Andrew Dubber

What began as a week of work, music, networking and fun in New York ended up being an adventure and an ordeal at the hands of a budget airline.

View from the cab ride to JFK. This is where it started.

I had planned to write more at length about the CMJ Music Marathon, the people I met, and all the interesting things I saw and did while in New York as a next blog post, but I’ll have to dip out of chronological sequence at this point, because the end of the trip is what is uppermost in my mind.

I apologise in advance for the inordinate length of this post, but this is a form of catharsis and therapy for me. You don’t have to read it… but it’s an adventure story, with mishap and mayhem. If it was a film, a reviewer would use the words ‘wacky’ and ‘madcap’, which — like ‘heartwarming’ — would ensure I never wanted to see it.

It turns out that my experience with the fire alarm at Gatwick airport, the incessant screaming sirens and the hour of ’stay where you are’ was absolute child’s play when it comes to aviation inconvenience.

I left Mike’s place after a good brunch and a bit of a wander around Williamsburg, and took a cab back to the airport. I was a little on the conservatively early side, because I’d noticed how cheap the electronics were in the US, and I wanted to spend a bit of time doing some shopping at the Duty Free store at JFK.

I checked my bags, and went as quickly as is possible through the fairly tortuous security system with the idea that I would get a couple of good hours in shopping at one of the world’s most famous airports, in what must be a massive departure lounge shopping complex.

Note to travellers: JFK Terminal 4 has exactly three shops beyond the security screening. A Duty Free Store with a very limited selection of cigarettes, alcohol and perfume — nothing else — and a couple of little stores that sell bottled water, sandwiches, chocolate bars, magazines and headache tablets. That’s it.

This is ridiculous, I thought. I’m going back out there.

“You’ll have to check back through again,” said the security woman I checked with to see if it was even possible to un-check yourself.

“I don’t care — I’m getting some decent duty free stuff.”

So back out I went into the main terminal shopping concourse which, unlike every other major international airport that I’m aware of, is in the part of the building that passengers and non-passengers alike can just stroll through.

On closer inspection, it turns out there’s only one Duty Free Store there. And they do not sell electronics. Instead, they carry a somewhat more comprehensive selection of cigarettes, perfumes and alcohol. Nothing else.

There is an electronics store in the concourse, but it was not the kind of place that warranted spending any money. The things I could afford were the sorts of electronics that you see in junk mail catalogues. The sort that are predominantly made out of red plastic, and which, if they could speak, would scream ‘Avoid! Avoid!’.

The desirable items were overpriced. Not just tourist trap markup, but seriously, absurdly and illegally overpriced.

The new iPod Nano – now double the cost!

The iPod Nanos, for instance, were available for over twice the price that they can bought for at the Apple store. The explanation offered: “I just work here.”

Digital cameras that retail for $120 or less on the High Street (actually, on Lexington and 59th, where I’d seen them) were over $400. Seriously. I mean, points for trying, but isn’t there a law? I do not now own an iPod Nano (and I really wanted one) simply because this was the only place they were available at JFK.

So, after I’d bought a few things (that I could actually have bought at the Duty Free store that was inside the secure passengers area), I made my way back through security again.

Of course, duty-free whisky and other liquids bought in the store outside gets sealed up and then passed through their secure back-of-the-shop system to be collected by passengers once they have been cleared by security. You can’t bring liquids through the security check, even in a sealed plastic Duty Free Bag.

Remember that. It becomes important later.

The flight was New York to Gatwick via Bermuda. There were a lot of people to pick up in Bermuda, and almost nobody to leave behind there. So… first leg of the flight only a quarter full. Cool. I can stretch out a bit. Can’t wait to get going.

The plane was delayed a little. An hour, give or take. Apparently there had been some holdup in the plane arriving at JFK, and this had been compounded as we waited for the crew to clean and prepare the plane for our comfortable flight. Eventually we were loaded onto the runway bus, and then hermetically sealed into the ‘tupperware container on wheels’ to be brought to our plane.

While we waited, an announcement played. Slightly uncomfortably loud. I could have sworn it was Fran Drescher:

“Welcome to JFK Airport. We will shortly be leaving the terminal to your plane. Please have your boarding pass and passports ready. Make sure you have all of your belongings with you when you leave the bus. We hope you have a pleasant flight.”

