Sometimes I amaze myself. . . .
There was a 36-hour period last weekend which was pretty interesting, to say the least.
Here’s a chronology of events:
(AUTHOR’S NOTE: The prolific use of adjectives like fantastic and amazing is purposeful and accurate.)
It’s the final day of another amazing WOW! journey to Cuba, with a group of 16 extraordinary travelers. Marilyn (that’s me) decides that her sensible walking shoes are too hot (actually, that’s not the real reason) and decides to wear some cute sandals instead. (NOTE: She sometimes does not follow her own advice. Just ask her husband!)
We’d enjoyed another fantastic lunch, served on gorgeous vintage dinnerware, while being serenaded by another fantastic musical group. We’d done a “Show & Tell” of the fantastic art pieces we’d each discovered during our 45 minutes of free time. I offered to find the shop where I’d purchased this amazing (or should I repeat “fantastic” one more time for emphasis?) piece – a mask painted on a piece of palm frond. I rushed off to locate the shop.
Privately-owned restaurants – in private homes – with family-owned vintage table settings
Some of my WOWees enjoying another delicious lunch in Trinidad
I knew exactly where it was: on the corner of a cobblestone street of candy-colored buildings. (Did I mention that all the buildings in 500-year-old Trinidad are candy colored and all the streets are cobblestone?)
That shop? I know it’s around here somewhere . . . . . .
Anyway, in my haste, I stepped off a sidewalk onto the cobblestone, slipped and fell. Whoopsie! I knew instantly that I’d hurt my ankle and my wrist. A bystander hurried to help me up – grabbing me by the wrist (ouch!) . . .
Fortunately, the ankle – though tender – didn’t hurt too bad. No obvious limping. The wrist? … that was gonna hurt.
Went back to the restaurant to get a bag of ice. In LA, every waiter is an aspiring actor. In Cuba, every waiter is a university-trained expert (who make LOTS more money in the hospitality industry). My waiter had been trained as a physical therapist, so he gave me lots of helpful advice (telling me not to hold the ice directly on the area but rather to massage it with the ice).
After dinner in this charming 500-year-old town (yet another one!), several of us went to the local open-air Casa de la Trova (House of the Music), which happened to be directly across from my hotel room. For the past two nights I had fallen asleep to some outstanding music and was determined to experience the place before we left. It was packed with locals of all ages – including cool young guys who, in our country, wouldn’t be caught dead in a place where their parents and grandparents hung out. The entertainers could have been headliners anywhere in the U.S. – they were that good. (Say what you will about Fidel Castro, but the Cuban government has proactively supported the arts and artists, musicians and dancers for the past 50+ years … )
Casa de la Trova – the “happening” place in Sancti Spiritus
The dancers were as amazing as the musicians. I invited to dance by one of the better dancers among the locals. Having watched him spin his partners with some snazzy salsa moves, I pointed to my now seriously-swollen wrist and told him I needed to be careful. He took that as an opportunity to dance really, really, really close. I don’t know if he thought I might take him home with me, but it didn’t work!
We had a doctor in the group who had given me liberal doses of Motrin, but despite this, my wrist was looking increasingly ugly this morning. Fortunately, it didn’t hurt much. My bag of ice had melted during the 2-hour bus ride to the airport in Cienfuegos and again on the 60-minute flight to Miami where, at the baggage claim, Dr. Rhonda (a radiologist) looked at my wrist with a worried look and a strong suggestion that I get it x-rayed as soon as possible. Her exact words: “That doesn’t look good.”
Yikes! I hadn’t been too concerned up to this point because I wasn’t in excruciating pain. But I managed to clear the waitlist and boarded a slightly earlier AA flight for the 5+ hour flight to LAX – me with my dripping plastic bag.
AA#231 touches down on schedule. I’ve already decided that I’m going straight to the E.R. to get my wrist x-rayed. But first, I need to pick up a rental car from Dollar. Why am I renting a car in LA? Because my precious little TT has died (another story for another blog) and, with all the traveling I’ve been doing this month, I haven’t had time to buy a new car. It’s a blessing, really, because it would be impossible to drive a stick shift in my condition.
The wrist … looking mighty ugly
LAX is a zoo on Sunday night. They’ve closed lanes for construction and it’s just plain gridlocked. As I exited the terminal, a Dollar shuttle bus was just pulling away. Fifteen minutes later, another Dollar shuttle drove past as I waited under the purple sign because there were three other shuttle buses blocking him out. It was almost an hour before I got a bus to the rental car facility. I was practicing patience, but it was wearing thin.
Thankfully, there were very few people at the Dollar facility. I got my contract and was directed to the mid-size section of the lot, where I could choose any car I wanted. I claimed a VW-something with a hatchback because I thought it would be a little easier to heave my luggage with my one good hand. I drove to the exit and handed my contract to a little Hispanic man.
