As I was sitting at Gate 26, waiting for my flight, I noticed that it was 5 p.m. The plane was not at the gate, where it should have been, since it was scheduled to leave at 5:30. It was 5 p.m. About 5 minutes later, an announcement was made, that the gate was being moved from Gate 26 to Gate 20. I hauled ass over to Gate 20, started to walk through, when the Khaleeji Rent-a-Cop standing by the XRay machine informed me that this was actually the gate for Iran Air AND Jazeera – and that the flight to Tehran was boarding first. Those flying to Dubai lined up and waited as chador after chador walked through the gate. It was very easy to tell who was going where – those draped in black were going to Tehran, those with an inch of makeup and high heels were going to Dubai.
When I got onto the plane, I instinctively went for seat 6A. I knew I was by the window, and 90% of the time, I sit on the left side of the plane. In this case, I was actually in 6F – a definite error on my part. I didn't realize the error until an Indian couple attempted to find their seats. "What seat are you in?" asked the wife. "6A. I think. Wait, let me check." I pulled out my boarding card. "I'm sorry. I'm 6F…" I looked past them to see if my seat was available. It wasn't. They were both still in the aisle.
"Come into the row," I told them, "so other people can get past." The woman looked at my blankly. "Can I sit in my seat?"
Keep in mind, I was at the window. So there was no place for me to go, since they were half in the row and half in the aisle. "You will get your seat," I said. But for now, can you just move in? There are people waiting behind you…" I said, noticing how more and more people were getting annoyed. The pair finally came into the row and looked at me expectantly. Row 5 was completely empty. The aisle, however, was still full. "Why don't you move to this row?" the wife asked, trying to be helpful but failing miserably.
"I would," I said, "except there is nowhere for me to go. Because there are people in the aisle."
"Well…. Can I have my seat?"
"Listen," I told her. "The plane is not going to take off without you having a seat. I promise." Looking around, I flagged down a flight attendant and explained the situation. He took our boarding cards and studied them. The lady looked at me again. "My seat?"
"I. Don't. Have. Anywhere. To. Go. Calm. Down. I promise you will get your seat, just wait about two minutes." I wondered if she was an idiot or just really impatient. Or some combination of both.
The seats were sorted, and we finally took off and made it to Dubai in one piece. After landing, going through customs, going to the ATM and visiting the restroom, I went to the luggage carousel to collect my bags. Except they weren't there. There were no bags there. It was at least 15 to 20 minutes after I had gotten off the plane, and there were no bags going around the carousel. I looked up at the sign on the baggage to confirm that this is where my bags were supposed to come. It was. There was still no bag. After another 10 minutes of waiting, my bag came out and I hurried out of the airport.
But no. The fates were clearly against me. I was stopped on my way out of the airport, by an abaya-clad woman who asked to see my passport.
"Where are you coming from?"
"Kuwait."
"Hmmm," she said, looking through my passport. "How long are you here for?"
"One night… Is something wrong?" I had never, ever been stopped LEAVING an airport before so I was very confused. And tired. She looked at me in fake surprise. "Wrong? Why would something be wrong?"
She continued pawing through my passport.
"Then where do you go?"
"Rome…" I answered, as she looked at my visas and stamps. "Is something wrong? I'm confused."
She looked at me in "surprise" again. "Why would something be wrong?" she asked, pretending to be a friendly gal who just wanted to laugh with me about my passport photo. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Do you… smoke?"
I wasn't sure if she meant the herb or the nicotine, but I was baffled by her question either way. "Um, no? I'm just tired and I want to get to my hotel."
After looking yet again at my passport, she thrust it back at me and turned away.
I though the bad luck was over. The amount of inanity that had taken place seemed to be enough for one trip. But I was very, very wrong.
I rose around 4:45 a.m. to get to the airport in time for my 7 a.m. flight. The hotel I was at (Ibis Hotel – not bad for a short stay, if anyone is wondering) had a shuttle to the airport, which I took advantage of. Now, Novotel and Ibis are right next to each other and I think they are linked, so they share a shuttle. The shuttle was waiting at Ibis. We drove to Novotel (around the block). Then we drove BACK to Ibis and waited for another ten minutes before finally departing to the airport.
Checking in and getting on the plane was no major hassle. I was unfortunate enough to sit in an aisle seat, in the center – but fortunate enough that a window seat was free in the row next to me, with the middle seat empty as well. The bad news was that there was a six-month old baby directly behind me. The worse news was, because there was a baby sitting behind me, I couldn't recline fully. The even worse news was that the baby was using the tray table as its own personal drum kit. About two hours into the flight, I finally turned around to the mom and asked her, politely, if her oh-so adorable baby could possibly use the MIDDLE tray table for as percussion, since that seat was not occupied.
She peered at me from the crack in between rows. "Well, can't you move to the middle seat?"
Was she crazy? I seriously had to pause for a second to process that question. "Um, no."
"Well," she shrugged. "It's my child. And I paid for two seats."
Now, I don't like children. This is well known. I especially don't like parents who think their Goober is the world's most precious thing and that their every whim must be catered to, courtesy be damned.
Her father? Husband? Some random old dude she was with? interjected at this point. "Is that your seat?" he asked me, pointedly.
