The Chinese couple I was sitting next to liked American Airlines 288 en route from Chicago to Miami because the flight number had two lucky “8”’s. What’s more, the “2” that came before the “8’s” meant that should be twice as lucky.
I liked AA 288 because it was “juste”, as the French say. A perfect connection with the inbound flight from Shanghai we were on with almost no downtime at O’Hare airport.
We considered ourselves lucky indeed as 288 boarded on time and began to pull away from the gate. But without warning the plane suddenly jerked to an abrupt halt followed by a loud “crunch”, am ominous sound that signaled the beginning of the end for the power of Eastern numerology and the efficiency of Western scheduling.
The pilot came on to explain that the tow bar from the service truck had not been properly disconnected from the plane and had broken free shattering one of the safety lights on the front of the plane just below the cockpit.
After more time passed the pilot went on to report that there was no replacement light anywhere in maintenance inventory at O’Hare. This was followed after a while with an update about a flight from Denver that was on its way to Chicago and the good news that this plane could be repurposed after landing and used to take the passengers of the cursed Flight 288 to Miami.
I dutifully translated all of this for the Chinese couple who at first were glad to get the updates and were happy that they could understand what the pilot and crew were saying. But as time went by and the excuses mounted they made it clear that it was more information than they needed to know. I’m sure they were wishing that this was all just part of the in-flight entertainment and that they could just click off the sub-titles and go to sleep.
The couple were from a small town in Guizhou Province, an obscure place in China’s deep South. Their daughter was going to school at the University of Florida and they were on their way to visit. This was their first time outside of Guizhou, let alone China. I could see that they were beginning to wonder what they had let themselves in for. After all they had already been on the road for nearly 22 hours by the time they got to Chicago and were beginning to show signs of fatigue.
As we sat in the waiting room after more than four hours of delay at O’Hare the husband, Mr. Zhu, finally admitted that he was taken aback by the poor quality of service. From everything he had heard and from the movies he had seen, the U.S. was a model of service quality and efficiency. Here we had already been delayed for nearly four hours and the airline staff had yet to come by with something to drink, even if it was just water.
When it was clear that the airlines staff was never going to provide anything more substantial than periodic updates, I finally suggested to Mr. Zhu that we take a walk down to the food court at the other end of the terminal.
As luck would have it, there was a Taco Burrito place. Chinese people tend to be very cautious about embarking on culinary adventures, but I figured Mexican food might just work because chili peppers and hot sauces are also at the heart of Guizhou cuisine. I tried this out on Mr. Zhu, but he politely declined. It was just too foreign. Next to the Taco place was a McDonald’s. The pitch: McDonald’s in the U.S. was the same as McDonald’s in China – all part of the same McWorld and a low risk option. But Mr. Zhu had never eaten McDonald’s even in China and he certainly wasn’t about to start now. The Manchu Wok place on the other side caught Mr. Zhu’s attention. He figured this would be a place where the food would be familiar and the people could speak his language. It turned out that the Manchu Wok was run by a family of Filippinos whose Chinese vocabulary was strictly limited to the dishes they offered – “Kung Pow Chicken”, “Beef Fried Rice”, and “Pot Stickers”. To Mr. Zhu the dishes all looked about the same. Even worse there wasn’t a single chili pepper to be seen. The only thing that looked familiar, and therefore a safe bet, was the fried rice at the end of the counter. But the rice was sold as part of a two-dish combo and not offered a la carte. Faced with the selection of two dishes, Mr. Zhu held up his hand. “Just the rice, thanks,” he insisted. The kid behind the counter finally relented and pulled out that symbol of American Chinese take-out – a small white carton with a fold over top and metal handle into which he packed a handful or two of rice and handed across.
Following another delay on the second plane caused by a faulty hydraulic system, we finally landed in Miami at 4:00 AM and as we taxied along the runway towards the terminal the pilot informed the passengers that he finally had a piece of good news to report: There were no planes anywhere on the ground ahead of us and so there would be no further delays pulling into the gate. I turned to translate this for Mr. Zhu, but he had fallen asleep. Somehow I didn’t think it was worth waking him even if it was finally for “good news.”
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