At the end of last week’s letter, I was on my way to Santa Barbara - a day late. It seemed that my original flight had been derailed (forgive the mixed metaphor) by a crew mutiny. (The crew decided that it would be better for 240 passengers to arrive a day late than it would be for them to spend a night in Halifax, Nova Scotia.)

Rather than simply rebooking me on the same flights a day later, United decided to challenge themselves. They vastly extended my stay in Washington and changed my intermediate stop from Los Angeles (where there are a lot of flights to Santa Barbara) to Denver (where there is one). I wouldn’t have booked a 22 minute Denver connection to the last flight of the day because I cared about getting home. United was not troubled by such mundane concerns.

Our on-time arrival (a day late) in Washington caught the immigration service by surprise. They dispatched a single officer to process the entire planeload. It didn’t matter to me, I had four hours to make my connection (in Washington). “At least,” I thought, “the baggage was ready when I got through immigration.”

After an unnecessary security check (we had been checked in Geneva), I was spit out into the decaying and moldy United Airlines concourse at the Dullest International Airport on the planet. The concourse had the cozy ambiance of 1970’s strip mall - without the shops. Clearly designed to foster boredom, the intra-gate area succeeded magnificently. There was nothing to do. The ‘restaurants’ didn’t even have tables.

It wasn’t all bad, there was a Dunkin’ Donut Kiosk. I balanced my donut on my briefcase as I watched 3 successive flights depart toward Denver. I thought of pressing my nose against the window in forlorn bemusement, but I was afraid that a microbe or two might dislodge itself from the festering film that was spreading across the glass. “It would be nice,” I thought, “if someone turned on the air conditioning.”

About to succumb to boredom-induced sensory deprivation, I numbly (and eventually) boarded a crowded 737 aimed at Denver. Naively, I took comfort in the knowledge that it left essentially on-time.

Aware of the steady degradation in airline service quality, I didn’t expect much in the way of nourishment. However, I understood the fee-based structure of the business, so I was sure that United would allow me to pay for a basic vitamin-free (mineral-free, protein-free) snack-pack.

“Credit cards only,” the flight attendant said.

“My wallet was stolen just before I left Geneva - a day ago. I don’t have a credit card.”

“I’m sorry to hear that sir. United Airlines is not to blame for your stolen wallet.”

“Of course not,” I replied. “The theft was well-planned. Thus, United had nothing to do with it.”
“No cash, credit cards only.”

“They won’t take money,” I thought. “That’s a first.”

The airplane flew around a cloud and landed a little late. The Denver Airport has a unique design: the runway is in Wyoming and the terminal building is in New Mexico. it took almost as long to taxi to the gate as it had taken to fly from Washington. (Part of the time was spent at a self-service gas pump where the pilot topped off the tanks for the remainder of our journey.)

As the airplane slowly lumbered toward the gate, I waited patiently. United Airlines was, I knew, aware of my limited connection time - because they had designed the (cursed) itinerary.

As I exited the airplane, a helpful customer service agent told me to ‘run’.

“And don’t worry, I will call them so they’ll hold the plane.”

Unfortunately, the Denver terminal was designed by the same architect that configured the runway and terminal. In short, actually in l-o-n-g, there was no easy way to get from my arrival gate (C-3) to my departure gate (Q-92,114). Surprisingly, United had prepared for the situation: agents lined the concourse handing out sponges and shouting encouragement. (They weren’t calling the gate to hold my flight.)

I arrived at the departure gate just as the airplane backed away.

“Why didn’t you call?” The gate agent asked as I collapsed into a heap of consternation.

“The agent at C-3 said he would call,” I wheezed.

“Not possible, that’s a long-distance call.”

“So what do I do now?” I asked.

“You should go to customer care.”

“There is no customer care,” I replied. “United doesn’t care.”

“It’s easy to find,” the clerk continued.

“..... I know, just look for a queue full of bedraggled, inconsolable, unhappy people.” I concluded.

“A long queue,” United’s agent agreed.

I eventually made it to the front of the line.

“That was the last flight of the day,” the customer careless clerk explained.

“I assumed so.”

“You shouldn’t have booked such a short connection time.”

“You booked it, not me. Which hotel have you chosen for me? And how do I get there?”

“The problem was caused by weather...”

“Weather?” I interrupted. “Could that be the cloud we flew around?” I thought.

“ ... so United has no responsibility.”

“United takes no responsibility?”

“That’s right. So.. no hotel. And by the way, the nearest room is in Colorado Springs.”

“That’s 100 miles away.”

“90 miles. Thank you for flying United.”

“I am not flying United. I’m waiting United.”

“And we appreciate your business.”

In a complete shock and breech of tradition, the agent’s analysis was accurate. I called Marriott, Hyatt, Hilton and hotels.com: there wasn’t a single empty hotel room within 50 miles of Denver.

I decided to rent a car and drive to the parking lot (which I hoped to find in the same time-zone as the terminal building). I planned to sleep in the backseat. Then I realized that, because of the theft, I had neither driver’s license nor credit card.

As a seasoned traveler, I took these setbacks calmly and philosophically; I called Nazy.

“This is the worst trip ever!” I exclaimed.

“Now Dan..”

And the evening and the morning was the second day

And, so, a special mid-week issue of The Weekly Letter ends with Dan still en route home. Will he make it to Santa Barbara in time for his anniversary? Will he really sleep at the airport? Find out in the conclusion of “United We Fall” coming soon on The Weekly Letter.

I wasn’t the only one sleeping at the airport