board us. We are still waiting because the mechanics have not allowed us to proceed until they clear the aircraft. What happened is that the bar that runs from the ground crawler to the airplane, during the push back procedure, broke, and the crawler hit the plane.

We take off at 6:30 am. (Exactly twenty-four hours from the time we got to the airport yesterday.) The sun is coming up. I'm sure I can smell coffee brewing. They promise us they will arrange for connecting flights, and I want to believe all of that. But when I look up, all I see is Lucy holding the fucking football, and a come hither look in her eye.

They serve what appears to be actual food. It's burrito or crepe, depending on how drenched your portion is in a cheese and mushroom sauce. There is a muffin, no butter, no jam. There is a package of cookies. And a coffee cup... the size of the cap on my shaving cream. I manage to get them to serve me twice.

After some less than satisfying fitful sleep, where I dream of clubbing a faceless Mexicana Air employee with my monopod and trying to read "Quicksilver," a book weighs about three pounds and is as challenging to read as it is to pick up. We arrive in Mexico City. What is the difference between Chicago O'Hare and the airport in Mexico City besides the temperature? The three-letter abbreviation they use on the luggage tags. Both Aeropuertos are crowded. The planners assume everyone should know where they are going, and your connecting gate will be as far as possible from your arrival gate as can be managed. That is if you have a connecting flight.

(You knew this was coming, didn't you?)

An absolutely charming but clueless associate of the evil and demented Mexicana Air was assigned to us. We are eleven of the thirty or so that bonded hours ago in Chicago. She walks us through the airport. (Remember, TSA has my monopod) We are going to a gate where we will get boarding passes on the 2:15 pm flight. An official tells her that we can't pass through to the domestic flight area without immigration. Surprise to her. She doesn't know where immigration is. (I know, that bothered me also) We walk to the other side of the airport, and on the second try, we find immigration. She leaves us in line at Immigration, promising to meet us at the gate with boarding passes. We negotiate the long halls with their evil transparent walls to see how people outside the maze are enjoying their various beverages, like coffee, as they wait for flights that may or may not fly with people equally tense and angry. Still, they are sitting in their gate are and we...well, we are at a checkpoint that we can not pass without the FUCKING BOARDING PASSES. Let me report that when we convinced the non-English speaking gatekeeper to allow us to continue, and I believe if I had my monopod... well, let's just say that maybe that TSA agent did save more than one life. We arrived at gate fifteen, and we were given the sacred boarding passes. But our gate isn't fifteen,  but that gate is right there and would be far too easy to find. We need to go to the gate that approaches the last step to the moon.

But first, we sit. By this time, everyone at the party was sick and tired of waiting for me, and yet we have this camaraderie that won't let them leave me behind. So we got Raymond, the wheelchair guy. Raymond is a cool guy who has two jobs. His first and most apparent duty is to push a wheelchair for gimps like me so that the rest of the party don't have to wait. They loved him. I liked him. His second purpose was to make sure we sat in the food court and purchased food from his recommended list of purveyors. But he was a sharp guy, and it was he that alerted us to the fact that the flight we were on was leaving early. Unbelievably the time of our flight was changed in the hour we had received our boarding passes. We run to the gate...well, I rolled, Raymond ran.

We get to the gate, get on the plane, take off, and arrive in Cancun. After picking up our luggage, clearing customs, and following our Hertz guy to the curb where the bus will pick us up, we slowly realize that we are out of the grips of Mexicana Air and close to our eventual destination Akumal. (Time 6:30 Pm Sunday, 36 hours from the time we arrived at O'Hare yesterday and 24 hours later than our original arrival time) What lingers in my mind, and I'm sure the others are, "Shit! We have to go home with them". As we speed down the highway to Akumal, I thought about that pound of ground Alterra coffee in my bag. First things first.

Next time: Just when you thought it couldn't get worse...