“You can’t take this car. It’s been sold. You have to go back and get a different car,” he said, without a shred of apology or concern.
“Excuse me?” I stammered.
He repeated his line. “You can’t take this car. You have to pick a different one. Put this car over by that wall and go back to the lot and get a different car,” he insisted.
“You want me to walk all the way back to the lot because you guys made a mistake? Are you kidding me?”
I held up my swollen wrist. “I have a broken hand, I’ve been flying for many hours and it’s 2 o’clock in the morning on my body clock. And you expect me to park the car over there and walk all the way back to the lot to get a different car?” My voice was wavering and I was on the verge of tears. (I hate when that happens.)
He continued, “If you take the car back to that spot where you got it, somebody else will choose it and make the same mistake.”
“And that’s MY problem?” was what I wanted to say. I was this close to tears. It was clear that nothing I could say would have any affect on this little man. Not once did he say he was sorry for the hassle and inconvenience.
Angrily, I threw the car into reverse and jerked the car toward the place by the wall. I left the lights on and the window down, slamming the door for emphasis. Walked back to the other corner of the lot and got into the first car I saw, drove it up behind the VW to transfer the luggage.
There was no button for the trunk release. There was no trunk release botton on the key fob. Grrrrrrrr . . .
I marched back to the uncaring little man’s booth. “You have to help me. I cannot open the trunk, my hand is injured and I need your help!”
He shot me a scornful look. I wanted to rip his head off. With a shrug he raised the barrier in front of his little booth and came over to the car. He found the trunk release lever and popped open the trunk. Then he just stood there.
“Will you please transfer the luggage for me?” I pleaded.
He heaved a giant sigh, as if I was the most unreasonable customer he’d ever encountered. Reluctantly, and with attitude, he removed my two suitcases from the VW and loaded them in the trunk of the other car. Then he walked back toward his little booth.
By this time, there were three other cars waiting in the other lane, so I drove up to the booth he had just re-entered, waiting for him re-open his exit lane.
Nothing. This was a war of wills and he was winning. Are you f*#&ing kidding me??? I shifted into reverse and got in the lane behind the other cars.
I can’t remember the last time I cried real tears out of such frustration. I wanted to call my husband and cry into the phone, but I knew he was already sleeping. Besides, I am always so bloody strong and competent – he’d probably be frantic with worry if he heard me blubbering and sniveling like this.
So, I did what any self-respecting traveler does. I took a deep breath and carried on.
The freeway was wide open at this hour, and Kaiser’s E.R. was practically empty. The staff were caring, courteous and competent. And the x-ray showed no fracture. From the looks of it, though, it could be a hairline crack. The doctor told me, “We’re going to make an appointment for you to see an Orthopedic doctor tomorrow, er, later this morning, to red the x-rays – in case we missed anything. We’ve set an appointment for 9:30 AM.”
The gurney I was on was feeling mighty comfortable. “Can I just sleep here?”
Home.
“Hi, hon,” my husband muttered in his sleep as he rolled over to sweetly kiss me. “How was your trip?”
“I’ll share with you in the morning, sweetie. Go back to sleep. Everything is just fine.”
I dialed the number to the Dollar Rental Car facility on Aviation Avenue.
“I’d like to speak with the manager.”
“What is this regarding?” he asked.
“I rented a car last night and was treated very badly and I need to speak with the manager.”
“Please tell me what happened.”
So I went into the story about the uncaring, unfriendly little man at the exit booth.
“Just a moment. I’ll connect you.”
The phone rings a couple of times before someone picks up. “Roadside Assistance,” she announces. “How can I help you?”
Arghhh!! I can feel my frustration rising and my weepy voice creeping back to the surface.
“I need to speak to the Manager at the LAX location about a situation that happened last night. I thought I was being transferred to the manager,” I said scornfully.
“Ma’am, we’re trained to take all customer complaint calls,” she said. “I’m sorry you had a bad experience. Please tell me what happened.”
So I shared the story, again. And felt my blood boiling, again!
When I was finished, the agent said, “I’m sorry, you’ll need to speak to the manager about this.”
“BUT THAT’S WHAT I REQUESTED WHEN I PLACED THIS PHONE CALL!!!”
“I’m very sorry, Ma’am, but we are not authorized to make any adjustments on a rental agreement. You must speak with the location manager in person.”
(Any guesses as to what happens now?)
I have forfeited 15 minutes of sleep this morning in order to have a face-to-face conversation with the Dollar Rental Car manager before my 9:15 AM flight to San Jose del Cabo.
“I need to speak with the manager,” I announce to the agent behind the desk.
(Are you ready for this . . . . . ?)
…
…
…
“I’m sorry. You just missed her. She left for a meeting about 5 minutes ago.”
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