You would think that flying into a city that had been hit by a Category 4 hurricane would be the first topic of travel conversation this week.
But nooooo.
My full wrath falls on Delta Airlines this week, as they once again gave me the privilege of spending a night in another airport.
OK, before my aneurysm over Delta, other details.
I flew through Charlotte on the way to Tampa last Saturday, and from the air, all I could see was lots of lowland flooding from the storm. There were plenty of buildings that had water where water wasn’t supposed to be, but the enormous damage that has laid western North Carolina to waste was not as evident in the Charlotte area.
I have a friend who works for Borg-Warner and lives in Asheville, which has been in the news plenty as one of the hardest-hit cities. No one had heard from him for a couple days, but he and his family were OK. They have evacuated to northern Georgia.
I know everyone affected by that huge storm needs our prayers.
I got to Tampa, and the storm had been there as well. The hotel we were supposed to be staying at was closed because of all the water in the lobby, and I talked to several folks with the Buccaneers team that had been impacted in one way or another. The storm surge was very bad, and south of Tampa there was lots more damage, and of course going north it just got worse.
But the NFL can’t be stopped.
Things were back to normal enough that the game could be played on Sunday, and even with brutal heat and even more brutal humidity, the game went on.
My adventures were just starting.
I had plenty of time to wait at the Tampa airport. I had a 6:30 flight to Atlanta and then a 10:46 connection to Indy. Plenty of time to make both flights.
But, if they don’t send a plane to take you to Atlanta, things get out of whack.
My 6:30 just kept pushing back. Delta was teasing me with 25/30-minute delays. All was OK for a while as there was built in time.
Until the delay got to 9 o’clock.
That meant arriving in Atlanta at about 10:30 and there is no way to get to another concourse in 15 minutes in that gigantic place.
But there was little to do, because as Sunday was fading away, there were no other options for me to get to Indy except to wait for Monday morning.
We finally left Tampa at 9, and the pilots hit the accelerator, and got us on the ground at 10:15.
It was six minutes to taxi and park (nearly a record at Atlanta) and I was off the plane at 10:21.
Was there maybe a chance?
My Delta app said I was boarding at Gate A13, and of course, I was at E10, which was as far from A anything as possible.
But, hope springs eternal.
I got to the Plane Train, and it got me to the A concourse at 10:39. If they were just a couple minutes slow in boarding, I was going to make it …
I walked past A9, and then A11, and the next gate was A15.
There was NO A13!
But there it was on my boarding pass, on my Delta app.
A Delta person just happened to be walking by, so I stopped her to ask what was up.
She said, “there is no A13 ...”
I already could see that, but I thanked her for her help.
Now it was 10:43, and I knew that my goose was cooked.
I walked back to find a set of screens, and that screen said my flight had just departed from gate B21.
If my Delta app had updated me, I would have made it …
Grrrrrr.
So, I pulled up a chair and figured I would have to call Fox Emergency Travel for help, but then I got not one, but two texts from Delta.
The first one said they were sorry for the delay, and that they had already booked me for the 8:30 flight to Indy on Monday morning.
OK fine …
The second one said “Congratulations! On Oct. 1, you will celebrate 30 years as a member of our Sky Miles Club.”
I was beyond happy at that point. What an anniversary present.
I sent a few angry texts to every Delta website and place where I could type something, and by some strange happenstance, I got a reply from one, and it was a real person.
Her name was Sophia, and she laid another apology on. I asked her if maybe she could text me a voucher so I could get a sandwich or bottle of water, and she said she could not do that, but that I should go find one of the assistance desks scattered around the airport.
There happened to be one just 100 feet away, so I thought what the heck.
A 20-minute stand in line got me to a lady who had been facing stranded fliers all day and probably wanted to go home.
She told me to scan a QR code on a cardboard poster next to her. I stepped aside and scanned it.
Nothing.
I scanned it again.
Nothing.
I told the lady that nothing had happened. Normally when you scan a QR code, something happens in your phone. You get directed to something or somewhere.
She said, “you must have done something wrong.”
I said, “yes I did – I came over here.”
I walked away and found a seat for my seven-hour wait.
Sleeping in airports is nothing new, so I just charged up my phone and found a seat where I could lean up against a post. I caught a few winks, and soon it was 7 a.m. and time to get on a plane.
I’m off to San Francisco this weekend. I even get to connect through Chicago on Saturday.
But it’s not on Delta this week. I punishing them for their behavior.
I’m sure they will miss me.
Safe travels.
Jeff Nelson is a frequent contributor to the Journal Review and works professionally for Fox Sports working with the Indiana Pacers, Indianapolis Colts and many more professional teams.
