C ONTINENTAL Airlines boasts about its on-time record.
On time, hell – they got me to Detroit early. On Christmas day, yet.
Only problem is, my luggage didn’t get there at all – nor did the bags of nine other passengers on Continental Airlines Flight 30 from Newark.
An astounding display of incompetence, considering there were only 20 people on the plane.
“Let me guess, Newark?” said the “delayed” baggage agent as 10 of us stood bagless and furious in line to stake our lost claims. The Garden State goof-ups have apparently cut themselves quite a reputation at Continental.
“Don’t worry,” said our agent dryly. “They obviously forgot to load an entire wagon.”
“Forgot” didn’t cut it with me – my suitcase contained highly sensitive court papers. It also didn’t sit well with the older gent who needed the medication packed in his bag. Or the young woman suddenly without the bridesmaid’s dress for her best friend’s Christmas-night wedding. Or the grandmother with a suitcase full of carefully chosen presents for her three grandkids.
Comforted by promises that our luggage would be in on the next flight at noon, we filed out of the airport, still relatively full of holiday good will – even toward the baggage agent.
Stupid us.
Nine hours later, I was still without suitcase. I got on the horn to Continental – and stayed there for eight hours and 45 minutes, all told.
While my far-flung family caught up, ate, drank and made merry, I conversed with six different “service” representatives and heard at least 19 rounds of “Frosty the Snowman” while on hold.
I eventually found out the Newark nincompoops had mistaken Detroit’s city code, “DTW,” for Dallas’ code, “DFW.” My bag was in Texas.
“It happens a lot,” said Michelle, the only rep who seemed to have any idea what was going on. “Be glad you didn’t go to San Jose. Their bags are always going to Costa Rica. It’s so bad, we have a plane there just to fly the luggage back.”
A Denver-based supervisor, Mrs. Marquhart, promised my bag would be in by 10:30 a.m. Saturday.
Saturday, 3 p.m. Still no sign of the bag.
“Why would you put important papers in your suitcase?” asked Louise, an impatient operator in Houston.
Because of the airlines’ stringent crackdown on carry-ons, which allowed me only the diaper bag and baby I also happened to be carrying.
No beefs with that policy, which makes for a more comfortable flight. But then, the more bags checked, the more bags lost.
Tired of mucking around with minions, I decided to try my luck with Continental CEO Gordon Bethune.
“I’m calling from the New York Post, and it is imperative I get in touch with Mr. Bethune. Or at the very least, your public-relations person.”
Impossible, I was told. The offices are closed. I can get Donald Trump on the phone in a tick, but Bethune – protected by an intricate maze of 800 numbers and endless recordings – is apparently harder to pin down than Saddam Hussein.
“What if I told you we were working on a story that Mr. Bethune had been threatened physically, and needed to talk to him urgently?”
“That’s a highly unlikely story,” said Eleanor, crackerjack agent No. 4.
Really? Give me one more verse of “Frosty the Snowman,” Eleanor, and let’s see what happens.
Frustration mounted with each call. I became convinced that Bethune’s troops had undergone mass lobotomies to remove the part of the brain that generates independent thoughts. It was “the computer shows this,” “the computer shows that.” Nobody took charge, made that extra phone call or scribbled outside the lines.
I felt penalized for even daring to track down my personal belongings.
And I wasn’t even offered the courtesy of a first-class upgrade on my next flight, free frequent-flier miles or a discount ticket.
I was offered a $25 clothing allowance that wouldn’t even buy a sweater at the Gap – had it been open on Christmas day.
All I got was: “I’m sorry,” time after time.
If I had a dime for every wooden apology, I could have flown to Dallas and retrieved my bags myself. And still had change left over to check out Costa Rica.
Mr. Bethune no doubt spent his holiday holed up in his Houston manse, oblivious that, thanks to him and his band of bumblers, a man’s medicine, a woman’s dress and a lot of kids’ presents spent two days in some unclaimed baggage room.
My bag finally turned up in Detroit at 12:45 a.m. Sunday, more than 40 hours after I did.
In what I can only assume was somebody’s attempt at humor, it bore a red tag marked “RUSH.”