The story I don't want to tell

I searched for a relatively quiet spot in the cavernous expanse of the international terminal. Every few moments a new announcement would blast over the speakers making it nearly impossible for me to hear the less-than-thunderous recording on my phone.

“Philippine Airways wants to make your flight as pleasurable as possible. Please hang on the line for the next available agent. Your time to wait is……two hours………and fifty……two minutes.”

That’s what I think I heard. Not only was the voice murky but the content was so hard to believe that I think my mind refused to hear the content. But I was desperate to speak to someone, a real, live person. That was my only chance. My predicament was so improbable, so motley that I wasn’t sure I could explain it properly, when and if I could reach someone. There was no way I was going to the Philippines (after transferring in Tokyo) this day, but once the airline understood how I had been victimized they surely would extend themselves to make things right. 

 The ultimate villain, I knew, was Wells Fargo Bank, which had failed to secure a seat for me on the 12:20 flight to Tokyo. When I showed the gate agent for Philippine Airways my reservation on my phone he was perplexed. Generously he took my phone from me and walked down behind the counter to talk to someone up the chain of command. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t seem to have a seat in your name on this flight,” he had told me when I got to the checkin counter. I had my large backpack in one hand. As a veteran traveler I had made certain to tie up every loose strap so that the bag made a nice, concise package, just ready for throwing onto the conveyor belt. On my other shoulder I had my day pack stuffed with my computer, a couple books to read, the chargers for my phone and computer, and a notebook holding all the important info — the address and phone number of my hostel in Manilla; the details of my connecting flight to Puerto Princessa on the outer island of Palawan (where I’d be staying for three weeks); and assorted other necessary addresses and phone numbers. 

My Uber driver let me off at 9:10 a.m.,over three hours before my flight was to depart, yet, to my surprise, there was a long line waiting to check in. That produced a modicum of anxiety. The odd fact was that things often went wrong on my travels, despite the fact that I’d been on hundreds of flights to dozens of countries, not to mention zillions of flights within the USA. 

It had only been a few months since my best friend had excoriated me for…………..for being me, the slipshod, lazy, irresponsible person that I knew myself to be. When he cast me out of his life I was, nonetheless, thunderstruck. As I saw it my travel embroglios came from the same deep personality disorder that wrecked my most important relationship. {It didn’t help that my other two best friends — one from high school, one from my first real job — had ended for the same reason. They just got fed up with my incompetence.} 

Now I was standing at the PA counter wondering if I’d done it again. Was this another tomfoolery that would further confirm that I deserved to be alone in the world, that I was unfit for companionship with anyone? I didn’t want to accept another guilty verdict.  The agent made two trips to supervisors to try to reconcile what was on my phone (12:20 flight to Manila) with what was on his screen (no seat for Heverly). 

“I suggest you call Philippine Airways reservations, “ he told me. “Your bank has apparently failed to secure you a seat. This flight is sold out. My guess is that they didn’t realize that.”

So I dragged my bags away from the counter and towards the benches along the perimeter of the terminal. Once I secured the right phone number I said a silent prayer not only that I’d get to go to my destination but that I’d also avoid the calamity of confirming my own stupidity. Whatever happened I didn’t want it to be my fault. 

I wasn’t certain that my phone battery would last nearly three hours. And I feared the phone might slip from my grasp and disconnect my call — back to the end of the queue! In the distance I spied a hallway that led to the airport medical center. I found a dark hallway rimmed with comfortable seats. It was quiet, certainly quiet enough for me to hear this vital phone call. 

“Philippine Airways wants to make your flight as pleasurable as possible. Please hang on the line for the next available agent. Your time to wait is……one hour………and thirty-two minutes.”

Aha! One of my hopes realized. Other, less valiant, call-holders had obviously given up, putting me nearly an hour closer to my reckoning. 

I opened up my day pack and drew out my computer and a few more necessities. I tried to set myself up as comfortably as possible, spreading myself across two seats. I would need all my energy to prevail upon the airline representative to take pity on me. Maybe there would be a record of Wells Fargo’s attempt to ticket me. I rehearsed my speech trying to convey the most salient information in the shortest time. There would be others waiting to speak to him/her so I had to be cordial but forceful.

