Even Leif Erikson Made it to Greenland

Disclaimer: This story is inspired by true events. However, certain scenes, characters, names, businesses, incidents, locations and events have been fictionalized for purposes of presentation and continuity. The story does not depict any actual person, business entity or events. Any similarity to names, characters, history, or operations is entirely coincidental and unintentional.

It was the trip of a lifetime, planned with military precision. Passports, bills paid in advance, COVID tests within 72-hours of sailing, credit card notifications, and flights all in order. They had to be. There were only two cruises a year to Greenland on our carrier, Arctic Cruise Line (ACL), and we were booked on the second. We were to take a cruise from Iceland to Greenland to see the fjords, and the terrestrial ice cap that calved into the sea each summer. This created Iceberg Alley, that narrow passageway that floats huge icebergs down to Labrador before they melt into oblivion. We’d need to start this trip in late July and finish this trip before the snow started in September. In anticipation, I brushed up on my Norse mythology, hoping for Odin’s blessing and researched further Eric the Red’s discovery of Greenland, and his son’s, Leif Erickson, eventual settlement of the world’s largest island. A thousand years ago, the Vikings followed the stars, birds, whales and prominent geography to get where they were going. Sailing was simpler then; and bookings not a particular problem. The concept of hub and spoke had not occurred to the Norse.

There was always a weak link; our connection from Toronto to Reykjavik, Iceland. Our cruise line booked it for us, noting there was about a four-hour contingency on either end; enough to connect to our awaiting flight in Toronto, they claimed, and then our awaiting ship in Reykjavik. It was a promotional fare and my wife was (theoretically) flying free for traveling 800 miles out of our way. It was an enticement that we were willing to believe. There were several direct flights scheduled that very same evening, but ACL ignored the schedule, despite earlier promises to fly direct. To change now would cost us a hefty penalty, only several weeks before we took off.

Noting recent horror stories about air travel, we arrived at Newark Airport about three and a half hours before our 6:45 PM departing flight. By then, our flight was already scheduled to depart 35 minutes late. No worries, the Air North gate agent explained. We had plenty of time. At 7:20 PM, our flight was still scheduled to leave for Toronto at 7:20 PM, though there was no plane. The gate agent insisted this was not mathematically impossible, as I contended, because that “was on her screen.”  I objected, armed with algebraic formulae and multiple theorems, never used in the context of air travel since Icarus charted his course to escape Crete. Air North changed the departure time to 7:30 PM soon thereafter; a pyrrhic victory, which corresponded to when the arriving plane came to a full stop at the gate, not its actual departure. We would board once passengers disembarked and cabin cleaning was completed. We finally left the gate at 8:15 PM, now 1 ½ hours late. With any luck, we’d arrive Toronto at 9:45 PM, with enough time to catch our scheduled 11 PM connecting flight to Iceland. But there was no luck. Odin had rejected our pleas.

We taxied from the gate to the runway, but were moving at a snail’s pace. Another 30 minutes elapsed, without the ability to test Bernoulli’s Principle of fluid flow over an airplane wing to create lift. Bernoulli never considered the inefficiencies of Newark Liberty International Airport. The captain came on the intercom, just when passengers were hungry for peanuts and losing hope.

“Folks, this is the captain. You’ve probably noticed that we’re going nowhere. We’re number 15 on the tarmac departure queue. Figure about one minute per plane ahead.” At least, I figured. I recalculated the grim statistics and probabilities of connection. They weren’t good, but there was nothing else to do but remain fully belted in our seats and slowly boil. They claim that a frog, first placed in a pot of room temperature water, will not feel the slow rise in temperature. We did.

We finally took off at 9:20 PM, with the captain advising that Toronto was experiencing “serious” thunderstorms. As a result, the wind was with us, and the flight to Toronto would be just an hour; we’d make up some time in the air. There was still a chance to catch our connection to Reykjavik, if, and only if, you believed the Mets would win a World Series anytime soon.

