The Departure

Supervisor: Here, let me explain it to you. I was born in Ghana. I grew up in Ghana. I am an American passport holder. Because I am an American passport holder, even though I was born in Ghana and grew up in Ghana, I cannot go to Ghana without a return ticket. You must have a return ticket.

Scott: Sir, I am not the problem passenger here.

Supervisor: You must have a return ticket!

Scott: Sir, I have a green card! I have a work visa!

Supervisor: You must have a return ticket!

Scott: Excuse me, sir? This is not the problem.

And so it continued all because we didn't have any piece of paper with my name on it stating that spousal visas for Ireland are issued in Ireland.

We arrived at LAX, its palm trees friendly and waving underneath California blue sky, two hours before our United flight to San Francisco where we would catch an Aer Lingus flight to Dublin, Ireland. Finally, after weeks of interviews (for Scott, at least), paperwork (both of us), packing and shedding of items (mainly me, but Scott did what he could), and more paperwork (Dear Lord! Who else needs a copy of our marriage certificate and passports?), we were both exhausted but ready, tugging at bags, and waiting for that glorious moment when we were through security. However, by the time we talked to the above supervisor, we had stood, crouched, leaned and drummed fingers for maybe four hours. Our flight had not only left but landed while the supervisor explained that Scott needed a return ticket.

Scott did not need a return ticket. I needed a return ticket because I didn't have a visa. However, the very lovely and helpful Maria had made a number of phone calls, talked to a number of people, and found a way to put me on the flight. Five minutes after check-in closed. Then she tried to find us a new flight. When that went awry, she enlisted Oumy, but we booked our flight in June. It was cheap, ridiculous cheap, so cheap that it would cost $800/ticket to rebook us on an Aer Lingus flight. Oh, and the flight wasn't until Friday because Aer Lingus doesn't fly out of San Francisco every day.

Me: Excuse me? That is not the problem. The problem is not the two people who have been helping us. They've been fantastic. The problem is that we were at a kiosk by 11 am, and it took forty minutes to clear me to fly. Because of that, we missed our flight. We were here in time. This system took too long. THAT is the problem.

Supervisor: Our contract is with Aer Lingus to get you to San Francisco. We will fulfill our contract. What happens to you there is not our responsibility.

Except the contract wasn't to fly us just to San Francisco, was it? It was to fly us to San Francisco in time for a particular flight to Dublin, and no, they did not fulfill their contract.

However, after he stormed with little steps into the sunset, Scott called Aer Lingus who waived the $1600 price increase, and Oumy booked us on a flight to San Francisco, and it just so happens our friend Chris flew to SF that day on business, and we bunked with him for a night and then booked a hotel downtown, did a little shopping, had a lovely dinner with friends beside the lovely, lovely San Francisco Bay. I bought a hat. Scott bought a jacket. Yeah! San Francisco, partly cloudy, partly foggy, cool and beautiful.

I, a former customer server, believe that only 10% of the customers are rude and obnoxious, though who knows if that 10% will space themselves or come in droves. I suspect the number might be higher at the airport as fewer flights and fewer staff service more and more people, many of whom are more and more nervous and anxious, clutching bags and small children who in turn clutch balls and teddy bears, all squeezing through mazes of roped corridors a little too symbolic of the red-taped bureaucracy. Your friendly neighborhood customer service rep at the ticket counter has probably just explained again, for the tenth time that hour, that when your bag goes over the weight limit, you have to pay extra. When you check more than the allowed bags, you have to pay extra. No, they don't set the prices; they just work here. Very sorry.

But while Scott called Aer Lingus, I talked to a woman waiting for her mother from Pakistan and giving a baby girl a bottle while the stroller tipped as she tried to understand why they were still at the airport after five hours of sorting through United's regulations, and an older Chinese gentlemen next to us, struggling with English, repeated over and over, “I don't understand!” Hand to forehead. “Will someone please help me? Will someone tell me what I should do?” And the two girls next to us, from a Spanish speaking country, trying to speak to someone, anyone, because they didn't understand what the machine wanted. The rep who finally paused spoke quietly and quickly and moved away before they could ask a follow up question, and impassive faces pass passengers from one service rep to another, no one really taking responsibility as the palm trees ever present and ever friendly wave through the windows.

-I've already stood in that line. They told me to come here.

-Sir, line six, please.

-But I was just there!

-Sir, this line is only for people buying a ticket. You have to stand in that line. The back is over there.

-I stood in that line for an hour! They told me to come here!

-Sir, there is nothing I can do for you. You have to wait in that line.

The palm trees are dying, sterility, disease, and old age, I believe.

However, for all that went wrong, for all the delays, and for all that made me question whether the Fates were testing our fortitude and desire to move to Ireland or were actually just fucking with us, we conquered, we flew, and we arrived.