Holidays are supposed to be relaxing, but no matter how well you plan them, something is bound to go wrong. I don’t want to sound pessimistic, but that’s been the case for me ever since I can remember. It goes way back — a trip to Baguio: getting a flat tire. A trip to Ilocos: missing the plane because of a storm. A trip to Palawan: running out of money. A trip to Boracay: falling off a bike and suffering major bruises (though it hurt my pride more).
Strangely enough, all the trips I’d taken out of the country went on without a hitch, and this led me to believe that the curse had been broken. I cruised through China, Hong Kong, and Jordan without any major problems. Then, I took a trip to France.
Disaster 1: You will almost be late for your plane.
My father, who gives meaning to the word “dilly dally”, was to drop me off at the airport. He took his sweet time getting dressed, walking around, making a sandwich, while I tapped my foot, sighed loudly, and looked pointedly at my watch. Just as we were about to leave, it started to rain. Hard. It was June, the typhoon season. From our house in Quezon City to the international airport, the streets were flooded and traffic was terrible. I tried to listen to the radio while cursing the inventors all over the world for not having invented the flying cars yet. I bade a hasty goodbye to my parents, and hit the airport running like a madman towards the entrance.
Disaster 2: You will have the worst flight schedule ever.
I was working as a freelancer then. Which meant that I would paint a bit, earn a bit of money, and spend most of the days with my friends attending “meetings” (drinking, smoking, talking about anything) and inventing new recipes with canned tuna and instant noodles. It was a wonderful period in my life, where ideals were high and art was everywhere you looked; although there was considerable constraint when it came to extra-curricular activities that involved cash.
When I got my visa I knew that this would have to be a budget trip, with absolutely no splurging. I took the cheapest plane ticket possible. And you know what cheap plane fares mean — a lot of stopovers.
My itinerary was this: Manila to Abu Dhabi, Abu Dhabi to Doha, then Doha to Paris. I refuse to mention which airline I took, but I guess it’s pretty obvious by now.
Disaster 3: Your plane will not take off.
I had 2 hours to kill in Abu Dhabi until my next flight, so I wandered around the airport, and eventually purchased an overpriced Lonely Planet France. Then I boarded my plane for Doha. I was still reading my book and daydreaming about the Louvre when we landed. Apparently I didn’t have to switch planes; I only had a 30 minute wait before we took off again, this time for Paris. I checked my watch : it was midnight. Right on schedule.
Two hours later, the plane still hadn’t taken off. The stewardess kept on walking down the aisle, disappearing behind the curtain, conversing with her fellow mates in high-pitched voices, then coming out to assure us that this was simply a minor delay. A stab of fear settled at the bottom of my stomach, along with the terrible lamb sandwich I had eaten earlier.
Soon enough, the verdict came. The plane wouldn’t fly due to a slight malfunction. What malfunction was this, you may ask. “There is an essential plane part missing,” said the stewardess, in a tone that implied that this happened all the time. I sat back and mulled this over. Oh, ok…wait… missing? Essential?! How could we have possibly flown from Abu Dhabi to Qatar with an essential plane part missing?
Amidst the groaning and the swearing, we were brought to a hotel. If a plane can’t fly, a plane can’t fly. As I gathered my handcarry luggage, I took comfort in my delusions that everyone else, everywhere in the world, was experiencing the same rotten luck I was having at the moment.
Disaster 4: You will lose your overpriced book.
Yeah, and I left my overpriced Lonely Planet France in the plane.
Disaster 5: You will have to pay for your phone calls.
It was 3 a.m. when we arrived at the hotel. The staff apologized for the delay, telling us that we would be put on a plane to Paris by 9:30 the next morning, and that they would send a bus to fetch us. As I wouldn’t be at the Charles de Gaulle airport at the appointed time to meet my boyfriend, I walked up to the hotel concierge and asked him for an outside line to make an international call, and to charge it to the airline. He informed me that I would have to pay for the call myself. I told him that I had missed my flight, was hungry and tired, and all my plans had been botched up, so the least they could do to pay for this inconvenience was to give me a free phone call. The concierge apologized, sympathized with me, then told me that he could not do anything. I paid an exorbitant price for a phone call that I wouldn’t have made in the first place, if only airplanes would take off and land when they were supposed to.
Disaster 6: The airline will give you the wrong departure time.
At 6:30 the next morning we all congregated at the hotel lobby, chatting politely about how we had been unable to sleep and how we couldn’t wait to get going. By 8:30 we were restless (“Didn’t they say the plane would leave at 9:30?!” was the most popular sentence that morning) and then finally confronted the hotel concierge. We accosted him, really, to call our airline and figure this all out. After a brief phone call, the concierge gingerly put the phone down, stared at the 25 eager faces looking up at him, and broke the news: The plane would leave at 9:30 that evening.
All hell broke loose.
Disaster 7: Your airline will forget to rebook their passenger’s flights — all 25 of you.
Putting hours of watching Survivor to into good use, I tried to form an alliance with my fellow passengers. I demanded to be taken to the airport. The hotel management refused at first, but once I put on my best Exorcist look they immediately sent for a taxi cab. I arrived just in time to see the 9:30 am plane taxi down the runway and disappear into the clear blue skies towards Paris.
There was a flight for Paris that morning; they had just forgotten to rebook our flights, that’s all.
After numerous grand shouting matches with practically everyone from the airline office, my woes finally reached a sympathetic Airline Country Manager, who barked at his inept staff to get us out of Qatar. We were given a flight to London and from there, Paris. Then they tried to win me back by giving me special access to the First Class Lounge. My fellow passengers arrived shortly after (they, too, had demanded for taxis to the airport) and we spent the next few hours shooting dirty looks at the airline staff.
An Arab woman on her way to Disney World Paris with her two children smiled at me as we reclined comfortably in our seats, 12 hours behind our scheduled arrival, commending me for pulling a stunt like that to get us out of Doha. I told her respectfully, “Ma’am, sometimes you just can’t take No for an answer.”
