My Continental flight was cancelled an hour prior to departure. You know, minutes away from boarding time. Apparently, the plane that was to come get us had mechanical issues and no one saw the need to send a replacement. Sorry, you are just going to have to book on the 5am flight tomorrow.
Do the authorities not know that this is a tiny airport? There aren’t that many other permutations when a flight is cancelled.
Luckily for me the connecting airport is about an hour and a half away and my layover about three hours. Several others had long layovers so Continental hired a driver to shuttle us over.
The driver told us that he’s had to do this increasingly over the past few weeks. That does not sound good at all. I wonder if this is the doing of the United merger.
I mean not only was the flight cancelled, but the computer was down at the check-in counter so no boarding pass could be printed for those who had not printed their passes at home. Honestly?
We made it to the connecting airport safely. Hallelujah. Security was a breeze. However, the TSA agent felt the need to pat down my hair. It’s currently in an Afro puff, pony-tail, “pompe-joe” whatever you want to call it. I was aware of an uproar a few months ago when a black woman wearing her hair in it’s natural state felt singled out and offended when she had her hair patted down. And while no-one else had their hair patted before or after me (as far as I could see), I suppose this puff of mine would be an excellent place to hide forbidden items. As the agent patted my hair, she exclaimed surprisingly “oooh, how soft” which made me wonder if she was expecting a Brillo pad on my head. Then I quickly recalled an article on CNN last week written by a Black woman with natural hair who didn’t want to be a petting zoo for the curious and the comments that followed some of which included sentiments like “what do you mean we can’t just reach out and molest your hair whenever we feel like it?”
Good Times!
Addendum: So it gets better. I get to my gate still with time to spare. There’s a flight going to my destination one hour earlier so I decide to ask if they have space for me to fly stand-by. Success! The night is going to end well. Next thing I know they tell us the captain has had a family emergency so they are looking for a replacement. Okay! The next next thing I know they announce that we are all going to be booked on the later flight i.e. my original flight. So now I’m begging for my seat back.
Should I dare attempt to end this tale here?
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A lover of mangoes. A woman - smart, without pretense, lefthanded, Afropolitan - navigating this thing called life. An unapologetic believer in social justice and karma. Choosing to radiate positive energy and be true to myself. Here, my musings.
Ha ha ha
its called a pompe-joe? up until this moment, I thougt had something to do with a french monarch's (of antiquity) mistress' choice of wigs.
that's what we used to call it. i think it was the slanging (the pidgening) of a pompadour – that's what you're thinking about.