FUCK Air France
I have rich, satisfying dreams of Air France planes falling out of the sky.
And I smile.
Fuck Air France.
Fuck the French.
I’m back from six weeks in Italy, where I covered the 2006 Winter Olympics, then disappeared into the Italian countryside for some well-deserved rest. The first four days of the R&R were hell.
Thanks to Air France (fuck ‘em all).
My wife was to meet me in Torino. We were supposed to hug and kiss and cry after being separated for a bit over three weeks. I was at the exit, waiting for her. I had a little sign I drew that said “GABRUKIEWICZ.” The flight landed. People exited.
No wife.
I waited for another 45 minutes. Longing turned into worry which turned into frustration. Next flight to come in, I snuck into the baggage area (which, by the way, was very easy to do).
I saw her blonde, curly hair, arms in motion as she was trying to explain something to an airline worker.
I knew immediately that Air France had lost her bag.
No problem, they said. It would be on the next flight. They’d send it by courier to our bed & breakfast in Acqui Terme, about an hour south of Torino. Don’t worry, they said.
Fuckers.
We waited four days for her bag. We called Air France customer service (there’s an oxymoron) a dozen times a day. They all said they were very sorry, that they were working on the problem. My wife cried; they were cool and kept reading off a card.
Fuckers.
I called. I told the woman that she was a bitch. I told her that I wanted the bag.
That I wanted all of her family to die in a fiery Air France plane crash.
The story changed every day; the courier had 24 hours to deliver it; the courier had 48 hours to deliver it; the courier delivers until midnight; the courier only delivers in the morning.
“You don’t have your bag?” the cold French bitch asked on Thursday.
“Do you think if I had the fucking bag I’d fucking be calling you?” I said.
My wife was in bed, crying.
“I just want to go home.”
Now, I’m beyond furious. I’m trying to figure out where the Air France customer service bitches were located. I wanted to remove thumbs with pliers.
“I’d do it, too,” I said.
The mobile rang.
It was the courier. He didn’t speak English.
“No problem,” the inn owner said. “He said he’ll see us in five minutes.”
An hour later I’m beside myself. The mobile rings again. I give the phone to Misha.
He says we have to come to town and get it,” he said. “He’s leaving in 15 minutes.”
I jump in the car and drive….the….two….miles….to…..where…….Mr. Courier…..was……parked.
And got my wife’s bag.
Air France owes us four days vacation. Either that, or one of their planes could crash. Full of Air France employees.
I would smile.
And I smile.
Fuck Air France.
Fuck the French.
I’m back from six weeks in Italy, where I covered the 2006 Winter Olympics, then disappeared into the Italian countryside for some well-deserved rest. The first four days of the R&R were hell.
Thanks to Air France (fuck ‘em all).
My wife was to meet me in Torino. We were supposed to hug and kiss and cry after being separated for a bit over three weeks. I was at the exit, waiting for her. I had a little sign I drew that said “GABRUKIEWICZ.” The flight landed. People exited.
No wife.
I waited for another 45 minutes. Longing turned into worry which turned into frustration. Next flight to come in, I snuck into the baggage area (which, by the way, was very easy to do).
I saw her blonde, curly hair, arms in motion as she was trying to explain something to an airline worker.
I knew immediately that Air France had lost her bag.
No problem, they said. It would be on the next flight. They’d send it by courier to our bed & breakfast in Acqui Terme, about an hour south of Torino. Don’t worry, they said.
Fuckers.
We waited four days for her bag. We called Air France customer service (there’s an oxymoron) a dozen times a day. They all said they were very sorry, that they were working on the problem. My wife cried; they were cool and kept reading off a card.
Fuckers.
I called. I told the woman that she was a bitch. I told her that I wanted the bag.
That I wanted all of her family to die in a fiery Air France plane crash.
The story changed every day; the courier had 24 hours to deliver it; the courier had 48 hours to deliver it; the courier delivers until midnight; the courier only delivers in the morning.
“You don’t have your bag?” the cold French bitch asked on Thursday.
“Do you think if I had the fucking bag I’d fucking be calling you?” I said.
My wife was in bed, crying.
“I just want to go home.”
Now, I’m beyond furious. I’m trying to figure out where the Air France customer service bitches were located. I wanted to remove thumbs with pliers.
“I’d do it, too,” I said.
The mobile rang.
It was the courier. He didn’t speak English.
“No problem,” the inn owner said. “He said he’ll see us in five minutes.”
An hour later I’m beside myself. The mobile rings again. I give the phone to Misha.
He says we have to come to town and get it,” he said. “He’s leaving in 15 minutes.”
I jump in the car and drive….the….two….miles….to…..where…….Mr. Courier…..was……parked.
And got my wife’s bag.
Air France owes us four days vacation. Either that, or one of their planes could crash. Full of Air France employees.
I would smile.
Comments
My father passed away- they didn't want to change the flight date for my mother!!!
I called and called and waited for an authorization - to change the date flight - nothing!!! I was feeling like shit ... I bought the ticket from expedia (lufthansa) and just to let you know ... I am kind of lucky that I have used my AMERICAN Express and guess what - I will fight till I will get my money back !!!
That is when I lost my cool said fuck you lady and grabbed her by the neck and the Police showed up. We just wanted our bags, especially my pregnant wife's bag and we almost ended up in jail.
Fuck Air France, Alitalia and now KLM which is following in their steps now. The Taliban motherfuckers have their agendas all fucked up, the French are fucking up the planet not the U.S.