And then it repeated. And then it repeated again. We departed for the plane, and it continued to repeat. And repeat. Once was annoying and nasal (you remember Fran Drescher, right?), but slightly too loud in the speakers in an enclosed space over and over again… we were being maltreated.

At first, it was groans. Then, as a sort of coping mechanism, and perhaps to soften the fingernails-on-chalkboard effect of the voice, we started to chant along with it: “Welcome to JFK Airport…”. But the volume and the incessant nature of the now entirely redundant message (we were no longer ‘about to depart’) was soul destroying and we started banging on the windows to alert the oblivious driver, who was hermetically sealed in his own little tupperware box up the front.

Thankfully, he got the message and switched it off, only to replace it with equally loud white noise. Somehow, that was much more soothing. By this time, we were parked outside the stairs to the plane, watching with interest as the cleaning crew brought pieces of litter down the stairs one at a time, while the air in our mobile box became increasingly scarce.

Finally, we were boarded, led to our seats and off we moved to the runway, where we joined a queue of (our captain estimated) between 25 and 30 planes waiting to take off.

Of course, these things happen, and before too long, we were off to Bermuda. I was sitting by the wing, and couldn’t help but notice a sort of grinding servo noise periodically from beneath my seat. It was as if there was a Transformer trying to unfold from a heavy vehicle into a battle robot, but had become entangled and stuck. Not to worry, I thought, planes make noise. And I’m hardly an aircraft mechanic — what do I know?

I guessed it maybe had something to do with all the turbulence that had forced us to stay belted safely to our seats for so much of the first leg of the flight, but that just goes to show how wrong you can be when you don’t have a degree in aviation engineering, and your brain has been rattled about in your head for an hour or so in a bouncing passenger jet.

The landing in Bermuda, a couple of hours late now, was a little on the hairy side. As we came into the airport, and approached the runway, we slowed down a little, as you do when you engage the flaps (I’ve learned a little in the last 24 hours), but when we were within jumping distance of the ground, the pilot changed his mind, pulled back on the reins and planted his foot (so perhaps I haven’t learned a lot) and we accelerated off into the sky again.

Once the poor man had his breath back, he announced “You probably noticed that we decided to abort that particular landing. Ground control were bringing us in a little steep, and we would not have been able to stop in time before reaching the end of the runway in a blazing fireball. So for safety reasons, we decided to have another go at it.” Or words to that effect.

Twenty minutes later, we were back on the ground, and the passengers who had been delayed for so long at Bermuda finally made their way onto the plane to join us for the rest of our adventure, which — though I didn’t realise it at the time — was only just beginning.

Of course, there were no announcements, and so people who hadn’t been following the subtle clues we more seasoned travellers had become attuned to assumed that this brief visit was a stopover — and got off the plane. The man sitting behind me, who had been singing and rapping along with his iPod for the first leg of the journey, between talking about how much he was looking forward to finally getting to London for the first time, has not been seen since.

But even without these few abandoned travellers, the plane was reasonably full, and we still had another 6 or 7 hours flight to contend with, so I resolved to get a bit of sleep so that I’d be nice and refreshed when I finally made it back to Birmingham.

I nodded off quite comfortably, and was pleasantly surprised to wake what seemed like only a short while later, and learn that we were about to prepare for landing. In New York. Hang on… what?

I signalled to the cabin attendant and she came over.

- New York? Didn’t we just come from there?
- Yes sir. Did you sleep through the announcement?
- Apparently… What’s going on?
- There’s a problem with the aircraft. The flaps aren’t working properly, and so we’ve had to turn back.
- And not to Bermuda?
- We tried to contact Bermuda shortly after takeoff, but Bermuda was closed.
- Closed?
- Yes. There’s nobody there. And so since we wouldn’t make it to London, we’ve decided to attempt a landing back at JFK.
- I’m sorry… ATTEMPT?!!
- Oh, don’t worry sir. We’re not at all concerned for your safety.

I’d have thought my safety should have been among the top few items on her list of concerns, but I knew what she meant.

