Posts Tagged “cascading failure”

I am back on the system. Please clean up your act.

But seriously folks, I took a bus to work and a train back today, and despite all the petty annoyances, it felt great. I’m sure I’ll fall back into rail rage sooner or later, but if I can find that article I once read that indicated that a big part of transit system delays could be traced to passengers on the platform crowding the doors before people could get off, and people in the train not clearing the doors for people to get on, I’ll be sure to blog about that here.

In retrospect, I should have known this was going to be a tough trip when, at 2am on the Champs-Élysées, three witches joined the taxi queue behind me. Eighteen hours later, I was eating dinner in a Greek restaurant in Brussels. Now, a further 12 hours into the journey, I’m in London’s Heathrow Airport. I should be home in 12 more.

UPDATE

Home now, going through my notes while attempting to compile an expense report, I found the key folder from the hotel in Brussels. I had used it to jot notes on. But check out the hotel’s disclaimer on that page.

Other notes on that scrap include “the TGV ticket machine hates me,” “Greco-Belgian dining: lights out for the flambee” [sic] “Toilet at CDG: € 0.50″ and my favorite even though I don’t really remember why I wrote it, “Pardon me, do you have any pschitt?” There’s an alternate citation for Pschitt in Ennnis’ photostream, although it’s actually my photo from last year’s trip to France.

BACKDATE

I arrived at Charles De Gaulle airport around 11am for my 1:15 flight. I knew there was a cabin crew strike, but all the information I had gleaned suggested that long-haul flights were unaffected. It didn’t take long for me to figure out how good my gleaning had been. There were three flights to the US that had not been canceled. All three departed at 1:15pm. I estimate that each one was a 747 and that all 1,500 passengers-to-be were standing in a long snaking line, and it was not moving at all.

3pm. There were only ten or a dozen people in front of me when they stopped checking passengers in for the formerly 1:15pm flights. The most patient man I’ve ever seen explained again and again that there was a mandated ratio of passengers to crew, and since they didn’t have a full crew, they could not load all the passengers. He looked me right in the face and without even the trace of a smile, he said, “you should come back on Tuesday.”

Almost any other week, I might have said, sure, I’ll spend a weekend in Paris, why not? But this was Friday afternoon and I was already missing part of Podcamp Boston 2, and if I didn’t make it back by Saturday evening, I would miss the Photographic Resource Center’s Annual Benefit Auction. This was not on my menu.

A few (very expensive) calls to American Express Travel eventually netted me a flight early the next morning from Brussels to London and (after a 7-hour layover) home. I went downstairs to the train station to buy a train ticket to Brussels. I thought that would be the easy part.

It was not to be. The line at the ticket office was absurd. I went to the ticket machine. The touchscreen did not acknowledge my finger. I gave it the finger and tried a different machine, joining the queue behind a nun. The machine declined her credit card. Not a good sign at all. Turns out the machine didn’t like my plastic either. A good samaritan accepted cash and used her own credit card to book passage for both of us.

TGV: “train à grande vitesse“ the romance of the original high-speed bullet train. Now we’re traveling in style. Oh, but it’s running an hour and a half late. Finally, the train arrived, I boarded, found my place. Shortly after departure, a group of older men stood up in their seats, produced sheet music, and began to sing, barbershop harmony style, a tune I recognized after a moment…

C’est une chanson qui nous ressemble.
Toi, tu m’aimais et je t’aimais
Et nous vivions tous deux ensemble,
Toi qui m’aimais, moi qui t’aimais.
Mais la vie sépare ceux qui s’aiment,
Tout doucement, sans faire de bruit
Et la mer efface sur le sable
Les pas des amants désunis.

They ran out of steam a couple of times and despite the scattered applause, packed up their music and sat down again. I suppose I was lucky to have gotten even that much live entertainment, Autumn Leaves – or rather Les Feuilles Mortes – is a favorite of mine.

I made do with my ipod until we got to Lille, the last stop in France and about 3/4 of the way to Brussels. There, the lights inside the train switched off and very unwelcoming sounding announcements in French and Dutch came over the PA. Apparently, this TGV had run out of V. I followed the barbershop singers and others as they left the train cursing heartily in Dutch. Half an hour later, we were on another TGV, but nobody seemed to feel like singing anymore.

I checked in to my hotel in Brussels at 9pm and asked for a 4:30am wakeup call, then set out for dinner.

