Denver, Colorado
When we presented our boarding passes to the airport lounge attendant, she noted only first and business class passengers flying internationally are allowed access.
“We’re flying to Toronto,” I said.
“Exactly,” she replied. “I’m sorry.”
Only after showing her not one but two maps of Canada on my phone were we admitted.
But sometimes ignorance is indeed bliss:
London, United Kingdom
At the airline counter in Heathrow, I’m asking to change my two United tickets to Chicago for a pair on the Air Canada flight to Toronto. The agent—her name was Sarah—looked as though I’d just asked her recite the Illiad in Icelandic.
“Um…”
Turns out she’d only just finished training; mine was her first intra-alliance reticketing.
Sarah snagged another agent, who glanced at our Chicago tickets, banged on the keyboard for two minutes, told Sarah, “Okay, do this and this to finish it,” and left.
Sarah laboriously worked through the process.
“There,” she said ten minutes later. “I can print your boarding—Oh wait.” She squinted at the screen. “I don’t think I can do this.” She looked up at me. “We’re not supposed to reroute another carrier’s tickets through a different country.”
Me: “But it’s not a different country. It’s Toronto.”
Husband (who is Canadian AND WAS BORN IN TORONTO) made a small strangled sound. I stepped on his foot.
Sarah looked embarrassed. “Oh, duh. That’s New York, right?”
“Only if that whole 1812 thing had gone the other way,” Husband muttered. I pressed down harder on his foot and nodded.
Two minutes later we had our boarding passes. Three hours later we were in the air on our way to Toronto.
You know, in New York.
Husband may never speak to me again.
