Usually, when I blog, I try to show some wit and/or
creativity in the title. In this case, however, I wanted anyone who saw the
link to know the central moral of the story, whether or not he or she clicked
through to read.
As I start this piece, it is Thursday, December 20, 1:54pm
Istanbul time. I sit with my partner and her parents in the food court at
Ataturk Airport, each of us ready to commit acts that would make Joffrey
Lannister reel. Istanbul itself has been amazing – we stayed at the Hotel
Sultania, which must have been trained in helpfulness by a crack unit of the
Red Cross, and I have seen historic wonders aplenty; Topkapi houses, amongst
other wonders, a sceptre containing a ruby the size of my fist. Literally that
big. I think that is the first time I have looked at something and have
immediately thought “nah… that doesn’t exist.”
But this leg of our journey drew to a close, and so our
chariot whisked us to the airport, ready to head to catch our 11:50am to Venice,
and further history. We had even booked a water taxi to retrieve us from Marco
Polo Airport, which strikes me as being less Venice and more Atlantis. But,
having negotiated the luggage and Customs formalities, things took a decidedly
arrogant and stupid turn. We got to our gate, and watched as snow fell around
the terminal. Not a snowstorm, just snow. Awww. We sat, as the time that
boarding was due to commence came and went. No cause for concern; the scheduled
boarding time was an hour before takeoff, which is usually a guide rather than
a timetable. A staff member checked our boarding passes and passports, and we
waited.
The usual “20 minute before takeoff” boarding time passed.
Takeoff time passed.
Usually, when a flight is cancelled, the lines are something
like this:
“Ladies and gentlemen, At Fault Airlines regrets to announce
that Flight six-oh-yours to Someplace has been cancelled. Passengers, please
make your way to the At Fault Airlines desk where arrangements will be made. We
apologise for the inconvenience.”
At Turkish Airlines, it is not “we regret to inform”, it is
“we neglect to inform”. One of our more vigilant co-travellers had checked the
departures board, to find that instead of the previous “Go To Gate” instruction
next to our flight number, there was now a single word, in red text, that
started with C. No announcement of any sort – Turkish had decided to engage the
communication system of “We’re Busy, You Figure It Out”. We made our way en
annoyed masse to the help desk, past the travelators that mocked us with their
only-toward-the-gates-not-the-other-way motion, and I noticed that before we
got to the desk, all details of the flight had vanished from the departures
boards. Not even the Cancelled entry remained… we had apparently booked tickets
on an UnFlight.
Now… the “help” desk. Unless I am underestimating the value
of an indifferent shrug, the greatest assistance that the staff at the help
desk could be is as spare parts. A note at this point: I am a firm believer
that the person who says “the customer is always right” is usually a tool.
However, I also try to live by the idea that “the person in front of you is a
person”. We were not people. We were, if the staff’s attitude was to be
believed, the physical embodiment of flat tyres, dropped-out phone calls and
full nappies. After enough of us had gathered, the Moustache in Charge told us
that we needed to head to the transit desk, which was left, left and down. This
list of directions was as useful as a recipe that says “add the stuff, then
heat it”. The group splintered, and we charged off in the wrong direction,
eventually wandering our way down a level. It beckoned from a distance; Turkish
Airlines Transit Desk. After some quick and terse discussions amongst the group
as to what did or didn’t constitute a queue, a decree was made from behind the
desk. No microphone, just a shout.
The other transit
desk.
We charge deeper into the bowels of Ataturk Airport,
eventually finding this third stop in our quest to get where we paid to go.
After something of an annoyed jostle, new boarding passes to the 4:30pm flight
are issued. The help desk, and transit desk #1 are both capable of printing out
boarding passes, by the way, but then as my lady’s father said, “if an army is
marching, it isn’t fighting”.
Heading back up from the transit section seems to be
trickier than we thought, as the automatic doors we came through have a certain
red-circle-with-a-white-dash symbol, proclaiming as loudly as Gandalf that We
Shall Not Pass… at least not in that direction. Because it wasn’t the airline’s
fault, I declined to point out that we had been through the metal detectors
twice at the airport already; once immediately after stepping in from the cold
(including sending suitcases through), and the second time after having our
passports checked. So, as we found that our only way back to the surface world
was through a third metal check, and I again took my belt off to avoid the
buzzer, I heard a voice much like my grandfather’s grumble in the back of my
head – “I tell you now, if I have to take this belt off one more time, I’m
smackin’ someone with it!”. I should point out that I never heard either of my
grandfathers say anything like that ever, but I choose to believe I wasn’t so
annoyed that I had developed another personality.
The next stage took me back to the “help” desk. As I had
picked up our new boarding passes, I had been told that a food voucher would be
provided, to cover the five our gap between original flight and planned
replacement. The rest of our party got off weary feet in the food court, and I
went to retrieve the promised Papers of Nourishment.
“Please sit there. Twenty minute.”
I sat there.
“Venice – where you fly in from?”
We had flown in from Hong Kong a few days ag-
“No – food only for transit today. Thank you.”
Apparently having been outside an airport that day
disqualified us from the Turkish Airlines Food Aid Program. I delivered this
news to the rest of our group, and then opened the computer to start this
piece.
We funded our own lunch, then headed to the advertised gate
for our new flight.
The scheduled boarding time passed.
The “20 minutes before takeoff” time passed.
Takeoff time passed.
After numerous checks to the nearest departures board, the
last one showed a shift – a gate change, to literally the other end of the
airport. We headed across, past our original gate for our original flight, and
down. Not to a gate that a plane could pull up to, but to a doorway where a bus
would park. The snow had not eased up at this point, although flights were
taking off through it… as would we, eventually.
The first PA announcement pertaining to our flight that was
made all day (remember, we had found out the previous information ourselves,
dragging it syllable by syllable from our captors) came at 5:10 pm, saying that
our flight was going to take off at 5:20pm. We had had to bite and scratch for
every drop of information, and the first piece that had been volunteered was
immediately obvious bullshit. This is like starving someone for a week and then
handing them a chiko roll. Five minutes later, this time was to be revised
vocally to 6pm, and then by screen data, stage by stage, until we finally
boarded the plane at 7:50pm, taking off (after refuelling) at 9pm. As we sat,
waiting to finally enter the sky, I recalled our arrival into Istanbul, and
seeing a sign for Turkish Airline’s frequent flyer program, “Miles and Smiles”.
The celebrity whose photo they had used in this massive banner was not smiling,
but then I guess calling the program “Miles and Facial Expressions Reminiscent
of a Doctor Delivering Bad News” doesn’t really scan. I had learned on that day
why she wasn’t grinning.
For details I won’t go into now, I believe that 90% of the
delay we experienced was due to financial reasons, not weather (to start, our
original flight was only half full), but what made the treatment we received go
from bad to unacceptable was the fact that it was delivered constantly with a
bored shrug and a turned shoulder… oh, and sandwiches at about 6:30, as one
Italian passenger threatened to be the spark that turned the whole thing into a
riot.
And so I say, reader, do not fly with Turkish Airlines. And
to the airline itself… Go To Hell. Go Directly To Hell. Do Not Pass Go, Do Not
Collect $200, or any of anyone’s hard-earned ever again.