And then, “Folks, this is your captain again. There is a ground stop in Toronto. No planes are landing or taking off until the thunderstorms clear.” Good news and bad news, as not only would our flight be delayed, but our connection as well. We still had hope as we circled the city for 40 minutes, before landing, as we watched the clock drift. Time was merely a concept now.

We landed in Toronto. Finally. As we taxied to the gate, we confirmed that our connecting flight, originally set to depart at 11 PM, would now depart at midnight. We had roughly 40 minutes to catch it. The stewardess, not accepting the fact that the last time I ran a six-minute mile was 50 years ago, smiled, encouraged us and told us that “if you run fast, you could still make it.” She would let us off first, as a token of Air North’s appreciation of our plight and likely missed connection. Finally, an advantage to old age, unless you count the senior special at Denny’s.  

The captain came on again. He had two items on his agenda.

 “Folks, this is the captain. As you know, the airlines are experiencing staff shortages. As a result, we are waiting for baggage handlers to remove baggage. Sorry for the inconvenience.” How could he not be sorry? How could I not know the specifics of Canadian aviation personnel staffing? I questioned my own existence and finally understood why French Canadians wanted to secede from this country.

Our hopes were dwindling, but not dashed completely. We figured that we’d foreswear our luggage if we made our connection. It would not be the first time wearing the same clothes for two weeks, while not in a POW camp. We could buy clothes onboard ship or in port. We imagined stylish Greenlandic fashion featuring fur boots and seal hoods. We’d make it work. And then the gut punching second announcement.

“Folks, you may have noticed that no one is exiting the plane. The gangway has malfunctioned and we’ll need to call in a mechanic. Shouldn’t take long. We’ll let you know as soon as it is fixed.” By this time, the captain was not identifying himself as the captain. A subtle change. Undoubtedly, he was much too embarrassed and likely considering retirement by now. Another blow to Canadian aviation staffing.

Thirty-five minutes later, at 11:55 PM, the exit doors opened, just five minutes before our connection was scheduled to leave. “Remember to run fast,” the stewardess advised with a broad smile. I wanted to smack her, but more specifically the captain, who refused to notify the connecting flight that we had landed and needed some extra minutes to make our way over to the departure gate. He claimed the captain of the connecting flight, as all are, are aware of passenger connections and the decision to wait or go was theirs. Our only hope was to run fast, which we did, all the while hoping to avoid cardiac arrest. There were no other flights to Reykjavik for 24 hours, much the same amount of time to be seen by an emergency physician in Canada.

For reasons I’ll never understand, we’d have to pass through Canadian customs first, though we were not intending to stay. It was at a distant location, from where we’d be able to get to the connecting gate. After midnight, it was now closed; a sign that our connecting flight on the other side of the departure hall had already departed and that the entire country of Canada didn’t give a damn about our arrival unless we were carrying forbidden poultry. The cleaning crew told us, through closed doors, to head down to the next Customs location, about a football field away. A Canadian football field; adding about 50 yards to our destination. Of course, the automated walkways were in full stop, apparently to cut down on carbon emissions, in accordance with Canadian pledges to save the planet, but kill its visitors.

Upon arrival at Customs, we were drenched in sweat, more akin to Haiti in July, than Toronto with the nighttime A/C set to 90; less in Celsius, which is why they use it to carry out the illusion of comfort for unsuspecting Americans. We were greeted by a friendly customs agent who advised us to enter our life stories, since puberty, into a kiosk in either English or French. When prompted to answer what the purpose of our trip to Canada was, none of the drop downs allowed “I don’t even want to f’kin be here.” The kiosk’s artificial intelligence, sensing an irate American, directed us to a live customs agent, who confirmed that our flight to Iceland had departed, just minutes earlier. Bienvenue `a Toronto. We’d be staying.

