Virgin Atlantic Part I

**I had a lovely first post for resuming this blog that I had written during my eleven hour layover in Heathrow airport. I had planned to post it as soon as I arrived in Nairobi.

That was the plan. I have incredible luck with airlines.**

My first impressions with Virgin Atlantic air were positive. They had good service, great in-flight accommodations, nice people, ETC. But they have some crooked policy enforcement.

About to board my flight to Nairobi after being up for some 36 hours of travel, I started to feel a little ill. I got to my gate and boarded the plane fine. Unfortunately, however, I was feeling a little nauseous. Now, I don’t mean to be graphic, but you know how if you feel sick to your stomach, throwing up usually makes you feel loads better? Well rather than take off with an upset stomach, I went to the lavatory as the rest of the plane was boarding and puked. Maybe I should have done it earlier or perhaps I shouldn’t have spared my neighbor in 45G the courtesy and just used an air sickness bag in my seat. Regardless, it was the cabin crew’s cabin-check time when I emerged and a flight attendant flagged me down and sat me in another seat. “You look terrible? Are you feeling okay? Were you just ill?” I was still a little woozy and apparently this didn’t yield the appropriate reply.

Two other flight attendants came over to my seat with a yellow garbage bag, a pair of rubber gloves and a 40oz. bottle of water. “I think we should de-board her,” one of them said.

“Yeah, she looks terrible,” another one agreed.

“Flight attendants unsecure the doors and cross-check,” came over the airline speakers.

Shit.

A woman in a pressed red suit and platinum blonde bun brought my carry-on bag to me along with another 40 oz. bottle of water and extra air-sickness bags. “Come on, let’s get you off.” Before I could say otherwise they had shooed my off the plane onto the jet-bridge telling me I’d be put on the next available flight to Nairobi (which, by the way, they said would be the following day).

Back in the terminal they sat me down on the cold, black benches of the empty waiting area and scurried off to the check-in counter computer to make some phone calls. A London Ambulance Service medic came into the room twenty minutes later to check my vitals. Everything was fine. I told her I felt a bit sick on the plane, but was fine aside from feeling a little nauseous. “You’re fine,” she said. “Must have been just a little bug. Don’t eat any dairy or meats for a while and drink plenty of water.” Mmhmm.

I sat on the cold chairs alone for another five minutes and watched my plane back away from the terminal.

Goodbye, Nairobi. Maybe next time.

A flight attendant came over to me and said, “I’m sorry, but there are no flights to Nairobi tomorrow. The best we can do is put you on a flight out on Thursday night.”

**For those of you who don’t know, I was set to arrive in Nairobi at 8am on Wednesday. I’m working with another professor on establishing a photo-monitoring methodology for eco-agriculture landscapes. And our first day in the field was scheduled for Thursday. Fantastic.**

I asked if there were any other flights that would get me there by Thursday morning. “You kicked me off this flight and now you’re going to make me late?” I said. They looked at my blankly and returned to the desk to make some more phone calls.

A flight attendant came back with a cell phone pressed against her palm. “Lindsay? I have a hotel on the line, would you like me to make you a reservation for two nights?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t want to leave this airport unless I’m on a flight to Nairobi.”

“The rate is £160. It’s a lovely little hotel… That’s the best rate I can find so far.”

I didn’t answer.

A man walked into the waiting area wheeling a folded wheelchair in front of him and stopped next to the row of benches I had been placed upon. The group of flight attendants slowly started to dwindle, leaving one by one until I was left alone with the wheelchair man and the hotel inquiring attendant.

“Now I’m sorry, but you cannot stay in the terminal, you’re ill. You should be in a bed and get some rest.” She directed me to sit in the wheelchair, as it was a long walk back from the terminal gate. I sat down and they piled my carry-on bags on my lap.

We started walking back towards the main terminal as the woman made several phone calls to different hotels in the London area.

“Yes, hello? Hi. I’m from Virgin Atlantic Airways and I have an offloaded passenger that needs a hotel room for two nights. What’s your best rate? £160? Ok, thanks.”
Seemingly identical conversations were taking place as they wheeled me through the back passageways and elevators of the airport. As we came into the large, industrial-like customs room and approached the immigration woman, I told the flight attendant, “I don’t want to leave. I can’t afford your hotels.”

She looked at me quietly for a while and said, “You can’t stay in the terminal.”

She looked up to the immigration woman and said, “I have an offloaded passenger.” She started to fill out an immigration card on my behalf. “Can I have your passport, please?”

Wheeled through customs and into the baggage claim room the flight attendant picked up my offloaded bag and we exited between signs that read, “You cannot return after this point” and “Welcome to London!”

They wheeled me over to the hotel reservations and information desk, parked me a few feet away from the counter and began to discuss rates with the man at the counter. “Everything is booked tonight, it’s very busy,” he said. They started to phone through a list of hotel numbers.

£160 ($231). £100 ($144). £80 ($115). £45 ($65). They narrowed the prices down to, granted, cheaper fares, but still outrageous prices for my wallet. After presenting their lowest bid of £45 she said, “Of course, you’ll also have to pay for a taxi to get there.”

“How much will that cost?” I asked.

“Between 30 and 40 pounds, probably,” the flight attendant said.

I had $160 cash and a $50 bill for my Kenyan visa in my wallet. As ludicrous as I thought it was, it was clear I wasn’t going to get any help from the airline that night. The best I could do would be calling the insurance company and make a claim after the fact. Whether or not they would cover it, because this is apparently a Virgin Atlantic policy is still questionable.

One of the airport service assistants who was helping with the whole process and noticed the obvious sense of frustration and distress on my face approached me and said, “I know a cheap hostel that’s open right now. They can rent you a room for half the price and it’s a bus ride away from the airport.” He walked a few steps away and dialed a number on his phone. He came back and handed me the phone.

“Hello?”

An Indian woman with a British accent was on the other end and she asked me how much I was willing to pay.

Nothing, I thought, this is bullshit.

After no reply from me and a short silence she asked me how much the hotels were going to cost. “Forty-five pounds,” I said.

“Okay, okay. I have a room you can have for £25 pounds a night. It has kitchen, bathroom. It’s very nice,” she said.

Meanwhile, the flight attendant was calling a taxi company and asked me if she could order me a car. Contemplating whether or not I should take the deal or not I said yes to her. She hung up the phone shortly after and told me she was going home.

Looking at the few dollars and pounds in my wallet and entirely too bitter at the Virgin Atlantic staff, I decided to take up the hostel offer. The service assistant gave me transportation directions and an two and half hours after I was supposed to depart for Nairobi, I was in a cold, twin bed in Hounslow Middlesex for two days and two nights.

Still feeling slightly nauseous.

**Part II of this wonderful adventure to come…
SPOILER ALERT: I make it to Nairobi, but Part II isn't necessarily fun...**