Last week Aer Lingus announced it would be cancelling up to 2 per cent of its flights this summer because of “mandatory maintenance”.
Aer Lingus flies more than 12 million people a year, with the majority travelling during the summer season from April to October. About 23,000 passengers travelling on 430 flights could be affected.
Delays in maintenance and “consolidation” of flights are the culprits, not problems in the Strait of Hormuz. Europe imports about 40 per cent of its jet fuel, with half of that coming through Hormuz. Ireland has enough jet fuel for 70 days.
Aer Lingus promises to rebook the “vast majority” of affected passengers on alternative flights to their destinations on the same day.
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I am one of the “small minority” who did not receive this beneficent service. I was booked on a flight to Toronto on May 7th. On April 13th I received the following message: “We’re very sorry, your flight itinerary has changed. In order to make this change as seamless as possible, we have booked you on to an alternative flight.”
The message went on to tell me I was booked on a flight at the same time the day before. No reason was given for the flight’s cancellation. No email, text message or phone call to inquire whether this might suit me, and what might be done if it did not.
I could not travel the day before as I had work commitments which could not be cancelled. To be honest, I quailed at the prospect of entering the labyrinth of bureaucracy involved in any unusual contact with most companies these days, so I cancelled the new flight, requested a refund, and booked another flight (much cheaper) on the same day with another airline. In fairness, the refund arrived relatively swiftly.
This was not the only encounter I had with Aer Lingus this year. I flew with them to New York in early March. The flight was delayed for two hours without any explanation. When we arrived at JFK, around 10pm, passengers made their way to the miserable room in the bowels of the airport which contains the Aer Lingus baggage carousel, to find two anxious-looking representatives of the company awaiting us.
Their news was that only business-class luggage had been loaded in Dublin, and that the proletariat would have to wait until the next evening for ours, when we might possibly have it delivered to wherever we would be. Some people were travelling out of the city, some were getting connecting flights. No explanation for this blatant baggage class distinction was offered, the unfortunate young people sent into the lions’ den to deal with us having no knowledge about it.
I contemplated urging an insurrection and confiscation of the business-class baggage (which seemed to consist of unnaturally large suitcases; go figure!), but a quick survey of my fellow passengers’ faces revealed fear and worry rather than rage and a longing for class warfare, so I took the leaflet with the phone number to call, got myself into a cab and escaped to Manhattan.
My taxi driver on the way into town advised that I should go out the next day and buy myself an entire outfit of expensive clothes, plus shoes, and submit a claim to Aer Lingus on the grounds that I had to attend a high-level executive meeting and all my posh clothes were in my absent suitcase.
Then came a day of ringing the number given us the night before. First there was a long waiting time, then a voice (different every time) asking for my name, email, date of birth, phone number, home address, address in the US, and flight number. I was anxious to know when my bag might be delivered as I had medications in it. I know it’s stupid to put meds into my checked baggage. Lesson learned.
No one I spoke to knew where my bag was, whether it had left Dublin, when it might arrive in the US, where it might arrive in New York (JFK or Newark), or when I might expect to get it. I could not leave the place where I was staying in case the suitcase arrived in my absence.
I knew the people I was talking to on the phone were instructed to stick to a script, with empathy for my plight built in, which had the purpose of telling me nothing. Learned helplessness is one thing; this is taught helplessness. Anyone who has spent a day or half-day on what is now called personal administration will know about the poor customer service offered by those who supply us with electricity, gas, broadband, TV, phones and water (although I have had good experiences with Irish Water).
There is a fresh menace added now to the long waits (put your phone on speaker and do something else): dreadful background music, insatiable and repeated demands for information they already have, and ultimate frustration when your issue cannot be dealt with. This is the AI assistant: “Hi, I’m Tanya/ Nick/ Persephone/ Rufus (in a bright, cheerful voice). How can I help you today?” Then they want all the usual information. Then they cannot answer any of your questions.
The way to deal with this is to give all the identifying information, then say in a firm voice: “I want to speak to a human being.” They will resist, but three reiterations usually do the trick. Remember, you can’t hurt their feelings, and they don’t mind being adversely compared to human beings. O brave new world!
My bag finally arrived at 10pm the night after I landed.
Somewhere higher up in Aer Lingus it was clearly decided not to inform us of the problem before the flight took off or during the journey. It was clearly decided not to provide real information on the prospective arrival of missing luggage. There is likely to be a lot more of this in the coming months.
Share your story: Have you been impacted by Aer Lingus flight cancellations?