I thought it would be nice to spend the weekend in Chicago.  Catch up with some local friends, eat some food, see some art, get away from the grind.  Synchronicity started working in my favor – other people I know were going to be in Chicago, I got good recommendations on things to do, the Asian American Jazz Festival is on, the Direct Marketing Association Conference is in town.  I was all set late last night having packed my things in a carryon-only format with minimal liquids and no film.

4:00am.  The phone rings.  I’m not a panicky sort of person, but when the phone rings at an odd hour like that, I tend to assume that somebody has been taken ill or worse.  It was nothing that bad, it was just AirTran calling to let me know that my 8:05am flight was cancelled, but not to worry, I was now booked on the 4:47pm.  A weekend is not a long time, and a flight delay of 8 daylight hours was going to put a real dent in my R&R.  Plus, I was now awake at 4am, which is almost never good.  I have to give credit to AirTran for having a live person call to deliver this news to me, but that live person was not able to give any assistance on other options so he transferred me to hold for 20 minutes.  After that I learned that the other option was to fly to Chicago with stops in Dayton and Atlanta, arriving mid-afternoon.  I extracted a promise that my fare would be refunded if I made other plans and I hit the net.

Kayak.  United.  JetBlue.  SeatGuru.  I found similar non-stop flights on United for a lot more money, but I was able to get them with 25,000 otherwise worthless frequent flyer miles, $5 in taxes and a $75 last-minute booking fee.  Bloodsuckers.  I called AirTran back to arrange my refund and begin my lifelong boycott of their service and sat on hold for almost an hour until I fell asleep.  Oops.

Logan.  Terminal C.  This used to be Delta’s terminal.  Looks the same.  Smells the same.  I’m on hold with AirTran again while awaiting boarding.  I’ve been on this flight before too, it continues to Hong Kong after a layover and a plane change in Chicago.  (How can it be the same flight number when it’s a different plane to a different place?)  Finally connected to AirTran, I get my refund squared away quickly.  They might have failed for reliability and hold times, but their agents were pleasant and competent.  Middle seat, but economy plus.  I use the premier boarding line so I actually get some overhead space for my bag.  I think I recognize one of the flight attendants.

O’Hare.  Arrivals.  Deep-dish pizza.  Hot dogs with lots of toppings.  I can walk faster than those moving walkways.  I can walk faster than most of the people walking on the walkways, including the speed of the walkways.  Text messages start arriving.  L is delayed at Logan, N is stuck in the middle of nowhere because his Westbound train knocked the Eastbound train off its tracks.  Nobody is injured, but hours of delay are promised for all.  Good thing dinner reservations are not till 8:30.  Fancy vegetarian restaurant, but we were planning to eat fatty pastrami for lunch to ensure balance.

Chicago El.  $2 fare.  Eighteen Blue Line stops to Monroe in the Loop.  Takes a mildly scenic hour, then a quick walk to the Palmer House Hilton, where N has warned me that the rooms are not all that grand and where my parents will be staying in a week or two for a family wedding.  My missions:  check in early, check the place out, try to weasel a better rate.

Lobby.  Renovation.  I realize too late that I’m on the regular line not the Hilton HHonors line, but my reservation includes that vital information.  Yes, they have a room ready now.  Yes, they have a rate for the Direct Marketing Conference.  No, they do not ask me for proof that I’m a member or conference attendee.  I’m not.  Shhh.  Vouchers so I don’t have to pay $3 if I open the bottled water in the room.  Membership has its privileges.  Room is renovated, clean.  Directions to Starbucks are on a sheet of paper on the desk.  Luck is changing.

Starbucks.  Tall soy no-whip mocha.  Toasted turkey sandwich.  Pastrami will have to wait, maybe for Monday.  These Chicago pastrami joints are so goyishe, they’re closed Sunday.  I see the barista make a drink, but he’s put whipped cream on it so it must not be mine.  Then he spoons off the whipped cream and pours more foam on top and calls the drink.  “Tall soy no-whip mocha!”  I ask him, “Didn’t you put whipped cream on that?”  “Yes,” he says, “but I took it off.”  I merely prefer soy milk and no whipped cream in my coffee drinks, but for all he knows, I could be deathly allergic to milk.  I’m offended that he’s trying to pass his sloppy barista-ing off on me and ask him to make it again.  He makes another one, apologizes and hands over a free drink coupon.  A free drink coupon specifically designed to apologize for service that was “anything but wonderful.” A free drink coupon that gets rung up as a “Recovery Cert.”

Maybe the AirTran people should spend some time behind the espresso bar.