Traveling With an Infant

This entry comes to you from the Park Inn at Heathrow Airport. We're here, along with the rest of the free world, trapped by this incessant fog; we're in a prolonged outtake from 'The Others'. This entry was going to be a cute, quaint tale of traveling with an infant when I planned it out in my head on the way to the airport in La Coruña, but the trip - and correspondingly, the entry - has morphed into an entirely different animal. Bianca and E had an easy trip to Poland; one plane change, no crying, no delays; plenty of diapers. Yesterday we did not have similar luck.

We arrived at La Coruña Airport 2.5hrs before our 3:40pm flight. We checked in, got our gate check passes for the stroller (we decided to take the frame and the car seat after much wrangling with luggage space in the car and me imagining the fun of steering the BIG stroller through airport holiday crowds) and were ready to settle in for a little breast feeding and pre-flight hydrating - real water, not the Scottish method. The check-in agent casually told us that the flight from Heathrow to Coruña had not left yet due to bad weather - fog, we later found out - in London. I called my brother who confirmed that BA.com had as little info about our flight as the agent. We were given snack vouchers and ate a late lunch. The flight from London never left; yet, Iberia had a new A320 sitting at the gate. We were surprised when they told us to board, but we got on anyway. Only 40 people boarded the flight and we were told that we MAYYYY get a departure window at 4:15. We didn't. We got back off the plane and saw all the other passengers in the gate area who had not even boarded.

We strove to entertain Bianca for the next few hours, with our previously-believed-to-be-ample supply of diapers - 21 - dwindling fast. We were trapped, effectively, in the gate area; and La Coruña is not a big airport. I went out the in door to the ticket sales desk to ask if, instead, tomorrow we could fly to Madrid > JFK> Boston. No dice, all the flights were booked solid. So we resolved that we would get to London and see what happened as there are infinitely more options from Heathrow - to get to Boston - then La Coruña. We had little hope of making our 7:05pm connection to Boston, but we persevered. We boarded at 7:15 and got pushback at 7:35. I immediately started doing mental math - Let's see, its a two hour flight, its 7:45pm now, so that means we arrive in London at 9:45, which is 8:45 London time, and our flight was supposed to go to Boston at 7:05, but since ALL flight operations were closed for hours there's no way it leaves on time, and a two hour delay is probable, and a gate agent will meet us, and we'll make the flight. Wrong. We didn't. We missed it; by twenty minutes. No gate agent, no assistance, no warning. We trucked it from terminal 2 - and don't kid yourself, the stroller adds minutes to transfer times - but were told politely by BA that the flight was gone and we were Iberia's problem. Somewhere between terminals we had picked up a straggler, a nice Spanish woman who was going to JFK and was just as confused, upset, tired, and screwed as we were.

The transfer desk was a mob scene. The BA line could have been the line for Pink Floyd reunion tour tickets; but we weaved and bobbed our way to the Iberia line which was just two people long, including our new friend. The lady at the transfer desk told us we had no option but to go down to ticketing. She then went into detail about how we only missed the flight by 20 minutes. I was channeling Major League - "Who gives a shit, its gone" - and forced myself to take solace that we were not in the interminable BA line where everyone was being told the same thing - Nice try, come back tomorrow. I could only guess at this point that according to IATA rules Iberia was responsible for us under the Last Carrier Proviso, even though our tickets were with BA. Our straggler staggered with us to ticketing, but not before getting misdirected twice. However, this is where the silver lining was glimmering through the fog, Passport Control. We didn't need landing cards, I mean, we were transferring; but I took them out of the 'seat pocket in front of me' moments before de-boarding. Providence, sheer providence; and our first lucky break. The non-EU line was like the BA transfer desk line, selling Rod Stewart, the Princess Di Tribute, tickets. The EU line was empty. I told E, you're European, we're traveling as a family, we're going to the EU citizen line. We snaked the snaky ropes and paused to half-punch-drunk fill out the landing cards for me and E. Wrong again, they were needed for Bianca and me; as she was traveling on her U.S. passport. The passport control officer was very forgiving and wrote over my childlike, writing-on-my-pants scrip; changing E's name to Bianca's. We stumbled to ticketing. 30 people ahead of us in line, cue Bianca crying. Its 9:15 local time (10:15 to Bianca's body clock).

E barged through the lines, stood in between the two agents and started pleading with our fellow travelers to let the woman with the small crying baby go to the front. Our claim was further invigorated after a robust African woman began screaming at one of the agents roaming the crowd that she was going to call the police after she was told - with three kids in tow, including one in her arms smaller than Bianca - that she had to go to the end of the line like everybody else; in Spanish to boot. Just a terrible situation for everyone. One bitchy Spanish woman, after E asked her if we could cut in front of her b/c we had small child, replied in Spanish, "Well, so do we", pointing to her 12 year old daughter. Sure, that's the same thing, bitch. The nice twenty-somethings on the left looked like they were going to cave, and E is very persuasive. She's traveled to India, Sri Lanka, Bangladesh, Kenya, Jordan, Morocco, Malaysia and Turkey - these Spaniards didn't stand a chance to out maneuver her. Cue Bianca's smelly poop. They caved. I mean, an adult can cognitively process what's going on; a small tired infant is still a small, tired, and now smelly, infant. Our second lucky break and boom, we're at the agent. Blah, blah, blah....I've got a infant too, I feel your pain, is this her first trip, sure its tough, you're confirmed on the same flight tomorrow, here are your vouchers for the Park Inn, 3 meals, bus tickets, go to this stop, take this bus, sorry about this, have a safe evening. Oh, and the pharmacy is upstairs; it closes in 10 minutes.

Note to security people: Limiting passengers to ONE piece, not one carry on and a personal item mind you, but ONE piece, severely hampers our ability to withstand delays and unexpected over-nighters; without taking into account the Baby Factor. Furthermore, not allowing any liquids, save formula, in quantities greater than 100ML has given a Gold Rush boom to cosmetics and toiletries sold in those quantities, which is great, but how about making them available outside the Heathrow Boots! And you can carry formula, but a lactating mother can't carry water through security to stay hydrated so SHE can feed her infant?! E is going to be in quasi-marathon runner mode, downing water and dropping the cups along the route, pre-security.

A quick change of Bianca, with Daddy throwing the dirty rolled up diaper on the floor in bathroom (there was no waste basket) and up we went up to the Boots pharmacy. 8 bottles of water, tissues, 40 diapers, wipies, toothbrushes, toothpaste, his and her's deodorant, baby cream, contact lens solution and case; 37 pounds and we're out the door. It was 9:50pm local time.

Away from the human catastrophe that is Heathrow (in other circumstances its a joy to listen to the languages spewing forth from the crowd), outdoors, it's 0 Celsius. Bianca's bundled and E is wearing my suede jacket. My adrenalin and blood pressure are sustaining me in my cotton sweater. On the bus, to the Park Inn, where we check into our lovely room, go down to a nice late dinner and are in bed by 11:20pm local time.

Bring on Day 2.