Travel Blog

“It’ll be nice to arrive in a city at a decent hour,” I said to Charles two weeks ago as he drove us to the airport for our 12:30 Air Canada flight to Montreal. On our last two trips – to Buffalo and Raleigh – we had arrived around midnight, the latter occasion because I had booked a 9:30 pm flight thinking it was at 9:30 am one. I was looking forward to a late afternoon stroll. 

After passing through security, I received a text from the airline informing me about a delayed departure of 45 minutes. Not a problem, I thought. A new text came shortly after that, moving the departure back a little further. Before noon, I learned that the flight was now scheduled for 5 pm. This was due to a maintenance problem, though a number passengers expressed the suspicion that it had something to do with a threatened strike by crew members.

I had never been to Terminal 2 before, and now we would have time to explore it. We quickly discovered that it is the smallest terminal with probably the worst food at FLL. Though in the culinary realm it has stiff competition. With our food vouchers, I got a cobb salad and learned a lesson: never order healthy food at a fast food counter in an airport. I received a Styrofoam valise filled with reams of tasteless lettuce topped with stringy, tasteless chicken; a glob of blue cheese occupied a corner.

I heard a table speaking French, and asked if they were going to Montreal. The man in a ball cap said they were. “Do you think there will be a plane?” I asked.

“Non,” he said, strangely cheerfully.

The afternoon passed, in Terminal 2. We sat with all the other passengers, looking wistfully at the Fort Lauderdale skyline. I resented the fact that, because of the delay, I was being forced to spend a summer’s day in an overly air-conditioned building, unable to step outside for some air.

A new message arrived from Air Canada: The new departure time was 8 pm. This seemed ominous, suggesting - to me at least - that the next one would tell of the flight's cancellation. I joined a line of passengers waiting to get information from an Air Canada employee at the gate. Some of the people in front of me were trying to get on an earlier flight, one that left around 7, though it filled very quickly. When my turn came, I asked the woman if, indeed, there would be a plane for us that evening. Rumors about the strike, at least among passengers, were now rampant. She was not adamant that a plane would arrive, but she didn’t deprive us of hope. I asked what the maintenance problem was, and she said it had something to do with the “arm" of the plane. “The arm?” I asked, thinking she meant the wing. No, it turned out, the problem was with the door.

We got new vouchers and went for Japanese, where I had the most half-heartedly constructed chicken teriyaki I had ever seen. I left half of it. Our new departure time was now 8:30. I wondered: Are they just toying with us now?

We bought some magazines and chocolates. The chairs in the waiting lounge filled with people for the earlier flight, which arrived without a problem. It was painful having to sit there and watch them board. “We were here first!”

But then, as if by some miracle, as darkness fell, our plane arrived. Actually, happily, not our original plane, but a replacement. We boarded quickly, hoping to get in the air before the strike, and arrived in Montreal right around midnight. Customs was a breeze, as was finding a taxi. Traffic was light. The drive seemed to take an unusually long time. I kept looking for signs of downtown but we seemed to be in some distant wasteland. Finally, the driver pulled up to a hotel that wasn’t ours.

He had confused the name of our hotel, which I had given him in decent French. He apologized, and headed in more civilized direction. We checked in a 1:30 am.

One day later, Air Canada crew went on strike.