I have had a strange experience these days, and the perplexity still lingers. I know that many people —perhaps some of you reading me now— have lived it and, like me, have accepted it with a resignation that leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.
On Sunday, May 3, I was supposed to take a Vueling flight to Florence to return to Barcelona. About a dozen of us were informed —as if announcing that it was raining— that a flight had been canceled at midday and that this had caused overbooking. This is a hateful word that we all dread when we set foot in an airport.
Resignedly, the affected passengers went through airport security and, at the same gate where travelers to Barcelona were boarding, we were informed that we were not among the lucky ones. I saw faces of concern or bewilderment, but not great anger. Everyone, obediently, followed a young woman who led us back to the Vueling counter. We waited there for a long, long time without anyone telling us anything, and then an airport employee appeared to inform us, in an even tone and an impassive expression, that the company would pay for our hotel and meals while we waited for the flight that would take us home. When? Tuesday, the 5th, at ten at night. More than forty-eight hours later. Signs of disbelief and indignation —now yes—: everyone has to work, some have young children, one woman has a hospital appointment to have stitches removed...
The young woman with the expressionless gaze nodded —the most she showed in the way of empathy— and reiterated that “this is Vueling's issue; if you don't agree, contact the company.” She warned that if we did not accept their proposal and sought alternative ways to return home, we would forfeit any financial compensation.
I return to the perplexity of the beginning: how can the law allow airlines to commit such an abuse? How is it possible that we, the citizen-consumers, accept it with such resignation?
In addition to the rage and relevant arrangements, the forty-eight hours' extension in Florence allow me to visit a large bookstore to look for reading material in Catalan —impossible— or in Spanish. A small shelf offers me books by Ruiz Zafón, Pérez-Reverte, and Albert Espinosa. There are also works by Carmen Martín Gaite that I have already read. Finally, I buy a pocket edition of Historia de una maestra, by Josefina Aldecoa. The novel begins in 1923 and tells the adventures of a young rural school teacher who hopefully lives the proclamation of the Republic, confident that her country will undergo a transformation that will allow, also through education, people to escape poverty and ignorance. We already know how this story ends.
At the hotel where we spend these two days, they tell us that they receive passengers from Vueling affected by similar situations practically every week. We have not, therefore, experienced an exceptional situation.
If this is the tactic of some Machiavellian mind to make us stop flying, I will say that, in my case, they have almost convinced me.
