Warsaw, Paris, DC
I waited in line at the Lot Polish Airlines check-in at Warsaw’s main airport. When I first started visiting Poland in 2001, it seems it was most commonly referred to as Okęcie, although now it feels increasingly common to hear it referred to as Chopin.
I was very early for my flight, so there was only one couple checking-in ahead of me. I learned from my mom and dad that early is on time, and on time is late. I stayed back a respectful distance, which meant I couldn’t hear their conversation, and it was in Polish anyway, so even with the context clues of its taking place at flight check-in I would not have known exactly what they were saying. But I could tell something wasn’t right. The flat expression of the heavyset, grey haired Lot employee; the occasional raised voices of the couple checking in; the exchange of more papers than would be typical for a flight check-in. All of these things indicated something was wrong, very wrong. Finally the couple walked off, and not toward security. But that could still mean everything is OK, I thought, because it was a very long time before the flight was to depart. Perhaps they were just wandering off for a coffee or snack…
I stepped a few feet forward and said, “dzień dobry,” and possibly something along the lines of, “Przepraszam. Ale mówię tylko trochę po polsku,” which means, “I’m sorry but I only speak a little Polish.” Sometimes this gets me a little smile, but Agata the Lot agent remained stone-faced. Oh well, I tried, I thought.
Agata scanned my passport, grimaced, and said in clear English, “Your flight from Warsaw to Detroit is canceled.” Actually, it was a flight from Warsaw to Amsterdam, then on to Detroit, but at that soul-crushing moment that wasn’t really the point. Furthermore, she then clarified, “You will not have a flight until tomorrow.”
It’s funny, when I go to Poland I savor every minute of being there. Every sight, smell, drink and meal. Every conversation with friends, attempted conversation with strangers, every visit to a tourist attraction or out of the way bar is a joy. But once I’ve steeled myself for the unpleasantness of transatlantic flight, the prospect of delay, even if means an extra day in wonderful Warsaw, is not something I want at all. Once I had to stay an extra day, and it meant a night’s stay at a nice hotel near the airport and a 6AM flight the next day. I didn’t do anything special, just stayed in the hotel, walked around the neighborhood a bit, and ate pierogi ruskie at the hotel restaurant. I should have taken a bus or a cab back into the city center or the old town or somewhere, but I didn’t. And I regret it a little to this day.
In any event, I must have looked sad, or my pitiful Polish might have earned me a bit of sympathy, because rather than holding firm to the “come back tomorrow, here’s a room voucher” policy, Agata started banging away on her keyboard in that insistent way that means either she’s angry, or you should be optimistic. She’d type, then grimace, then type some more…then finally she said, “Aha…I can send you to Paris then Washington then Detroit.” I smiled and said either, “Tak, proszę,” or “Yes, please,” or both, and before long boarding passes were printing, my bag was on the conveyor belt, and I was on my way to security.
The flight to de Gaulle was uneventful, except for the awful feeling in my stomach of knowing I’d have to navigate that airport once we landed. I’ve not had many experiences there, but none of them were good, from flights delayed 24 hours to the fundamental difficulty of getting around that place…no thanks. But such was my route home.
The flight arrived on time and I found my gate with surprising ease. It had already been a pretty long day, so I already felt dirty and disheveled. It seems very likely I actually was both of those things, as well as dehydrated, irritated, and a little confused. When I arrived at the gate I noted two things. First, there was an additional security checkpoint to get on the plane, complete with metal detector and having to empty your pockets in the little grey plastic pan; I also noticed from my boarding pass that I was seated in row three. Of coach, I assumed. But still I was glad I wouldn’t have to hoof it to the back of the plane and wait forever to get off to make my connection from DC to Detroit.
I waited until they called us, and got in line for the extra security. I don’t remember if we had to take off our shoes or not. Nonetheless I managed to drop a big pocketful of all my Polish coins and perhaps a few Euros all over the floor, and looked like a fool chasing them down, bending over creakily, and picking them up. A small group of fellow travelers watched my ordeal, laughing, but doing nothing to assist. Jerks, I thought. After all the chaos, I cleared the machine, handed over my boarding pass, then looked for my seat. Third row. Business class. A seat like a La-Z-Boy recliner, not a nasty airplane seat. Paradise. Hot towel? Would you like a drink? It felt like a reward for being nice in Warsaw and enduring the humiliation of the coin drop.
My seat mate, if you can call it that given that he was a foot or two from me, was an attorney for the US Patent Office. We didn’t have much to say as we sipped our drinks, spread out, and enjoyed the inflight entertainment.
Of course my flight from DC to Detroit was delayed, but waiting in the cramped seats by the gate felt a little better after the comfort of a business class transatlantic flight.
A good story would conclude with the lessons learned, but I’m not sure there are any. Be nice. Try to speak the language. If all else fails and you have to stay in Poland for an extra day, suck it up, get on the bus, and go see something. Happy trails…
