It all started with approximately 400 pounds of luggage and a serious mistake on my part. I didn't alert the American Airlines agent to the fact that my ultimate destination was Maputo, thus, my five bags were only checked through to Johannesburg. I had no idea what kind of havoc this would wreak.
My flight to London was uneventful, aside from the fact that a fellow passenger freaked out and stormed the cockpit prior to our landing. Two Royal Air Force jets were called in for assistance, and she was arrested upon our arrival. Not sure if it was the after-effects of Ambien, the book I was reading (Bloodroot by Amy Greene - highly recommend!), or the fact that I didn't get upgraded and was seated at the back of the plane, but I was completely oblivious to any commotion.
There was no such drama on my British Airways flight to Johannesburg, aside from a one-hour delay at takeoff. This was a source of concern, since the connection was tight and I knew that I would have to collect my luggage, go through customs, and re-check everything/pay the overage. Losing 60 minutes was going to hurt!
Tapping my foot anxiously while waiting at the baggage carousel in Joburg, I realized that there was no way all of my luggage would fit on one cart...and there was not a porter in sight. I heaved my bags onto two carts, and attempted to move the second cart by pushing it with the first one. It took every bit of my strength and effort to move this unwieldy contraption ten feet. I was screwed.
But do not underestimate the power of a woman who hasn't seen her husband in over five months! I shoved this mountain from one end of the airport to the other, my body at a 75 degree angle the entire time as my cute new wedge sandals (with their wildly impractical 4-inch heels) were rubbing blisters on my feet, perspiration pasted my Gaultier T-shirt to my torso, and mascara flowed down my cheeks. It was during this time that I discovered a harsh truth in life: Nobody wants to help a sweaty mess. People were gawking, laughing, and members of an Asian tour group actually stopped to take photos of me. It was awful.
I finally found someone to help me when I got to customs. It took two grown men to move my bags about 25 feet while I stood in line to get my luggage weighed. I then stood in another line for a weight receipt. Stood in a third line to pay the overage charges. Stood in a fourth line to get a boarding pass/claim checks for my bags. And was directed to a fifth line for yet another piece of documentation with an undisclosed purpose. At that point, I whimpered to the agent, "I'm going to miss my flight, right?" He looked up at me, thrust some paperwork in my hand, and said, "Run!"
I hobbled down the terminal, passing departure signs indicating that my flight had already closed. I decided to go to the gate anyway to find out when the next plane was scheduled to leave. Unbelievably, I was allowed to board the plane as it was waiting on the tarmac.
Fifty minutes later, I arrived in Maputo, anxiously trying to catch a glimpse of Doug while standing in line to show my I-have-been-vaccinated-for-yellow-fever card. He had managed to meet me at baggage claim the first time I came to Mozambique, and I assumed he would do the same this trip, too.
Not the case this time around. I got my luggage - no Doug. I go through customs - no Doug. I find two men to wheel my luggage to the street - no Doug. It's hot, I'm exhausted, and the two porters are now wanting to leave. One starts hassling me for a tip, and I don't have any money, aside from the $10K in the bottom of my carry-on...and I know better than to pull that out.
I call Doug's cell and get a "this is not a working number" message - and I have no other way to reach him. I remembered that I had one of his business associate's cards in my wallet, so I call her. Isabel answers and I babble, "I'm at the airport, Doug isn't here, I don't have any money, I don't know what to do!" She must have heard the panic in my voice, so she told me, "Don't move. I'm coming." At that point, one of the porters gestures to something leaking from one of my suitcases. I collapsed on the curb and fought back tears.
About 20 minutes later, Doug arrived and begin apologizing profusely for his tardiness - crisis at the office, traffic jam, blah, blah, blah. I was too numb to even respond.
I'm hoping it was merely a coincidence, but "The Bitch is Back" by Elton John was playing on his iTouch when I crawled into the car. So much for a romantic reunion. It can only get better from here!
No comments:
Post a Comment