The luggage wasn't truly lost; it was just on a journey of self-discovery...
[This is an edited re-post from a prior Substack post on July 25, 2025.]
I can’t help but wonder if the airline industry wouldn’t enjoy itself more if it weren’t for those pesky passengers. I’m not referring so much to the staff on my recent American Airlines flight. Sure, like any job there are bad apples. No, on my flight a couple of weeks back, the staff members were mildly pleasant. And I call them that, of course, because “flight attendants” sounds a whole lot like they’re waiting to change my adult diaper, and “steward or stewardess” is the Boomer/sexist/N-word of the travel industry.
“It’s taken nearly two full hours for them to start the drink cart,” I mouthed to my drowsy wife over the dull din of jet engines and loud roar of influencers filming themselves. She was understandably tired since our flight left just after noon, which meant we had to wake up and leave the house back in 2024.
“They said something about waiting for the weather,” she tried to calm me. You see, I’m an “aisle seat” guy. Bad knees… flabby gut… tiny bladder… it just makes sense. We were two rows back from the somewhat transparent curtain that magically keeps the exhalations of us coach scum off the necks and hair of the 1% first-class passengers. I was able to both see and smell the exclusive ritual they’d undergone since the flight leveled out: alcohol, hot towels, alcohol, main course, alcohol, dessert, alcohol, live performance by the New Kids on the Block, alcohol…
“Ummm…okayyy… maybe the flight was only bumpy back here,” I deduced. “They just spent 98.2 minutes running first class through the whole drill,” I replied. But once I had my coffee and water resting on my tilted tray a bit later, I was content. That is, until we got to Philadelphia.
The very smooth flight became buried in clouds on approach. I mean, for like 10 minutes. We broke through and below it about four minutes out from landing and wound up in a bumpy storm. Aside from the landing feeling like we were riding down stair rails sideways on a skateboard, things seemed okay. After phones slipped back into “phone” mode, people started getting severe weather alerts. We taxied. Then the Captain spoke.
“Folks…” (DiD hE just ASSume my FOLKiNESs?!) “Philadelphia just got slammed with a severe rainstorm which has flooded several parts of the tarmac, which means we can’t drive right up to the bridge-way. We’re gonna hop in line on the taxiway and wait to be towed into the gate. Unfortunately, there are only a couple of storm trucks, so this may take awhile. Please remain buckled into your seats. First Class, NKOTB will be leaving the greenroom to sing some cover songs of their own favorite band, which is the Backstreet Boys. Dance at will in the aisles. Coach, don’t you DARE unbuckle those frackin’ seatbelts! My grandma is in the jump-seat with a wooden spoon and she aint afraid to use it!”
Now, against all modern wisdom, my wife and I are of that rare breed called “people who check bags.” We scurried to baggage claim and waited. And waited. And waited. “Oh yeah!” I called, beaming in pride. “We have air tags!”
The last time we flew, which was two years ago, we purchased two pair of the little gizmos: one each for our luggage and carry-ons. (In the years since, they’ve become cheap “Lo-Jack” devices for our vehicles.) We changed batteries recently, so I was confident they would work. I cued up the “Find My” app on my electronic behavior master iPhone. “Looks like it’s still in the plane.”
In the meantime, Dorothy had made contact with our buddies picking us up. They’d driven through the same nasty storm and the highway was a mess. Still… they managed to get to us at baggage claim, finding it full of disheveled travelers all staring at little screens. Presumably most were watching Tik Tok or their app of choice. Any of us with gray hair or crow’s feet, though, were staring at the Find My app and saying things like “It’s still sitting at the plane!” or “I can’t believe New Kids on the Block was being sponsored by Ensure!”
There was a sign with a QR code telling us that if we were having problems with our luggage, to fill out a form. I fired up the ol’ camera, and after a simple 573-part process and about fifteen minutes, we were on our way. Our bags weren’t lost. We knew exactly where they were. But counting the time change, it was now after 10 PM, which in “old people” translates to “well after bedtime.”
As part of the form, I was able to share the luggage ID tag the airline gave us. I was also able to share the tracking ID from our air tags, but they also wanted me to list a unique piece of… anything… in the luggage, just in case they needed to open it.
Dorothy’s had a smaller piece of luggage nestled inside, returning one we’d borrowed from Sandy on our last trip two years ago. See, just across the Maryland border in Pennsylvania is this mystical Mennonite & Amish community with a store called B.B.s, in which they sell chocolate bars, eye drops, ginger cookies, potato peelers, and nuclear bomb disarmament tools at a YUGGEEE discount. So, naturally we bought five thousand of each and needed to borrow a suitcase. “Smaller blue suitcase nested inside main black suitcase,” I typed.
I struggled to remember anything in mine. “I think I brought underwear,” I told my little group. “But don’t quote me.”
“Yes,” my wife groaned with a roll of her eyes. “You also brought your classic 1989 New Kids leather jacket with the words ‘Hangin’ Tough’ embroidered in rhinestones on the back. List that.”
We got our luggage delivered to us about twelve hours later, allegedly by Donnie Wahlberg himself. I wouldn’t know. We were on the east coast, and it was already nap time thanks to the time change.
