The plane got slower and slower, until it finally arrived two hours and 42 minutes late. The flight attendants were rather confusing; I saw one going around with a sheet of paper with all the connecting flights on it, but I couldn’t get her attention. Instead, another attendant told me there was no information and then flounced off. Then the one with the sheet of paper came over and told me I’d probably be able to make my flight. Maybe the first one didn’t like beards.
Knowing I had to get ahead of the crowd, when I disembarked I sprinted past everyone to the passport counter, got checked through in a matter of seconds, then followed directions to a bus to the next gate… which sat there for ten minutes doing nothing while I stewed. It’s a shame there was no way to harness the energy contained in the steam spewing from my ears.
Finally the bus trundled off and took us about 300 yards. Then I ran up escalators, along corridors and through a group of bumbling arrivees from Amsterdam until I got to my gate, thirty minutes before take off. Only to be told that they’d rebooked me to a later flight because my bag wouldn’t make it onto the one I had a ticket for.
That was helpful, although it would have been handy if somebody had told me this before I sprinted the length of the airport.
Just to add to my paranoia, there was nowhere for me to recheck my luggage. I asked the gate agent and she told me it was unnecessary and the bag was checked all the way through to Halifax. In about two and a half hours we’ll find out if she was lying or if what I was told in Singapore was a pack of lies.