In this week's episode: The Evil Luggage Carousel

I wanted to mention one other aspect of the suitcase losing ordeal - specifically how the luggage carousel at the Edmonton Airport is designed to maximize frustration in the event of lost baggage.

The luggage carousel at the Edmonton airport is split in half by a wall. On one side of the wall, the airline passengers have access to the baggage on the carousel. On the other side, the airline employees presumably (and ideally) place the baggage onto the conveyor belt. To get from one side of the wall to the other, the conveyor belt (and luggage) must pass through openings in the wall, which are curtained with black rubber blinds that shield us from knowing the terrifying truth about what happens on the other side of the wall. These curtains are only pushed aside by luggage passing from one realm to the other.

Each suitcase then takes the following voyage. To make this description more entertaining, I suggest you assume that this journey is accompanied by Raymond Scott's Powerhouse (see this link for the full composition). First, the suitcase is placed on the conveyor belt by an employee. The suitcase then passes through the opening and is available to be retrieved by the passengers. The suitcase is then either claimed, or it is taken by the conveyor belt to a second opening which leads back to the employee side of the wall. The suitcase then continues this journey until it is removed from the carousel by an employee or an airline passenger.

After most of the crowd has collected their luggage and moved on, us unlucky few are left to stare agonizingly at those black rubber blinds that cover the entrance to the passenger side of the wall, endlessly waiting for it to our turn to skip to the conveyor belt, collect our luggage, and merrily be on our way. And every time those blinds begin to buckle so as to allow some suitcase to pass, you momentarily have some hope. "It might be my bag this time," you think. You even manage to convince yourself that you are finally going to get to leave this miserable place.

But of course, it is not your bag that peeks through those black rubber blinds. It is that same stupid hard-plastic neon pink suitcase that has already made at least 30 trips around the carousel while you have been waiting. The few of us who have not already taken our frustration out on some poor airport employee are left to sigh in disgust and wait until our spirits have been fully broken by the next appearance of that hideously cruel bag.

I really hate that hard-plastic neon pink suitcase. I really do.

A Waste of Good Lasagna

It seems everyone has had some sort of experience with an airline losing their luggage. I have always been extremely lucky in this regard - especially considering how often I have been travelling by plane in the past year and a half. Well today, my personal percentages starting tipping back towards the mean.

I should have known I was in for trouble when I found Toronto's Pearson Airport in a state of chaos, with all the lines for those who checked in on the web, those who were late, and those who checked in on spot (and seemingly tagged their own bags), all jumbled up. I believe the line I was in actually got re-purposed while I was in it, without my knowledge.

I'm not going to bore you with (many of) the details, because you've heard the same song and dance before. What distinguishes this story from the others (or at least some), is that my missing bag (I did find one of them) contained frozen lasagna.

It has been family tradition that my Nonna cooks a massive plate of lasagna for Christmas. Since the following day is my birthday, and lasagna is my favourite pasta, I inherit what is left over. The significant portion that was not consumed either on Christmas or during the holidays, was then to be brought to Edmonton, where I could keep it frozen, and eat it from time to time.

Well, I have yet to receive my bag and having been almost 24 hours since I took the lasagna out of the freezer, I think it is safe to say that my plans have been foiled.