As it happened, the landing at JFK was a little speedier than I would have liked (flaps slow you down in the air, you see), but the pilot was able to slam his foot on the brake and the touchdown was pretty smooth. However, you could tell they weren’t really expecting it to go well, because of all of the emergency services vehicles flashing their lights at the end of the runway, poised and ready to tend to the victims.

There was little information forthcoming from the captain or cabin crew, and what information there was directly contradicted any previous piece of information that we had acquired. We were told that we would be kept on the plane and kept informed about what was going on, and how soon we’d be able to leave. Ten minutes later, we were handed US immigration cards.

The only reason to fill in US immigration cards, as far as we could work out, was if you were actually going to enter US territory. Not just sit down in the departure lounge while they bring you a new plane — actually go through customs and collect your bags. Not a good sign.

We weren’t told that we were going into the US, just that we were filling in cards. In fact, from this point on, information was scarce. But we managed to follow, sheep-like into the customs area, without any particular lead.

By this time, I had struck up a conversation with the woman in the seat next to me: Kate, who worked in marketing for Tesco (no, I was polite and restrained, and didn’t point out the evils of her employ – at least, not very much).

Kate was particularly good at organising people, extracting relevant information where there seemed to be none, and generally being efficient (and whatever the word for ‘bureaucratic’ would be in a situation where no bureaucracy could be said to exist) in a peculiarly English sort of way. She was very good at dealing with service staff in a direct, friendly, but no-nonsense manner. I guessed (rightly, it later turned out) that ponies had featured in her formative years.

I decided to stick with her, as it was clear that my limited ability to solicit pertinent data under trying conditions was not going to be sufficient. I needed to be around somebody competent.

We collected our bags, cleared customs and made our way to what would normally be thought of as the lobby of the terminal, but which we, the passengers of Zoom Airlines flight 106, had adopted as our ‘milling around’ area. We were herded together into one slightly more compact area by about 3am, where we were told that we hadn’t been expected (surprising, given our 8 fire-engine and 6 ambulance arrival).

There was no real information to be had, other than the fact that there were no available hotels, no transportation and nothing to do other than continue to mill around until more could be known. Not only that, but when we were told things, they were told to small groups, rather than announced over the speaker system — so we were forced to play a weird Chinese Whispers-ish game to figure out what was going on.

As far as we could tell, it sounded like the cabin crew were now due for a nine-hour sleep, and nothing was going to happen until at least then, and only if the plane miraculously fixed itself.

While I minded the bags, Kate mined the information, and so we were among the first to get our free $20 food vouchers, and first in line at the taxi rank when it turned out that there was a rather flash hotel they would be happy to put us up in. We teamed up with a couple, one of whom was supposed be starting her first day on the job as the new Head Teacher at a school in Edinburgh on Monday (fat chance).

We’d learned that we’d be reimbursed for the transport — but we were short of cash between us, as you tend to use up your currency of the country your leaving when you think you’re leaving it. We approached the cab driver (actually, a limo cab, to be precise) and asked him if he knew where the Hyatt Regency in Hauppage, Long Island was, how much it would cost to get there, and whether he could take four.

- It”ll be around $80
- Around?
- I don’t have my book, but I think it’ll be $80.

(Incidentally, Hauppage is pronounced Haw-pawg, an interesting local fact we learned after a bit of accent comedy.)

We threw our bags in the back and climbed in. Around twenty minutes into the journey, the cab driver got on the phone to his cab driver mates.

- You got your book? Yeah, I don’t got mine. How much to Hauppage from Kennedy? Yeah? Oh. $185? One Eight Five Dollars? That’s what the book says? Huh. Man, I under-quoted.

Then off the phone, to us:

- Man, I feel bad that I quoted you so low. Let’s make it $160.
- No, let’s make it $80 (Kate and I almost in unison, the others quiet with the worrying thought that we didn’t have anything like that much money between us)
- I can’t go that far for that little.
- That was the deal though. We asked before we got in.
- No, I didn’t have my book, so I didn’t know it would be so high.
- Take us back then (this was Kate’s helpful suggestion)
- Well, I can always go back and get another fare.
- Go on, then… (calling his bluff, as he turned on his indicators to exit the freeway)
- Hang on… (me now) Let’s call it $100. That’ll clean us out, but you’ve already come so far, that’s got to be better than going this far and back and not getting any money at all.
- (silence. thought.)
- Is that a yes?
- Yeah, okay.

