Emotional stranding, part deux

So, the previous post ended before I intended because the program was being a butthead and you know, I just REALLY CAN'T FUCKING HANDLE THAT RIGHT NOW. Anyway, I've given both of us a few hours to calm down, and am now ready to continue my saga of emotional/air travel abandonment, or, how I learned to stop believing that Europe will ever regain its status as a world power (step one of world powerdom being: don't fall apart at the drop of a snowflake).

When I got home from a dinner and drinks excursion last night, I pulled up my flight information on the Air France website, as I have been doing since Sunday, to double-check the status. Imagine, not my surprise, because no cock-up can surprise me anymore, but my despair to see that red scrawl across the page:  

CANCELLED

I promptly called my mother. Let's face it, you can be the most rational person on the planet, but when shit goes wrong, the first call you're going to want to make is to mommy. This actually worked out fairly well for me, as my mother then proceeded to call every single person at Air France in an attempt to get me on another flight and home by Christmas (I know, I know, I'm old enough to do this for myself, but to be fair, the airline offices over here have completely abandoned ship). Meanwhile, I checked all the airport websites and learned that my flight had NOT, in fact, been cancelled because of the 4" "snowpocalypse" that we'd just experienced, but because French air traffic control had demanded that flights over the country be reduced by 40%, and mine just happened to be one of the sacrificial planes. The flights scheduled before and after mine left on schedule this morning. Oh, and the flight I was supposed to be on from Paris should be landing in Philadelphia in about 15 minutes. I want to throw up.

Anyway, after speaking with James at Air France, June at Air France and Barbara at Delta, my mother got me on a direct flight from Edinburgh to Newark, NJ, on Christmas Day, thus allowing me to avoid the GIANT CLUSTERFUCK that is European airspace. I am theoretically happy about this. I know it could have been much, much worse: I could be stranded (really stranded) in Paris, sleeping in one of the dormitories they are setting up in the concourses. I could be stuck in Edinburgh for Christmas; as it stands I get into Newark by noon (hopefully) on the 25th, and should be in my living room drinking MASSIVELY spiked eggnog by three. But...god, I was so ready to come home. I am so tired of being alone and bored here, and I just want to see my friends and family. I am trying to make the best of it and be grateful for the fact that I'm getting out at all, but right now it's rather cold comfort. And I am SO FURIOUS that in 2010, an entire continent can be brought to its knees by less than 5" of snow. To be fair, Scotland alone of all non-Scandinavian countries is handling itself with aplomb and should be congratulated--Caledonians, I salute thee. 

Also, if you google "Scottish salute," you get a lot of really, really rude hand gestures. Most being made by Gerard Butler. Or Winston Churchhill.

So, anyway, I spent the day in my room, watching movies and crying. 'Tis the season. With any luck I'll be back in the states by early afternoon on Christmas and will be able to enjoy a modified celebration with the family. Until then, I will continue to watch movies, self-medicate with various seasonal pastries and occasionally give the other Scottish salute in the general direction of France. Please, gentle readers, keep me in your prayers or goddess wishes or naturalistic reiki-based thoughts or whatever you subscribe to--I just want to come home.

Signing off,

Your intrepid (but rather sad-hearted) blogger