“Philippine Airways wants to make your flight as pleasurable as possible. Please hang on the line for the next available agent. Your time to wait is……forty-five minutes.” In twenty minutes I had gone from 3 hours to less than one! 

Less than five minutes later I heard a click. “Hello, Philippine Airways, how may I help you?” It was time.

I took a deep breath and began my spiel.

Before I’d gotten ten words out I heard, “Hello, can you hear me? Hello?”

I raised my voice (I’m always too timid I told myself.)

“Hello?” came through my speaker. And then………..another click. He was gone. 

I felt defeated in every sinew of my body. My first thought was to give up and hail an Uber back to Eleventh Avenue. How would I explain myself to Medy, my friend and house sitter. She was depending on me. Her own apartment was moldy and occasionally rat infested. I knew she looked forward to having a comfortable home to shelter her for the two months I was to be away. How could I explain to her the collapse of my plans?

I sealed up both backpacks and trudged towards the glass doors that separated me from the outside world. As I hit the swinging doors I felt the slap of the cold San Francisco wind coming off the ocean. I thought about my flight. It was just about 12:20 now. All those folks I’d seen on line at the counter were chattering expectantly as the plane taxied to the runway, at least in my imagination. The air seemed to clear my head a bit.

I went back inside and found a corner wall spot where I could sprawl out on the cold, slick linoleum. I opened my computer and reconnected to the SFO wifi. I googled email addresses for the Philippine Airways reservation offices, one in Burlingame, one in San Francisco. I sent messages to both, pleading for assistance. But even as I finished the second email I realized I was probably barking up the wrong tree. The fault was with Wells Fargo. That was where I should seek a helping hand.

Back to Google, this time to the Wells Fargo website. The number was found and the call initiated. My butt was getting a little sore from the hard flooring but my desperation overcame any discomfort. The terrifying thought occurred to me that my phone might be defective. If I connected would they hear me? In a few minutes I was through to a gentle-sounding woman. I spoke as loudly as I thought I could without scaring off the person on the other end of the line. 

I had bought a round trip ticket to Manila using my WF credit card bonus program. (This had to help. Wells Fargo wouldn’t want a blemish on this system.) When I got to the counter, I related, they had no seat for me. 

This woman was an angel. She oozed sincere sympathy for my plight. There it was, she told me, a flight under my name for 12:20 from SFO stopping in Tokyo. She was as confused as I (bless her!) Why was there no seat with my name affixed? She told me how upset she would be to be in my shoes. What a horrible nightmare. 

“What should I do?” I asked her. She paused. The line was silent. At first I thought we might have been disconnected. I needed to keep her on the line, she was my only hope.

“I tried calling Philippine Airways but couldn't get through,” I told her. (You see, I’ve been doing my part, I’m not a slacker asking you to rescue me.)

“Philippine Airways? No, your flight is with All Nippon Airways.” 

Instantly a picture formed in front of my eyes, the reservation page that I had shown to the PA agent. Top left, in small but bold letters it read ANA. What I had taken as a flight designation was the initialism of the airline. 

I couldn’t speak for half a minute. Then I burst forth with my confession to angel lady. It had been there all along right in front of my face. (I soon cast forth my defense; the PA agent had looked at the same page and hadn’t noticed the airline name.) I quickly apologized to the lady and hung up. 

What I wanted most of all was a true, impregnable defense of my own self. 

My return flight was with PA. 

Repeatedly I had received emails over the past two months from Philippine Air telling me of a small change in my return flight time (thus cementing in my mind the idea that PA was my carrier.) 

Everything (at least to me) reinforced the notion that I was flying to the Philippines on Philippine Airways. 

It was no use, though. I had squandered $1,500. The money mattered but the true wound was the endorsement of my own failings, the causes of my loneliness, a much more damaging dose of agony. 

As Michael Phillips wrote (The Seven Laws of Money) the dollars are just a measuring rod, what’s being judged is the character of the person. 

I went home and explained to Medy what I’d done, leaving out a few details that were too painful to confess. I checked Expedia for flights to Manila, but the cheapest was $3,000. I ultimately found flights to Europe for under 2k and headed off for Amsterdam.