The good folks at Canadian Customs directed us up the stairs, where helpful Air North agents would let us know our options, rebook our flight or find us hotels for the evening. Actually, it was morning, about 12:40 AM now. The line was easy to spot, having about 100 disgruntled passengers who had missed connections and were scouting lounge chairs just in case. Even the babies were too tired to cry. We stood on line for about fifteen minutes, when a nicely dressed Air North agent in a sporty gray vest and tie informed us that Air North staff was going home for the evening and they had no more recommendations on where to stay or how to rebook. Come back tomorrow and good luck, they advised with a smile. Hey, they had lives too. No sense sticking around to be insulted by customers like me. The airline had already gone bankrupt once before. No worries. This was tradition; like Boxing Day without the presents.

It was time to work the iPhone. There was no credible way to catch up with the cruise, given its departure time, expected time at sea, itinerary and lack of air fields in the first two Greenland ports. In my imagination, the possibility of flying to Copenhagen, flying back to Nuuk in west Greenland and then helicoptering over to east Greenland to catch the ship existed. Then I realized I wasn’t Bruce Willis, and this wasn’t a movie. I was just happy that my wife didn’t mention that she originally wanted to go to Hawaii.

I called ACL’s emergency number, the number they said would be invaluable in the event I ever missed a flight connection.  I did so at about 1:15 AM. I got a recording. “We’re sorry, but please call us back during normal working hours between 8:30 AM and 5:30 PM.” You’re kidding me. This is the emergency number. Emergencies happen outside of normal working hours. That’s why they’re called emergencies!

In a few hours, the cruise ship would soon be heading to Nanortalik. The town’s name translates to “place where the polar bears go,” which likely explains why there are only 1,185 inhabitants left. I imagined that if the population dwindled further, the revised correct translation would be “place where the polar bears used to go for lunch.” We were defeated. The polar bears won. As far as I was concerned, more should be set adrift on the melting ice.

Exhausted, we next went to baggage claim. No one was surprised to learn that our bags were not there. There was, after all, a baggage handler shortage. Remember? We checked with customer service, which by now was any uniformed person with a pulse. We were told that our bags were offloaded from our flight from Newark, but no one could determine where they were. Come back tomorrow was the best advice. Sure. We hadn’t seen the entire airport yet. We filed a baggage claim report.

It was after 2 AM now. We thought about sleeping in the airport, but preferred a bed to the benches of Tim Horton’s 24-hour diabetes factory. We were 70-year-old retirees on our first vacation since the pandemic. Downtown hotels were quite a distance away and rather expensive. Hotel space was at a premium as there were several festivals going on in Toronto that week-Global Black Pride, Toronto Gay Pride, and Caribbean Pride. One of the downsides of so much pride is downtown hotel room rates skyrocket to $600. Sure, it was Canadian dollars, but still expensive. Most of the airport hotels were full too, but we eventually found space at the smaller of the two airport Vacation Inns; the first one had recently been converted to a homeless shelter, no doubt reflecting the number of permanently stranded Air North passengers unable to leave. Ever.

We checked in around 3 AM, exhausted and just a few hours later, awoke for breakfast. Friendly staff were quick to remind us that we had to check out at noon, with no hope of extension; or else. We’d be subject to the full force of Canadian law, which viewed jaywalking as a felony. By now, these were idle threats. Nevertheless, nothing that needed to be done could be accomplished online and waiting times to speak with any ACL agent on the phone were upwards of an hour or two while listening to horrible music, interspersed with recordings suggesting I consider my next ACL vacation, when I hadn’t even started my first.

We returned to the airport and proceeded to Baggage Claim. The agent proudly proclaimed that our bags were coming off the carousel now. He had no idea where they were last night. We’ll never know. We were grateful to have toothpaste. With luck on our side and momentum building, we proceeded to Air North upstairs. With no credible way to catch the ship, it was time to go home. The only purpose of this trip was to get to Greenland (we had spent two weeks previously in Iceland). There was no practical way to do so and no one who could answer a phone and rebook us. We did what any reasonable person would do.