"Uh, yes."
He looked at me, eyebrows raised, probably wanting to challenge the fact that I switched seats. "That's your seat?"
"Yes," I said mocking his tone. "This is my seat. Look," I said (probably sounding pissed off, because I was really tired of my seat being jostled every two seconds). "All I'm saying is that there is no one in the middle seat, and I don't like my seat being banged on every two seconds." With that, I turned away. The mother told me that I was being rude. I snapped back at her "I was not rude, so don't you dare say that."
Ten minutes later, the Emirates steward came over to me and told me that if I was having an issue with the child, he could get me earplugs. Because earplugs totally erases the shaking of a chair for 6 hours.
When we finally landed in Rome (mercifully, the baby did switch to the middle seat so I was shake-free for the remaining four hours!) I attempted to find a taxi. I was accosted by the taxi sharks ("65 euros to the center!" No, thanks) but I managed to find a legit taxi and get to my hotel.
Rome itself was lovely. I do not want to dwell too long on this aspect, because I think the trip is best told through photos. However, I want to share the following fun story with you. As I was walking around, I passed through a square with lots of pigeons. In the middle of the square were a woman and her friend. The woman PICKED UP one of the pigeons and NUZZLED IT AGAINST HER CHEEK. I really hope she either a) had a rabies shot or b) was fond of being ill from bird flu.
"Scuzi!"
Leaving Rome was a breeze, for the most part. However, on the way to the airport, the car I was in was pulled over by the Gestapo (kidding – the carabiniere, but I keep calling them Gestapo in my head). Pulled over! And they took the drivers license? Registration? Something? and glanced at it for about ten minutes before giving it back and sending us on our way.
Then, at the airport, the gelato man yelled at me. Yes. A gelato man at the airport yelled at me because I asked if I could try one of the flavours before purchasing a 4 Euro cup of the stuff. YELLED. Excuse me, sir, you are selling crappy airport gelato. Calm down. The Italians were so friendly up until that point.
The significant thing to note about my return was that I was arriving in Dubai on Emirates, but leaving 6 hours later on Jazeera. I would be staying at the hotel in the actual duty free area of the terminal. The question: What to do with my suitcase?
The Suitcase Fiasco
I was told by everyone (in Dubai before I left, in Rome before I left, and in Dubai again before I checked into the hotel) that what I needed to do was leave my bag at baggage claim, then arrange for it to be picked up by Jazeera before my flight. I was understandably wary about this – had these people ever dealt with Jazeera, ever? – but went along with what they said. It was 1 a.m. by the time I crashed into the airport hotel bed and I needed to be at the transit desk by 5:30 to get everything taken care of.
I, of course, took the chance to sleep in and got to the desk by 5:45 a.m. At 1 a.m., there were 4 booths open and not a soul in sight. At 5:45 a.m., there were two Emirates booths open and one non-Emirates booth open – and probably 2 plane full of people trying to either transit or asking questions about transit.
I don't usually do this, but I cut the line at about 6:15. I had dealt with missing a Jazeera check in before – hello, do we all remember the Jordan incident? – and I didn't want a repeat. I told the guy behind the counter that I had to make my flight. He looked up at me. "Why?"
Why. WHY? What do you mean WHY? Who asks that kind of question? I responded that I had to get to work, but really – I think the fact that I had booked and paid for a seat means that I want to get on the plane. I explained my suitcase situation to him and he frowned. "You should have had it checked all the way from Rome," he told me.
"But I'm flying on different airlines. So…" I trailed off, thinking he would make the connection. "Still," he said. "I will send them a message now. Hopefully it will get there on time."
"I hate you all with the fire of a thousand suns," I thought.
After I got through the transit area, I had about 45 minutes until boarding. I ran to get makeup (hey, I am at work, needed to restock anyways, and need to look good for work) then ran to the gate. They had told me to inquire at the gate about my suitcase, if it had made it through. Panting, I arrived and asked the two ladies behind the gate counter about it. "You have to wait for Jazeera," one of them told me. "We have no information."
Okay. When do they come? "Five minutes, inshallah." I headed to Starbucks, to get breakfast. I came back to find a long line. As usual, when I am there the first time and can't be helped, no one is around. When I come back to be helped, suddenly half the airport needs help as well.
That's when I found out the fight was delayed for 45 minutes.
One of the Jazeera flight members walked by at that moment, and I stopped him to double check that fact (that I had heard from another passenger). He smiled at me. "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't know. I am just the ground staff."
Around 8 a.m. (a half hour after we were supposed to leave), we were allowed to enter the gate waiting area. The same two ladies were handling the tickets, and I asked one of them about my bag. "We don't know," she snapped at me. Bear in mind, she wasn't actually doing anything, just standing around. "You have to wait for Jazeera."
Really. How long is the wait? Oh, they'll be there in five minutes? You don't say!
Luckily, when I handed her my boarding card, a notice came up about my suitcase. It had made it through! Jazeera had done one thing right in their pitiful career as an airline.
I have clearly safely made it back to Kuwait. I am tired, but have lots of pictures to share from Roma. I want to be Italian. Seafood risotto is amazing. I threw a coin in the Fontana di Trevi, so hopefully I will return.
