Luigi Pirandello . . patron saint of travelers*


Delta . . . ready when they are, or not

So the car arrives at the hotel, precisely on time. That has to be a first for Italy, and I take it as a good omen.

Not only that, but we arrive at Terminal 5 at Fiumicino (only us foreigners call it DaVinci) exactly three hours and three minutes ahead of flight time - as prescribed.

Mr. Murphy - the guy who wrote Murphy's Law - has been subdued.

Not so fast, grasshopper . . .

"There is a slight complication," says the man at the Delta counter.

"How slight?"

"You have been erased from the computer system. You are not in Italy."

"I'm standing right in front of you."

"The system says you did not make your flight."

"I have confirmed and assigned seats."

"Maybe. But you do not exist. And the flight, she is overbooked by thirty people..."

Sixty minutes of Italian and English discussion follow. Very nice, very polite, but . . . unable to actually get me to home. Finally, he steers me to a Delta Elite agent with the power to fix the situation - not by overriding the computer (for that he would have to be able to make the dead walk), but by arranging another flight on a different airline.

Which is leaving in forty-five minutes . . .

Difficult in most airports when security and customs are between you and the gate, but even harder here, where you have to catch a bus from Terminal 5 to get to the terminal where the plane actually departs . . .

Murphy** does his best, but I get to the gate only five minutes late . . . which in Italy is like being fifteen minutes early.

I'm in. The plane takes off. They're charging for booze, and the selection is slim, but at least we're heading in the right direction.

Which, um, is Philadelphia, not New York. Not a major problem, except that I arranged for a car to meet me at JFK around 3:30, the time the original flight was supposed to land. My friend, Mr. Elite, has arranged for a Delta flight to JFK, but it's going to arrive around 5:30.

There's a sat phone in the plane. Can I call the States with it?

Sure . . . but how much will it cost?

Hahaha, the instructions say only, "swipe your credit card." They don't even hint at how much it costs.

Not a good sign, but I use it anyway, and call my buddy Al at All Points Limo to explain the situation. Only problem is that Al's not around, and I have to leave a message. Hope his answering machine is working today . . .

The flight's fine, and we get into Philly a few minutes early. I have a bit over an hour and a half to make the connection . . . child's play at most airports, especially at a (relatively) compact one like Philadelphia, except - oops, at Philadelphia when you arrive, you have to clear customs before you transfer to your next plane (to be fair, that's the way it's done in most - many? all? - U.S. airports). You have to retrieve your baggage first, then go back through security.

Murphy is working overtime today; doesn't look like jet lag's affected him at all . . .

My bag is one of the last ones off the plane, but I look like an honest chap and whip through Customs, hustle to the U.S. Airways desk where they're supposed to take my bag and send it through while I go to the gate. Except they claim they've never heard of the airline I'm taking to NY . . .

Never heard of Delta Airlines?

I head through the terminal, get wrong directions, get right directions, get stopped by a pompous security jerk who doesn't know which way is north, get to the right place five minutes before the deadline. Knowing it's tight, I ask someone for help . . .

"Sorry, sir, I can't handle that."

"You can't check me in?"

"Afraid not."

"You just did it for that person there."

"You'll have to get on line."

"But --"

I get on line . . . make the counter about three minutes after the deadline . . . where the clerk says I'm going to walk home.

On his back, maybe.

There's no way to get to that flight . . . which hasn't boarded and is just down the hall, and oh by the way, is the last Delta to NYC until tomorrow...

More discussion follows. There's no Italian involved, and even the Anglo-Saxon is under control. I convince him to get his supervisor, who finds another flight on a different airline, leaving in an hour...***

I get bumped from that flight, too, but at least there are seats.

Get into JFK, today is turning into tomorrow . . . and there's Al's driver, smiling and waiting. She even spelled my last name right on her cardboard sign.

Thanks, guys. It's good to be home.


* - The photo and caption only work if you've seen a Pirandello play, like "Six travelers in search of an airplane," but what the hell...
The photo is at Rome's Theater Museum, which occupies a corner of the Italian equivalent of the Authors Guildnot too far from the Pantheon. I didn't realize stopping in the day before leaving for home would jinx me...


** You know Murphy -- the guy who wrote the law dictating that whatever can go wrong, will go wrong, but only at the worst possible moment . . .

***I'd like to thank the Delta people in Rome and Philadelphia for finding a solution. The computer, on the other hand . . .