After waiting on another long line, a friendly Air North agent explained that he could not rebook our flight to either Iceland in time to catch our ship or Newark. All Canadians are trained to be friendly from the age of six to counter the fact that nothing works in their country, particularly a government-founded airline, formerly in bankruptcy. It explains why health care is free, but largely unavailable. As diplomatically as I could, I asked:

“Aren’t you an Air North agent? Don’t you sit behind the Air North check-in counter at the airport? Don’t you have a uniform? Don’t you regularly fly passengers to other airports?”

He answered affirmatively to all my questions, reaffirming my faith in God; Odin had been useless and I sought a higher authority. The agent still insisted he could not rebook our flight home.  Sorry. Another overused Canadian term. Instead, I’d have to call Air North reservations to rebook our flight. And so, from within the Toronto airport, within eyesight of Air North check-in gates, we were calling over to Air North reservations to rebook our flight. Just typing this raises my blood pressure. But it gets better. After waiting 30 minutes for someone to pick up the phone, the reservations agent at Air North noted that he could not, after apologizing, rebook me either. Did God abandon me? Like Moses, I was about to break something.

“Why?” I inquired.

“Because you don’t own the ticket.”

“But I’m looking at the previously provided, but unused boarding pass for yesterday’s flight right now. It’s in my hands. If I didn’t own the ticket. Who does?”

“Arctic Cruise Line. It’s a promotional ticket. You’ll have to call them.” At least this emergency was now during normal working hours, though the chances of them actually picking up the phone were slim.

I took a deep breath. “Just for fun,” I asked, “if I wanted to get back to Newark today, are there any flights?”

“No. The next flight back is tomorrow at 4:30 PM.” Of course.

We hopped on the shuttle bus with our new found bags and went back to the Vacation Inn, where we begged for our old room and bought a bag of chips from the hotel gift shop for a late lunch. There was no time for poutine. From there we called the Arctic Cruise Line emergency number. It was about 3:15 PM. It took over an hour for someone to answer, and I’m guessing that by now you know what they told me.

“We’re sorry you missed your connection, but we can’t get you to Iceland to catch the cruise ship and we can’t rebook your flight.” There were a lot of things they couldn’t do, but apparently few things they could do. “This was a promotional fare. You’ll have to purchase a new ticket to get home. But not from us. You’re lucky, you have travel insurance with Big Insurance Group (BIG). When you get home, just file a claim for the whole trip. It should be simple. You’ll get all your money back.” I was so delirious, I believed her. I could feel my body shaking and wondered whether the potato chips were laced with fentanyl from China. But that only happens at our other border. I was thinking about calling my cardiologist to see if he might call in an emergency prescription stronger than my current regimen, preferring that my last breath would not be at an airport Vacation Inn.

We went down to the business center to sit in front of a screen larger than a can of corn, to book a flight online for the next day. Though we made the reservation, there were only four seats left and were instructed that we couldn’t complete the check-in. We’d have to see another gate agent the next day for seat selection. And who was that agent? It was the agent who couldn’t rebook my flight the previous day. He remembered me, and I explained that everything Air North told me about the process was incorrect. He claimed, that had he known the ticket was issued by ACL then he would have suggested other alternatives. I had one alternative for him, but my wife pulled me away, before I suggested it. This was Canada. Cursing is a capital crime, unless done bilingually. My French was rusty, but my English was pure Brooklyn, with a hint of Jersey. We proceeded to the departure gate without further small talk.

Going home, everything was on time. We arrived home at 8 PM, about 54 hours from the time we originally left our home, having seen only two airports, a shuttle bus and a hotel room. On my next trip to Greenland, I’ll be taking an authentic Viking longboat from Bayonne, NJ. You don’t have to change planes in Toronto.

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About the author
Paul Levine is a retired environmental consultant. When not writing, he finds periodic solace in participating in current events clubs and investment forums.