Don’t Fly Me To The Moon
ANDY ROONEY

©2005 Tribune Media Services, Inc.

I have just taken a memorable trip I’d like to forget.

Because I was going to be in Los Angeles for only two days, I drove from my office in New York to Ken-nedy Airport so I’d have my car when I returned and could drive home to Connecticut. The parking area is just a minute’s walk across the road from American Airlines.

When I arrived at the airport for a 9 a.m. flight at 7:30, I thought I had plenty of time. Sure. The short-term parking lot was closed for repair. I was directed to a lot two miles from the terminal. By the time I found it, parked and waited for the bus to take me to the terminal, it was 8:17. The baggage attendants outside told me my flight was “closed” and I could no longer check bags. Inside, I waited in line to check my bag anyway. By the time I got to the gate (all flights leave from the most remote gate), it was 8:40 and they were closing the door.

First class for the round trip flight cost $2,762.90. Business class cost $1,858.90. A Coach seat was $517.90. I flew coach. Airlines make coach so uncomfortable that even people who can’t afford it pay the “business” rate.

In flight, the pilot kept announcing that we were ahead of schedule. We landed nine minutes early, and after being told to keep our seats, we waited...and waited...and waited. Then came the inevitable, “There is a plane parked at our gate which should be moving out shortly. Please remain in your seats. Thank you for your pa-tience.” Which we were not.

Flight times should be recorded from the time they close the door for takeoff to the time they open the door to let passengers off. The advertised time of my flight was five hours and 57 minutes. From the time we had to be on board to the time we were allowed off, it was seven hours and 12 minutes.

At baggage claim, the carousel went round and round. My bag never came ‘round. At the lost baggage of-fice, I waited in line. They were doing a booming business. I finally got to talk to a woman behind the desk, who said my bag would be arriving on the next flight. I opted to have the bag sent to my hotel.

In Beverly Hills, I went to a hotel I’ve stayed in a hundred times. I won’t name it because I don’t do commercials but it’s one of the best. It’s also expensive but I could stay there for weeks for what first class costs on American.

In my room, I called American baggage service at 12:30 and was told my bag had been found and would be de-livered “within six hours.” I once work-ed at MGM, so I drove around some old familiar places, including Malibu Beach, wasting time waiting for my bag. I needed things in it to dress for dinner with friends. When I got back to the hotel, I called American again and got the “six hour” announcement again. It had now been five.

There was a huge window over the bathtub in the hotel room and by press-ing a button next to the light switch, you could open a curtain that allowed you to look out on a palm frond garden.

I took a shower more to waste time than from necessity — I wasn’t that dirty — and dried off with a thick towel that was six feet long. It made the bath towels at home seem puny. After the shower, I read the paper and waited for my bag, which didn’t come. It was delivered sometime after midnight, so I went out to dinner in khaki pants and slept in a terrycloth robe.

Sunday night, I ate dinner in my room because I wanted to watch “60 Minutes.” Mike Wallace interviewed Putin. Morley Safer’s report on West Point was good. I could have done without Steve Kroft’s chat with Ray Romano but I watched it almost to the end. Almost. Next thing I knew, I woke up and they were showing the “60 Minutes” credits. I had missed the best part of the show.

I’ll tell you about my trip home another time. It wasn’t as good as the trip out.