A scramble for reaccommodation

National Airlines went out of business the night before our flight so I called America West to find out in what way they, as advertised on their web site, were reaccommodating National passengers. The pleasant agent said she wasn’t exactly sure what the service fee would be and asked how much I paid for the ticket. “Fifty-five bucks,” I said. She said her ticket was priced at $117 so I would probably have to pay the difference. She made a reservation for me and said to arrive two hours early. She gave me the name and fax number to request a status match so I sent that off. I thanked her profusely for being friendly and helpful and then Hunnybear and I had a fine birthday dinner at Mastro’s and set the Bose WaveRadio CD for 6 a.m.

The next morning we met our taxi right on time and told the driver to take us to America West instead of National. “That’s our new airline,” I said. We zoomed to Terminal 1 and gave the driver a generous tip.

There was a moderate line for economy so we stood in it rather than try to talk our way into the First Class line. When we reached the front it turned out only one guy could process National reaccommodation so we waited another minute for him. I handed him our National e-ticket receipts and waited. After several trips to the back room, he took my Starwood American Express to pay for the tickets. He charged me the full $117 for each of us, explaining it had nothing to do with our National ticket and it was standby only. “How full is the flight,” I asked. He typed. “Actually, it’s pretty full.” I asked if he could put in our frequent-flyer numbers and perhaps make a note that we are getting comped to Gold so we could get a higher priority. It was not possible. “I assume if we don’t get on the flight we get a full refund?” “Of course—except for a $10 service charge.”

Hunnybear and I headed for the security checkpoint, which was completely deserted, a first for me at Terminal 1. Hunnybear got put in the penalty box so I waited while she displayed her feet. We headed for gate 9 and waited while the agents there closed out the previous flight.

When they were ready to start processing our flight we were first in line. I handed the agent our tickets and FlightFund cards. She took them and typed for two or three minutes without inquiring as to what we wanted. She then reported we were on the standby list and the computer wouldn’t take our FlightFund numbers because we were flying non-rev. “Non-rev?” I said. “But we just paid $234 for those tickets. That’s more than four times what we paid National originally!”

“I know,” she said, scrunching her nose sweetly. She typed and scrunched some more and said, “You know, there are a lot of people on standby.” “Where are we on the list,” I asked.

“You’re last.”

“Last? How could we be last?”

“Well, on this ticket you actually come behind our own employees who are non-revving. And employees of other airlines.”

At this point I realized I was out of my mind. I had completely forgot what it was like to fly with no status on an airline. “How much is it just to buy a ticket?” I asked.

“Actually, the flight is completely sold out. But why don’t you stick around and see how far we go on the standby list?”

“Right,” I said. I shoved the America West tickets in my pocket, grabbed Hunnybear, and walked away from the desk as I dialed the American Airlines Platinum number on my cell phone. I tried to connect seven times but it wouldn’t go through so we found a pay phone and called.

After several minutes listening to ads and voice menus I got an agent who was happy to reserve two one-way tickets for $97 each. I upgraded us with e-stickers and we headed out to Terminal 3, where I walked right up to the First Class counter and purchased the tickets without a hitch from the nice efficient lady.

Hunnybear and I took the escalator up to the security checkpoint and approached a young uniformed man who looked like he was guarding a line-cutting place. “First Class?” I said. “I don’t know,” he said. “First Class line?” “I don’t know.” “Is there a First Class line here like at T4?” “I don’t know,” he said, gesturing to the tail of the snake. We rolled our Briggs & Rileys to the end of the line and waited in the 10-minute line.

This time we flew through security without suspicion, leaving us time to visit the dueling American-Alaska lounge upstairs. There were three smiling agents manning the Alaska check-in desk. I explained we were flying American but we were members of Alaska Board Room. I showed my card and their smiles grew even broader. “You’d better check in with her too,” one of them said, gesturing vaguely toward the lone agent sitting at the American check-in desk. I didn’t see why until we attempted to sail by her and got a “Hold on a minute bub.” I explained we were flying American but we were members of the Alaska Board Room and she pish-tushed us away as if wondering why we had bothered her.

The amenities here were not up to Board Room standards. They had no free drinks, probably because there would be no way to keep the Admiral’s Club members from imbibing them. I saw a man ask the bartender for four bottles of water and get charged $2. I went back to the Alaska desk and asked if they had water vouchers but it was not possible.

We had coffee and headed down to the gate after a few minutes. Our flight was boarding so we ensconced ourselves in 3A and B. There were no preflight drinks but they hung up coats aggressively. We pushed back right on time and got coffee in plastic mugs in flight along with a choice of foil-wrapped cashews or pretzels—no warm breakfast breads, stuffed mushrooms, or curried samosas like National had. We landed right on time, taxied past 13 National 757s parked on the ramp, and docked at Terminal D. A couple people were sitting talking on cell phones in the row after row of vacant seats at the vacant gates formerly occupied by National Airlines.

The end.


------------------
I hope you enjoy my Lion Tales. For photos, past travelogues, subscriptions, and more, see www.liontales.com