It was two months ago that Earl and I flew to New York City to visit family. As I have done many times before, I booked our flights on Delta into LaGuardia Airport. It will be the last time I use Delta, and I’m going public about it to make sure I keep my word.

You might wonder why it’s taken so long to make my complaints known. I simply got sidetracked with addressing other issues, packing for our recent road trip, and catching up when we returned home. However, I’d written this blog on the plane back then, and have decided I still don’t like Delta. Here’s why.
________________________________

For starters, every single flight we took in July was late. Every plane we were on was shabby. Every ground crew person we came in contact with was surly.

I think the worst example was the Delta employee who staffed Gate C16, when we were returning home from our visit. As time passed, it became clear our flight would not leave in time. I approached the desk and told the employee that we would miss the connecting flight in Cincinnati. He played with his keyboard a bit and said there was a later direct flight at 6:20 PM that would get us to our final destination by 8:30 PM. It wasn’t what I had in mind, but there were few alternatives. I said Okay. He played with his keyboard some more, and said he couldn’t book us but that if I called the phone number on the card he gave me, maybe I could get on that plane.

Now I had seen this agent give the card to three people waiting in line in front of me. I said, probably not in a sweet voice, “I am not going to call a phone number, sift through a menu, and wait to get someone when I’m standing in front of an agent who should be willing and able to help me. I will not call the number. I think you should try again.”

More playing with his keyboard. More standing in front of him. More people lining up behind me. It was a question of who would blink first. Finally the agent handed me two boarding passes for the 6:20 PM flight and said, “You got the last two seats on the plane.” I suppose that was meant to make me feel grateful.

We shuttled our luggage to another concourse to wait for our new assignment. As we sat at Gate D3 for the next six hours, we heard from other groaning travelers that they had been deplaned due to a flat tire. Another group had their flight cancelled, and a third had no air conditioning. Finally we boarded, and I noted that our flight was slightly more than half full. The agent at C16 obviously needs a refresher in math.

Then the captain came on the intercom and announced that it was busy at LaGuardia tonight and would take another hour and twenty minutes to get to the front of the line for take-off. I wondered if there were some rules about how long passengers can sit in a hot plane on the tarmac. Of course, he forgot to say that the time clock starts when we push back from the gate. After staying put a while, I pushed my call bell and asked the flight attendant to clarify this point. She looked as if I’d caught her red-handed. And you know we’ve been here a while when the captain himself leaves the cockpit and walks the length of the plane to relieve himself in the bathroom.

So it goes. Lots of vague information; little results. As I write, we’re still sitting on the tarmac, but the captain has said we can keep our electronic devices on until we are closer to taking off. I’m not sure that’s a good sign, and I only hope I get to sleep in my own bed sometime tonight.
________________________________

We eventually did leave LaGuardia, and I was able to get half a night’s sleep in my own bed. Just thinking of it now refuels my disgust with Delta.

Trying to get back into the routine of our usual lives. I went swimming for the first time in forever, and then visited the local supermarket for provisions. Was reminded that for the past few weeks I hadn’t worried about shopping since we’d eaten in various cafes and restaurants and even resorted to having peanut butter sandwiches in the car on the go.

Waded through our accumulated mail, searching for that occasional nugget of interest in a morass of paper. And, yes, reveled in the fact that we’d returned home four days early so that we could hibernate and organize and sleep. We plan to do just that.

Earl and I arrived home late yesterday afternoon. We are now in the process of unpacking, taking stock of all our souvenirs, sorting laundry, and wading through the accumulation of mail. Believe me, it’s almost knee deep.

But I would be remiss if I didn’t mention two things we did on the last day, both traditions and both revolving around food.

First, since we spent our last night on the road in New Glarus, WI we were only fifteen miles or so from Monroe, WI and Baumgartner’s. We’ve been going to Baumgartner’s for fifteen years or so, even since Earl convinced me we needed to visit Wisconsin’s bicycle trails and spend weekends exploring them.

What is Baumgartner’s, you ask? It’s just a tavern that’s been open since 1931; but it has the best liver sausage sandwiches on the planet. It has the best Limburger cheese too, although I’m merely parroting what the locals tell us. I have never tasted it myself. But I have tasted the liver sausage. On the softest rye bread with mustard on the side. If you like liver sausage, it is to die for.

If you don’t like liver sausage, you still need to visit Baumgartner’s. There are thousands of dollar bills stuck to the ceiling, and your server can put one of yours up there too. It’s quite an entertainment. Once every two years the bills are taken down and given to a local charity.

Baumgartner’s has other sandwiches besides liver sausage and othe cheeses besides Limburger. We bought both cheese curds and aged Swiss to take home. I believe Earl has already broken into the curds.

Moving toward Michigan . . . whenever we take a trip we have our final meal at the Mark III in our own area. This tradition started when we flew to more destinations than we do now. We’d land hungry at South Bend’s airport, get our car out of hock, and head for The Mark, since it was usually the only restaurant open that time of night. It’s a cross between a sports bar, a Mexican restaurant, and a hamburger joint. We’ve been going there for a dozen years and see no reason to change now, even though we arrived yesterday long before close.

Some traditions just need to be maintained.

If this were a NASCAR race, we would be in the final lap, headed for home without a mishap so far. We have had no car problems, haven’t left a pair of glasses or a camera battery or a cellphone charger along the way, and really haven’t encountered a motel that was absolutely intolerable for one night . . . although we have added to our list of criteria.

In fact, you might say we’ve become Motel Police. Having slept in thirteen different establishments in twenty-four days, I feel we are entitled to comment on what makes a great motel experience. It doesn’t really revolve around price, although the higher the price the greater our expectations.

I’ve already noted that we want a television and Internet that work, as well as hot water (compliments of our stay at Canyon Lodge at Yellowstone where we had none). Earl prefers the complimentary continental breakfast, but I’m more interested in staying on the first floor.

That said, what we’ve noticed is that proprietors are not particularly aware of the condition of their rooms. More than one motel we slept in had burnt out lightbulbs or slow draining sinks or outlets that did not work. Granted, for one night this is tolerable; but being the OCD people that we are we wonder why a motel owner wouldn’t take pride in having everything work right.

It seems to be an easy thing to monitor. The cleaning crew, which visits each room almost daily, could be instructed to check the lights, the drain, the outlets. The crew could be the first line of defense, possibly with a financial reward for finding things that are simple fixes.

I will say one thing, however. The thought of bedbugs never crossed our minds in any of the hotels or motels we slept in. This, in the grand scheme of things, is probably more important than a slow draining sink.