"there's nowhere to go but on"
Jun. 15th, 2011 09:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mcityUpon arriving at Manchester Airport, I was immediately lost.
There's a video display board at the top of the steps from the train station. It lists which terminal each airline is in. Two screens, and then a "More coming..." message.
It never advanced.
So. 200 metres into the station, and I had no idea where to go.
Naturally, I walked across the landing I was on, to see if there was another screen on the other side. I found an old-fashioned paper display with the relevant information. I headed for the moving walkway.
Visible outside the glass tube that was the moving walkway were curved walls along a roadway, arranged not unlike a series of waves, with gaps in between them which were filled with foliage. I quickly deduced their purpose.
"Audio baffles," I imagined myself saying authoritatively to a rapt audience. "They keep the sound from the noisy bit over there. Of course," I would admit with a shrug, "that's just a guess. I don't design airports."
"Interesting," my audience would say, and then we'd continue on in silence, having exhausted the current subjects for wall-and-plant related conversation. On the way out, I would come up with an excellent explanation of why moving walkways were segmented.
Upon arrival at the terminal, I informed a cheery lady at the relevant ticket counter of my situation.
She made made a call, and as if in a dream, I listened to a familiar dial-an-option menu. I smiled at the irony of going twenty miles to end up with the exact same reservations line I called from home.
In between periods of waiting, I informed a cheery lad named Saul of my situation, and informed him that I wanted to switch my ticket to the 21th, no, June, not July.
Jet2* employees sure had cute garrison caps.
After a certain amount of waiting, the line went dead. I noticed the difference between American and British disconnect tones. The nice lady apologized, and said she'd call the next man up the chain.
Despite my purchase of a Burger King breakfast that had nearly been too much for me, I went to the nearby vending machine and purchased an energy drink. Specifically, Mountain Dew Energy. After wondering why the bottle was such a shade of safety-vest yellow, I found marveled how tens of thousands of dollars worth of research went into making it taste like every other overcaffinated energy drink ever.
By the time I got back to the counter, the nice ticket lady had gotten a supervisor, Cyril, using an internal number. She handed the phone to me.
Hello, Cyril.
I gave Cyril my name and reference number, and he put me on hold. Some time later, he came back.
"You wanted to travel on the 21st July?"
No, Cyril, I told Saul June.
Cyril told me he was trying to get in tough with Fares. I'm not sure why Ticketing, Reservations, and Fares are three seperate departments. After waiting a while, I became aware of a disquiet in my soul. Or, more accurately, my lower abdomen.
Cyril came back on the line, to inform me that he was still trying to get through, and if I would mind waiting a little. I informed him of my pressing need, and nipped off to the loo, where I contemplated the fact that the poor people were just doing their jobs. One of the ticket ladies had mentioned to another that London reservations were busy, so it was no wonder that they were having trouble getting through. I assume that Cyril was waiting on someone just as I was. all in all, I had been pretty patient so far, hanging about with a bemused-slash-frustrated smile, and reading a book I had bought along for the train. I knew what they were going through; I had seen almost five whole minutes of A&E's "Airline" once.
When I returned, Cyril hadn't called back, and the rather nice ladies growing more and more apologetic. I kinda felt sorry for them, what with having a 6' 4" Afro-Caribbean man lounging casually around their counter--actually--the abandoned counter next door. Security didn't bother me, and I got one false alarm phone call, which was just Cyril telling me they were still trying to get through to fares. I was starting to develop a personal enmity for Fares. What had I ever done to them? Did they have something against tall, intelligent, incredibly handsome black men? The world may never know.
Eventually, Cyril came back. And took my debit card number, address, and email, and informed me that I should be charged soon, with the new e-ticket sent to my address. After which, I struck out for the train station. On the one hand, I had spent an awful lot of time here. On the other, I had finished one great book on the train, made headway into another, learned which route I would have to take, and learned that we were only allowed 100ml of liquid. I would have to check my deodorant's weight when I got home. Also, given the travel time and time buffer us jet-setting world travelers are told to leave, I would have to wake up at 6 AM.
Overall, I spent a bit over an hour, and barring the time loss, I ended up spending less money than I would've spent by phone.
*Not, in fact, Jet2. I am not so stupid as to post my travel plans online, or even which terminal, or even the travel people's real names. I might not even have drank Mountain Dew.
