After a recent suitcase no-show at Houston's Bush International Airport (mind you I was there for a shaadi and instead of showing off my three meticulously chosen outfits, I flounced around in a friend's--Satvi, bless your soul--sari for the majority of the occasions), I consulted the foolishly christened baggage "help" desk. After enduring a week-long gauntlet of comatose agents, "please hold, ma'am's" and spelling and re-spelling my last name, we finally discovered that my bag had been mistagged and sent off to Belize. It enjoyed 5 days at a local warehouse before making its way back to La Guardia. Judging from the broken zipper, I think it had a fabulous time.
What frustrates me the most about this past week is not so much that my bag got mislabeled but that practically everyone I spoke to at Continental Airlines seemed to exhibit the I.Q. and compassion of a banana slug. One especially bright agent constantly confused Belize with Brazil, while another refused to acknowledge the fact that my bag had arrived in La Guardia until she decided to scroll down on her computer and followed up with a sheepish, "oops, I was just kidding." Not once was I apologized to for a mistake that was entirely the airlines' fault, and on multiple occasions I was bluntly informed that my bag would never return. FYI, the actual chances of a suitcase being permanently lost in airport oblivion is actually .005%.
I'll spare you from any diatribe-ish words on how I'll never fly Continental Airlines again (Though I really wouldn't. Ever. Again.) but the moral of the story? CHECK YOUR BAG TAGS, PEOPLE! 'Cause in the big bad delay and incompetence-driven world of airlines, no one can be trusted.