On arrival at the hotel, we paid the man his money and took his receipt to get the money back at some later, unspecified point. We’d been given a number to phone for more information, which we tried from the reception desk, but the answerphone said that the office would only be open from 10am on the Sunday. So we said goodnight, made our way to our rooms and I collapsed on the bed. Didn’t even shift the covers. Just lay down and slept.

…and a few hours later woke in an absolute panic. It was light outside, and I was convinced that I’d somehow overslept and missed any information or a connection back to a flight home. I rang downstairs to the lobby, but they hadn’t heard anything, and they assured me that if there was any news, they’d make sure they didn’t sneak everyone else out of the hotel without telling me.

By this time, I was wide awake, so I showered and headed downstairs for a bite to eat. Someone had slipped a meal voucher under the door, so I was able to get a brunch happening, although vouchers don’t cover the tax or the gratuity (nothing costs what it says on the label in America).

Brunch, it seems, is a meal that includes all possible combinations of food types, from sugar covered cereal treats, through bagels and lox, right through to roast chicken with potatoes and cheesecake. I settled for scrambled eggs.

The hotel was more full than I would have thought for a late morning Sunday in the middle of what seems like a well-heeled nowhere. Hauppage is a lot of green at the end of a lot of motorway. The hotel we stayed at had its own golf course, tennis court, a handful of swimming pools, ballroom and gymnasium, all with a view that includes very few houses.

It turned out that there’d been a rather large wedding the day before… and it was the first day of a conference.

By the time I’d finished breakfast, there was news from the airline. Or, at least, official confirmation of a complete lack of news. The word was that the plane was completely grounded and there was no way it was going to be leaving New York any time soon. This will be a Major Delay. We’ll tell you more when we know more.

I wandered around the grounds taking photos to keep myself entertained, but I completely failed to take any good ones. I’ve been using a different camera this week, and I’d managed to screw up the ISO settings, so I was shooting at 1600, when 100 would have done the trick. For non-photography nerds, I ended up with dreadful, grainy photos under near-perfect snapshot conditions. It killed some time anyway.

The weather was amazing, inasmuch as I was in a position to appreciate it. Hottest New York October ever.

I went back up to the hotel room to kill a bit more time and had a bit more of a nap while I waited for more news, and then headed down to the bar to spend my last $20 voucher on bread, fruit, a cup of tea and a chat with a couple of the Brits. We watched the impenetrable sport of American football on the television, and chatted about our own personal misadventures within the larger inconvenience of the plane delay.

By 3.30pm the coach arrived to pick us up to take us to the airport. Another plane was being brought from Canada — the crew dragged out of their days off — and we would be leaving New York that evening. We gathered our belongings, grabbed the complimentary shampoos and conditioners from the bathroom (everyone does that, right?) and headed to the lobby.

The driver had been called away from his church service, and like us, had been given very little information about what was going on. He wasn’t sure how many people he was supposed to be picking up, and so the chances of inadvertently leaving somebody behind were fairly strong. It could easily have been me. I’d been feeling a little unwell, digestively speaking, so I managed to hold up the bus’s departure with a last minute emergency rest stop – but that small matter taken care of, we were on the bus and away.

At check-in, we were back to the game of chinese whispers and guess-the-facts. We all had matters of compensation to discuss, letters for bosses to request, insurance details we needed and just some general information that would help us believe that we were really, this time, going home.

Again, Kate was able to assemble the most significant body of knowledge… and a health worker by the name of Andy, an older couple whose names escape me, and I had adopted her as our fact-finder. It turned out that if you asked, you were to put your name down on the back of a blank boarding card, with a list of your ‘demands’.

In fact, if there was anything you needed to know, you also needed to know to ask it. And even then the answers ranged from the vague to the improbable. The flight was either going to leave at 8.55pm or 9.45pm, depending on whether you believed the boarding pass (which had yesterday’s date on it) or the signs. Arrival time in London ranged from 4am to noon, depending on prevailing winds and time travel vortex conditions.