There's a video display board at the top of the steps from the train station. It lists which terminal each airline is in. Two screens, and then a "More coming..." message.
It never advanced.
So. 200 metres into the station, and I had no idea where to go.
Naturally, I walked across the landing I was on, to see if there was another screen on the other side. I found an old-fashioned paper display with the relevant information. I headed for the moving walkway.
Visible outside the glass tube that was the moving walkway were curved walls along a roadway, arranged not unlike a series of waves, with gaps in between them which were filled with foliage. I quickly deduced their purpose.
"Audio baffles," I imagined myself saying authoritatively to a rapt audience. "They keep the sound from the noisy bit over there. Of course," I would admit with a shrug, "that's just a guess. I don't design airports."
"Interesting," my audience would say, and then we'd continue on in silence, having exhausted the current subjects for wall-and-plant related conversation. On the way out, I would come up with an excellent explanation of why moving walkways were segmented.
Upon arrival at the terminal, I informed a cheery lady at the relevant ticket counter of my situation.
She made made a call, and as if in a dream, I listened to a familiar dial-an-option menu. I smiled at the irony of going twenty miles to end up with the exact same reservations line I called from home.
In between periods of waiting, I informed a cheery lad named Saul of my situation, and informed him that I wanted to switch my ticket to the 21th, no, June, not July.
Jet2* employees sure had cute garrison caps.
After a certain amount of waiting, the line went dead. I noticed the difference between American and British disconnect tones. The nice lady apologized, and said she'd call the next man up the chain.
Despite my purchase of a Burger King breakfast that had nearly been too much for me, I went to the nearby vending machine and purchased an energy drink. Specifically, Mountain Dew Energy. After wondering why the bottle was such a shade of safety-vest yellow, I found marveled how tens of thousands of dollars worth of research went into making it taste like every other overcaffinated energy drink ever.
By the time I got back to the counter, the nice ticket lady had gotten a supervisor, Cyril, using an internal number. She handed the phone to me.
Hello, Cyril.
I gave Cyril my name and reference number, and he put me on hold. Some time later, he came back.
"You wanted to travel on the 21st July?"
No, Cyril, I told Saul June.
Cyril told me he was trying to get in tough with Fares. I'm not sure why Ticketing, Reservations, and Fares are three seperate departments. After waiting a while, I became aware of a disquiet in my soul. Or, more accurately, my lower abdomen.
Cyril came back on the line, to inform me that he was still trying to get through, and if I would mind waiting a little. I informed him of my pressing need, and nipped off to the loo, where I contemplated the fact that the poor people were just doing their jobs. One of the ticket ladies had mentioned to another that London reservations were busy, so it was no wonder that they were having trouble getting through. I assume that Cyril was waiting on someone just as I was. all in all, I had been pretty patient so far, hanging about with a bemused-slash-frustrated smile, and reading a book I had bought along for the train. I knew what they were going through; I had seen almost five whole minutes of A&E's "Airline" once.
When I returned, Cyril hadn't called back, and the rather nice ladies growing more and more apologetic. I kinda felt sorry for them, what with having a 6' 4" Afro-Caribbean man lounging casually around their counter--actually--the abandoned counter next door. Security didn't bother me, and I got one false alarm phone call, which was just Cyril telling me they were still trying to get through to fares. I was starting to develop a personal enmity for Fares. What had I ever done to them? Did they have something against tall, intelligent, incredibly handsome black men? The world may never know.
Eventually, Cyril came back. And took my debit card number, address, and email, and informed me that I should be charged soon, with the new e-ticket sent to my address. After which, I struck out for the train station. On the one hand, I had spent an awful lot of time here. On the other, I had finished one great book on the train, made headway into another, learned which route I would have to take, and learned that we were only allowed 100ml of liquid. I would have to check my deodorant's weight when I got home. Also, given the travel time and time buffer us jet-setting world travelers are told to leave, I would have to wake up at 6 AM.
Overall, I spent a bit over an hour, and barring the time loss, I ended up spending less money than I would've spent by phone.
*Not, in fact, Jet2. I am not so stupid as to post my travel plans online, or even which terminal, or even the travel people's real names. I might not even have drank Mountain Dew.
