Arrivederci: The Mishap in Milan Concludes

— After 3 days of mishaps, misdeeds, and mess-ups, normalcy pays a visit to the Milan traveler -- but not for long.


As a reader, you probably never imagined that an episode of lost luggage could turn into such a compelling story. Neither did I, until the luggage was my own.

Like a medical researcher "awaiting further results" from "more studies with larger sample sizes," I approached the first day of the European Hematology Association meeting with "cautious optimism." I planned to walk to the convention center, to protest the taxi drivers' protest strike, but I had to reach into my "Plan B" bag when I found myself still at the hotel only 15 minutes before the first program was scheduled to start.

If I have learned anything in my career, it's the necessity of always having a Plan B. Even if I don't have a Plan A. Of course, I don't literally have a bag for my B plans. I'm not Jack Bauer, running around with my man-purse emblazoned with "Plan B" on the side. If that were the case, people would always be chasing me and shooting at me because, let's face it: Who wouldn't want a bag of Plan B?

My plan B was simple: Call a taxi. My revenge on Milan's taxi drivers could wait for another day.

On the ride to the convention center, I contemplated suitably snarky comments for the cab driver, but I held my tongue, realizing that I had no idea where I was and this guy could drop me off anywhere and I wouldn't know the difference. I also realized that the convention center was not "just a few minutes' walk" from the hotel, just like the train station was not "just a few minutes' walk" from the hotel. This might shock some of you, but you really can't believe everything you read on the Internet -- unless it's from MedPage Today.

For those of you anticipating more mishaps and slapstick at my expense, I hate to disappoint you. My time at the EHA conference was remarkably unremarkable, considering all that preceded it.

Daily thunderstorms that started in the afternoon and continued into the evening kept me in my hotel room most of the time. For all but the last night of my stay, my meals consisted of the lukewarm offerings from the restaurant down the street.

On my last day in Milan, the rain stopped long enough for me to venture to a plaza lined with restaurants of every type. After perusing numerous menus, I decided on an establishment that boasted an impressive assortment of Northern Italian culinary delights. As I turned to walk toward the end of the street where the restaurant was located, the skies opened up again. I stood under an awning for several minutes, hoping against hope the rain would stop. It didn't.

Finally, I turned and entered the last establishment on my end of the street: Old Wild West, an "authentic" American-style steak and barbecue restaurant. At least the grilled chicken that I ordered had a slice of prosciutto and provolone cheese on it to remind me I was in Italy.

Déjà Vu All Over Again

The next morning, my trip to the airport went off without a hitch. The run of good fortune ended at the ticket counter, where the agent informed me that my flight to Newark was delayed by 1 1/2 hours. I was reminded of New York Yankees great Yogi Berra. During the 1961 baseball season, after watching Roger Maris and Mickey Mantle hit back-to-back home runs on several occasions, Yogi remarked, "This is like déjà vu all over again."

Given that my connecting flight was scheduled to take off about an hour after my arrival, I would have to switch to a flight that departed Newark for Houston an hour or so later. Despite insisting that I would take my chances, I allowed the agent to browbeat me into taking the later flight from Newark to Houston. In doing so, I gave up my primo aisle seat on an exit row for a seat on the first row behind first class -- the one where people with crying babies and contagious diseases often sit.

For most of the 7-hour flight from Milan to Newark, I stewed over the unhappy circumstances. But as the plane drew near to Newark, I realized that we had made up a lot of the time delay and I could still make my original flight. I rushed off the plane to the nearest customer service counter and requested my original flight.

I'm sorry, sir, the agent told me. That flight is full.

But I have a confirmed seat on it, I protested.

Yes, but when you switched flights, your seat was given to someone else.

Well, take it away from them and give it back to me, I said.

I'm sorry, sir. It doesn't work that way, she said.

If I had a crest, it most certainly would have fallen at that moment. As I trudged away from the counter, my mind was searching for Plan C or D or Z or anything that could fix the situation. Nothing came to mind.

As I pondered my next move -- and wondered whether I had reached checkmate -- I noticed a restaurant across the way and remembered that I had passed on the mystery meal served during the flight and had not eaten all day, and it was now late afternoon.

A Long-Forgotten Feeling

After I was seated at the restaurant, I pulled out my laptop and began looking for a solution. I went to the airline website, and to my amazement, I found another flight scheduled to depart just an hour after the one with the lousy seat behind first class. And the later flight had seats available -- including exit-row seats! I tried to switch flights but learned that I could do so only at the customer service counter.

