Dante, of course, never flew from one pole of the Earth to the other, but I’m sure if he had, he would agree with me. Dante — and he should really count his blessings for this — never had to navigate the absolute hell of the world’s worst airline (Lufthansa) stranding him in a foreign city, without any food, water, hotel vouchers, or luggage. Dante couldn’t comprehend spending hours on a phone desperately hoping that a kind person would pick up. Dante should count his blessings.
If only I had Virgil to guide me.
As the astute reader may have gathered, I had a nightmare getting from London to New Zealand. I planned to fly from Heathrow to Munich, then to San Francisco, and then on to Auckland.
After getting up hideously early on December 14, I made my way to Heathrow via the notoriously unreliable Oxford airline bus. Unlike the previous week, where I was stranded on the M25 for six-plus hours thanks to a lorry that had suspiciously caught fire, I actually made it to the airport on time. This, however, was to no avail — I was forced to queue for over an hour to even get into the terminal itself. My flight was delayed one and a-half hours, but I figured that even with a three-hour layover, I had plenty of time.
It wasn’t until an hour into the flight that we learned we were to be diverted to Nuremberg, due to adverse weather conditions in Munich. I was mildly excited about this, as a historian who studied post-World War 2 Europe. But then, just as I was beginning to plan a short trip around the Palace of Justice, we were diverted again, this time to Stuttgart — famously the most boring city in Europe. Oh well, I reasoned. Surely Lufthansa would put us up in a hotel and rebook us on another flight the following day. Surely. Surely?!
Thus transpired some five-plus hours on the tarmac at Stuttgart airport. We were provided with one puny square of Lufthansa chocolate and a small bottle of water. Our eventual flight to Munich after a delicious near-eternal will-they-won’t-they tension proved ultimately fruitless. We finally arrived at Munich at 8pm to an empty terminal; a dearth of customer service, food, water, blankets, or hotel vouchers. My connecting flight to San Francisco had left some five hours earlier.
I managed to track down one hapless Lufthansa employer. The poor man was at the end of his tether and ran away from me, literally squawking with terror. A few hours later, my fellow travellers and I made it to H Terminal, where the only Lufthansa helpdesk was still operating. Finally, a detached,robotic voice announced that no flights were to be rebooked that evening. We were to find a hotel, if we liked (all hotels in the city were booked out). Unfortunately, due to supply issues, the airline could not provide us with food, water, or blankets.
But I was one of the lucky ones; I had a UK passport and a wonderful friend in Munich — my dear Ann-Kristin — who kindly put me up for two nights. In fact, after I waded through the hellscape that was Lufthansa’s customer service, we had a glorious time. It was a surprisingly delightful silver lining to the whole ordeal.
I could have easily given up at this point. After six hours, I finally got through to a lady at the help desk, who unhelpfully— if not cruelly — informed me that I could only apply for a partial refund as there were no flights leaving for New Zealand for the rest of the year. I burst into tears and hung up. Thankfully I had a friend from Oxford, who was well-versed in EU passenger rights and motivational phone calls. He called me, told me to stop crying, and gave me a list of laws and regulations to cite on my next call.
Miracles do happen. I was met with an angel on my second successful call to the Lufthansa helpdesk. I suspect she intuited the desperation in my voice because she booked me on a flight leaving the next day. I turned up at the airport the following morning, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, only to find that my flight from Munich to San Francisco had been delayed. Needless to say, I made it on to the flight with plenty of time to spare. I also noticed a young man a few rows ahead of me was holding a New Zealand passport.
The key to making it through international flight fiascoes is to make friends with travellers in the same boat (flight?) as oneself. My new friend Andrew (he had no choice in the matter) saved my sanity — via an artful game of Pictionary — and ensured I made the Auckland flight, despite the fact that as we landed in San Francisco, our connecting flight was boarding. He truly deserves his halo.
I have never run so fast in my life. I have never so desperately pleaded with airport staff members to let me through the interminable immigration and custom lines. I have never been so beholden upon literal strangers. I have never been so thankful for their kindness.
There’s not much I can say in conclusion. Lufthansa still hasn’t located my baggage. Neither have they apologised for the small-scale catastrophe they landed me in. In fact, they recently announced they were awarding their executives millions of euros in bonuses. I’ve yet to hear why they cannot afford to hire adequate staff for situations such as mine. Capitalism, eh?
All I know is that I will never be flying with them again. I also know that regardless, I am thankful to be back in Aotearoa. And I know that I am thankful for the friends I made on board — despite, or perhaps because of — the adverse circumstances.
The loss of my clothes, my makeup, and all my Christmas presents for my friends and family pales in comparison to what I would have lost had I not persisted with Lufthansa and my determination to make it to New Zealand.
- Jean Balchin, a former English student at the University of Otago, is studying at Oxford University after being awarded a Rhodes Scholarship.