Now — the problem of the duty free. Remember way back at the beginning of this story, I’d bought a bunch of duty free stuff? Fragrances and a bottle of whisky. Stuff you can’t carry through the security check-in. Well, of course, having already been on plane, off the plane, and through customs, I had the bag with me. Sealed or not, I was not going to be able to get it back on board myself.

So I asked at check-in.

- No, you can’t take liquids through security.
- I realise that. You’re just re-stating my problem. I’m asking for a solution.
- Well, when you buy it, they put it through the back to the collection area.
- Yes, and I’ve done that bit, thanks very much.
- But it’s right here.
- Amazing. Yes, you’ll recall I’ve already been on a plane to Bermuda and back.
- Why don’t you just leave it here with me?
- Because I don’t believe it will get any further.
- I’ll need you to speak to a supervisor. NEXT! How can I help you, madam?
- Hang on, you haven’t helped me yet.
- You’ll need a supervisor.
- How do I get one of those?
- I’d have to call down to get them to come here.
- Do you think you could do that?
- (sigh) There might be one along soon.
- Could you call please?

We were joined by another check-in attendant:

- Is there something I can help with?
- Are you a supervisor?
- No.
- I need a supervisor to help with my duty free situation.
- You can’t take that through security.
- I’ve been on a plane. You may have noticed that all 200 people that you’re currently processing have been on a plane from here and back to here. Surely other people have bought duty free.
- Some.
- What did you tell them?
- I told them to give it to me.
- And what are you going to do with it?
- Oh, we’ll get it on the plane. They should give it to you on board.
- Should, or will?
- Will. Give me the bag, I’ll make sure it gets to you on the plane.
- Cool. I’m going to trust you on this.
- I promise.
- Well, here you go then.
- Thanks. Have a nice flight.
- Aren’t you going to ask me for my name?
- Oh, sure. Um… (looks around, realising she hasn’t done this for the others)

…and so on. It took a great deal longer in the execution than it does in the telling, but I’ve edited out most of the vagueness to just give a distilled picture of the general lack of competence and coherent strategy.

And so, after a bite to eat, and a bit of shopping for a paperback for the flight home, we went through to the waiting lounge where, 30 hours after we were originally destined to leave NYC, our Canadian crew, who had themselves been delayed in US Customs after bringing our rescue plane, arrived and boarded to rapturous applause and cheers from the 200 overtired passengers.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: he’s never seeing that duty free whisky again, is he? Well, fear not, because the good news is that the check-in staff did eventually find a supervisor, who snuck it down to the gate. I spoke to him while we were waiting to embark. He was coping with angry passengers who had missed connecting flights, meals, information about the hotels (about a third of the passengers had been stranded at JFK the whole time) and was generally having a bad time. But my case was the instance in which he was able to share both good news and a naughty secret.

- I’ve got your stuff right here (he was speaking in a half-whisper)
- Where?
- It’s in this cupboard right behind me. But I can’t show it to you.
- What? Why?
- Look, you see those two US Customs guards over by the pillar? (deeply conspiratorial now)
- Yeah…
- If they see your bottles, they’ll jump the pair of us.
- Okay…
- I absolutely promise I will get your duty free to you on the plane. I just have to pick my moment.
- Really? Wow. (the Mission Impossible music started to play somewhere)
- Trust me. It’ll be there.

And, of course, when I got on the plane, after a few confused conversations with the Canadian cabin crew, the bag of contraband duty free goods appeared — and happy, I went to my seat.

And promptly fell through it.

The cushion was not attached to the chair, and the two supporting metal rods were all that stood between me and the floor of the plane. Although mine was the most comedically satisfying incidence of bad plane-chair syndrome (resulting in a painfully bruised tailbone), it was not the only one, so once everybody was on board, the few remaining working seats were reallocated and it was time to depart.

What followed was an uneventful and mercifully speedy flight back to Gatwick, with entertainment from a Mr Bean videotape (I chose to read) — and we were only delayed a few minutes while the ground crew searched for the misplaced wheel blocks that would allow the plane to be sufficiently stationary for us to disembark in London.

As we left, we were handed apologetic letters promising that our various expenses would be reimbursed (minus all the usual non-claimable stuff like missed work), and an offer of £150 free airfare for the next time we wanted to go flying on Zoom Airlines.

I’m thinking Bermuda.

Tagged: Travel