I finished my meal and asked for the check. When the waiter returned, I gave him a credit card, and he left to process it. He returned in a few minutes, and I signed the receipt, pocketed my copy, and headed to the airline customer service counter. I took a few steps and reminded myself to check my shirt pocket to see whether I had put my credit card in there. I found only the paper receipt. I looked in my wallet. No credit card. I went back to my table and opened the folder containing the receipt -- no card. I looked under the table and chairs. Around the table. No card.

The waiter returned and I explained the situation.

Oh, the card was in there when I brought you the receipt, he said. I'm sure of it.

I looked some more. I checked all of my pockets and rechecked my wallet. No card. I stopped the waiter a second time and told him the card was nowhere to be found.

I don't know what to say. It was in the folder when I brought it to you, he said.

Just then, the manager stopped by. I explained the situation to him. He conferred briefly with the waiter and then said, I'm sure the waiter returned it. I processed it myself.

Something about the smugness of their facial expressions triggered something I hadn't felt in a long time. I stood and crossed my arms in front of me and, without even thinking, gave them "The Look." The one all three of my daughters remember from the times they had crossed the point of no return with their attitude. The one that Jack Bauer has right before he kicks the stuffing out of someone. I didn't realize I still had it in me.

The waiter and manager glanced at each other, and the manager turned and walked away, saying that he would take another look. He returned in a few minutes, holding the card aloft, smiling broadly. Your card, sir, he said. He placed the card on the table and walked away. No apology. Certainly no offer to comp my meal.

Plan B to the Rescue

I pocketed the card and headed to the customer service counter. The agent called up the flight in question, and said, I'm sorry, sir, that flight is full.

It can't be, I said. I checked just a little while ago and open seats were everywhere.

I'm sorry. It's completely full. Oh, wait. There is one seat left. Last row, middle seat.

I took a deep breath and told her I would stick with the flight I already had.

I'm sorry, sir. You've missed the boarding time for that flight.

Is there a later flight, I asked?

Yes, about 3 hours later.

I closed my eyes and heard my voice, but not me, tell the agent to give me the middle seat on the last row.

I walked to a nearby bench and sat down. I pulled out my laptop and took one last look for options. Suddenly, Plan B materialized. I would stay overnight and get a fresh start in the morning. I called the airline and informed the agent of my decision.

After a few moments, he said, Sorry, sir, but your itinerary doesn't permit an overnight stay.

You don't understand, I pleaded. I don't want to spend the night in Newark. I don't know of anyone who wants to spend the night in Newark.

I'm sorry, sir, but your itinerary doesn't permit an overnight stay.

Middle seat-last row, or the really late flight?

In another out-of-body (mind?) experience, I heard myself say, Put me on the really late flight.

The really late flight from Newark to Houston was crowded and uncomfortable, but otherwise uneventful. I wish I could say the same for my luggage. Oh, my bags had arrived well ahead of me. The trouble is, no one could find them. In a scene reminiscent of the search for my hotel in Milan, I went back and forth between two offices in baggage claim, where agents in each place insisted that the other office had the information on my bags. After about an hour of this, an employee walked outside to the area where baggage handlers stop the carts to unload bags onto the carousels. She returned with my bags. I guess someone forgot to bring them in, she said.

Thankfully, I remembered where I parked my car. As I drove home, the darkness was interrupted by a row of fast-food restaurants. I don't partake of fast food very often, but this was an occasion that I thought called for some comfort food. I pulled into a place that was closed but still served customers in the drive-thru. I paid for my order and drove to the darkened parking lot. I pulled out my food, wrapped in flimsy paper, and just as I was ready to take a bite, the bottom of the container tore open, and most of the contents fell into my lap.

After briefly contemplating dining off my lap -- after all, I had put on clean clothes before I left Milan -- I cleaned up as best as I could, and drove home.

As I approached the front door, it was after 2 a.m. Tuesday. By my calculations, I had been awake since sometime Sunday night, Houston time.

I recalled that I had told my wife not to activate the security system before going to bed. As I turned the key in the lock, I did so with some trepidation. A fitting end to this story would have me being hauled off to jail for breaking into my own home. Thankfully, the only sound came from the creaky door hinge.

Be it ever so humble ...