Rolling Traveler

This week’s anecdote picks up from last week’s.

 By the time the plane landed at Gatwick, I had composed several letters of complaint to British Airways, Euro Atlantic, and the management of Tampa International Airport, each more venomous than the last. To say I was annoyed is an understatement. Tired, sore, cramped and in need of a toilet, shower and bed, all I wanted was to be off the plane and on my way. That I had another flight to catch in 4 hours was not improving my mood any.

 As usual, I sat and waited as the rest of the passengers got off the plane. The people who’d been sitting around me and had offered to help said goodbye, and repeated how shocked they were by the whole thing, in tones ranging from sympathetic to rabble-rousing. I would find out later that some of them would lodge complaints on my behalf. Once they were all gone, I waited for the assistance crew to arrive and get me off the plane.

 And waited. And waited.

 The crew were eying me nervously, clearly convinced that I would explode and start hurling things at them. Cups and blankets would’ve been appropriate. I’d experienced delays with the assistance crews coming out before at Gatwick, but this was getting on to being 25 minutes, with no explanation. The cleaning crew had already showed up by the time someone arrived. They got me into the aisle chair, strapped me in like Hannibal Lecter, and I was finally off that plane, and free to be on my way to… nowhere, apparently.

 Just outside the door, standing right where my wheelchair should be, was the ugliest airport chair I’d ever seen: a big, heavy, wide monstrosity with no main wheels, just four casters. It looked like a cross between a serving trolley and a director’s chair. I craned my neck to see if my zippy sporty little number was somehow hidden behind it, but no, this was it. They were transferring me into this thing that should have been in a museum.

 “So… are we  going to pick up my chair in baggage reclaim?” I asked.

 “Well,” said one of the guys, “the thing is, we… we haven’t actually been able to locate your wheelchair yet.”

 That took a moment to sink in. I managed a “What?” but my mind was reeling. Had the chair been put into the wrong plane? Was the chair even in Europe? Was it still on the tarmac in Tampa?

 “Oh, I’m sure it’ll turn up. It probably just got sent to a different baggage area by mistake. We just need to track it down.”

 By this stage, I was in the airport chair, and being wheeled up the ramp into the terminal. I’m a stubborn sort, so I don’t like being wheeled anywhere, but with this chair, I didn’t exactly have much choice. He wheeled me around a corner to a small seating area by a window overlooking the tarmac, stopped, and said: “So I’ll just leave you here and someone will be along to get you, all right?”

 “Wait, what?” I said, too late, as he was already off.

 “Just a couple of minutes!” he called back.

 The couple of minutes turned into 10, and 15, and I sat, trying not to think about the whole thing too much. I tried to tell myself that I’d been through worse in my life, and this was only an inconvenience by comparison. I tried not to dwell on my missing wheelchair, because thinking about it wouldn’t make it reappear. The minutes ticked by…

 A young lady in a BAA uniform came up. “Hi ya, how are you? Let’s get you moving, get your bags,” she said, and started pushing.

 “Has my wheelchair been found yet?” I asked, hopefully.

 “Um… not as such, not yet, but we’re sure it’s in the airport somewhere. We’ll have it back in no time at all.”

 ‘No time at all’ turned out to be another 3 hours spent sitting in a corner of baggage reclaim, going slowly insane with odd thoughts. Too tired to read, and too stressed out to make conversation with anyone, I just waited.  I made the decision that I would not freak out and scream at someone over this: I would be calm and rational. I did everything in my head to keep calm. I just needed to be patient.

My next flight was called and closed before my chair was wheeled up. It was slightly damp, but it was there, and it represented freedom.

 I never did find out where my chair was all that time. I made the appropriate complaints and was compensated with free flights. I got an apology, but no explanation. I can only imagine where it was. Being transferred to another plane, perhaps. Standing on the tarmac until someone noticed it and checked the tag. Borrowed for an impromptu race. It was lost.

Maybe it went to an island somewhere off the charts.

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