Dear American Airlines

Several years back Jonathon Miles wrote a wonderful book titled Dear American Airlines, essentially a long screed that showcased the frustration of a stranded traveler who eventually misses his daughter’s wedding.


Here is my version.

Dear American Airlines,

Saturday, October 13, 2012, 3:00 p.m.

I am sitting in the departure lounge waiting for the 3:40 p.m. flight to Los Angeles. I am happy to be on this flight as my business in Miami ended early and I was able to move my reservation from a flight leaving at 6:10 p.m. Cost me $75.00, but the prospect of getting home three hours earlier was compensation enough.

I turn around and see that the flight has been delayed until 4:15 p.m. A mild ripple in the universe, to be certain, but not earth shattering. I turn around a few minutes later and see that the delay has been changed to 4:10 p.m. Good news. At 3:20 p.m., with the natives getting restless, the gate agent makes her first announcement. We are being delayed due to a mechanical problem. Grumbles, moans, and few exasperated sighs.

Forty minutes later, at 4:00 p.m., I approach the gate agent and ask if there has been any further news. She says no. I tell her that the people in the departure lounge are beginning to do more than grumble, and that anxiety is caused by powerlessness. I suggest that she make an announcement that first said nothing had changed in our situation and that she would keep us posted. She agreed. I no sooner step away from the podium when she picks up the mic and announces that that the mechanical problem had not yet be solved and she would update us again between 4:45 and 5:00 p.m. I pull a U-turn and head back to the podium and ask her what that would mean for my connection in Los Angeles. She reports that I will miss it but she will book me on the flight leaving at 10:30 p.m. My original connection. I ask her to put me back on my original flight and she does.



Saturday, October 13, 2012, 4:15 p.m.

I nod to the gatekeeper at the Admiral’s Club who waves me in for my second visit of the day. I approach the customer service desk and ask that my $75.00 be refunded. Linda begins to type into the keyboard and soon is asking for help and assistance. She has hit more keystrokes that it took to write Windows 8. She slips me a drink ticket and tells me to chill and see her before I leave.

OK, now a word about the Admiral’s Lounge. I would say it’s more of a Petty Officer’s Mess than an Admiral’s Lounge. There is a bit of what I can only describe as a sort of pretzel kibble on offer alongside unwrapped cookies. With hundreds of cases of spinal meningitis these cookies are suddenly quite unappealing. And, in this regard I do admit to be a hard marker; the only single malts available are (surprise!) Glenlivet 12 and Glenfiddich 12, only one of which is barely drinkable. My expectations of arriving home early dismissed, I text Mrs. T. with the news.



Saturday, October 13, 2012, 5:30 p.m.

I retrieve the credit card, my receipt, wave to the gatekeeper and head down the escalator to the departure lounge. My gate is directly under the Admiral’s Club and I see our aircraft. A solid stream of liquid is pouring out of the airplane just behind the nose. Thinking this can’t be good I arrive in the departure lounge in time to hear “We are taking the aircraft out of service. This flight has been cancelled.”

By the way, the 3:40 p.m. flight still has not left.



Saturday, October 13, 2012, 5:32 p.m.

I am back at the Admiral’s Lounge, waving again to my new best friend, and queue up. I am beginning to delaminate, but hold it in reasonable check. Meanwhile I am thinking to myself, “Do these fuckheads have any working aircraft in the fleet?”

I hand the customer service representative my ticket with one instruction. “Get me out of here and home tonight.” She books me on three different flights and gives me the news that my chances of making the 10:30 p.m. LAX flight are slim. Nothing is available through Dallas. Chicago, the scene of Dear American Airlines by the way, not an option.



Saturday, October 13, 6:20 p.m.

Announcement: Flight 231 will take off at 7:30 p.m. from gate B44, far enough away from B15 to require a trip on the Skylink train.



Saturday, October 13, 7:45 p.m.

We take off. In the old days, the flight crew would have apologized for the delay and offered everyone a free drink. These are the old days. You want something other than a soda, water, tea or coffee and you’re paying for it. People used to laugh that Southwest only gave away peanuts. You don’t get peanuts on American Airlines. In fact, you better have your own earphones if you want to watch the movie.



Saturday, October 13, 10:18 p.m.

We land and a customer service rep meets the aircraft and directs me to Gate 44 to catch the shuttle for my connection. I run to the gate, fly down two flights of stairs and the gate agent tells me that my flight is closed. It hasn’t left, mind you. It’s just closed. I make the point that I will soon be joined by a number of other people in the same boat. See the customer service rep is her dour advice.

I walk back to the gate, now fuming a bit and sure enough a number of my fellow San Diego travelling companions have learned that our flight had been closed. This probably the only fucking flight that left on time at American that day. She directs us to the customer service desk at gate 42B.

We trudge down to 42 B to encounter a long queue, getting longer by the minute, and one (1, uno, ONE, une as in the loneliest number) customer service representative. She displays a distinct lack of a sense of urgency. People ahead of me in line say that is taking her about 30 minutes per person to resolve any issue. I pull out my phone and call American Airlines only to be told there is nothing that can be down. Finally, a wee African-American girl in her early twenties marches to the front of the line and asks “Can you please give us an idea on how long this will take? And why aren’t there other people here?” The smiling CSR says that she has called for support but nothing has happened.



Saturday, October 13, 2012, 11:00 p.m.

As if by magic four other customer service reps descend and the pace picks up. When it is my turn I walk up to the desk. “You were late getting in from Miami,” are among the first words my Customer Service Representative utters. I go, as my Scottish mates would say, a bit mental. “No, I was on time. I was on time for two flights. I was four hours early. YOU were late!”

To which her answer was “I didn’t fly the plane, sir.”

And that, my friends, sums up the entire American Airlines experience. She didn’t care about me, the customer, and she is doing her job like a robot. Not once during these delays did we receive an apology. No one said they were sorry, no one tried to attempt a customer service recovery after a number of customer service failures, and no one seemed to be passionate about doing their jobs. In fact, I had the distinct impression that a lot of what I experienced on Saturday was intentional.

After confirming my flight out the next morning and handing me a hotel voucher and two meal vouchers, I stumble out to the curb and catch the shuttle to the Crown Pointe Hotel only to find…



Saturday, October 13, 2012, 11:25 p.m.

…that Miss Warm and Fuzzy has not given me a boarding pass. This means I have to print one out, never an easy thing on the bulky, customer-unfriendly site, where it takes multiple pages to even get to the check-in screen. I had to call Customer relations twice because my reservation hadn’t shown up in the system.



Sunday, October 14, 2012, 6:40 a.m.


We leave for San Diego.