A CHRISTMAS CAROL. AIR CANADA STYLE.

Vancouver Island. The name itself conjures images of rugged, rainforested landscapes and coastline so dramatically beautiful that it stops your very breath. It's the sort of place where one expects the unexpected, where nature still holds a firm grip on the sensibilities of the people. However, nestled in our cozy little home, with the relentless patter of rain providing a background symphony, I was grappling with a wilderness of a different kind: the impenetrable thicket of customer service at Air Canada.

Now, dear reader, you must understand something. It is the run up to the Christmas season, a time renowned for miracles happening in the most unexpected places. Yet, it appeared that the Air Canada Aeroplan ticketing office was immune to any form of holiday magic or, indeed, basic telecommunications efficiency.

It’s time once again for us to retreat to our Provencal hilltop. The task was simple, or so it seemed. Book a flight from Vancouver to Paris. A routine activity that “Chantel the ticket agent”, & the first voice of promise on the other end of the line after a 90-minute serenade of hold music that could only be described as the least successful tracks from the 1980s, managed to complicate beyond reason.

"Oh, the flights are very busy at this time of year," Chantel imparted, in a tone suggesting I had just asked to be transported to the moon in a pedal-powered spacecraft piloted by Neil Armstrong and Tom “Maverick” Cruise. I pictured her there, in a cubicle decorated with motivational posters about reaching for the stars, utterly oblivious to the fact that her lack of helpfulness was rapidly ensuring I wouldn't even leave the ground.

Just as we seemed to be getting somewhere, somewhere being a relative term when one has repeated their Aeroplan number sixteen times, the line went dead. Not just dead, but 'ceased to be, joined the choir of the invisible' dead. I stared at the phone, the silent betrayer in my hand, contemplating the cosmic unfairness of it all.

I embarked on the Sisyphean task of redialing, navigating the automated menu with diminishing patience and rising dread. This time, it was Marie Veronique (her name may have been) who answered, her voice carrying the unmistakable tone of someone who had been steeped too long in customer complaints and cheap office coffee monitored closely by “Terry Tate” the office linebacker”. If you wish to take a quick peak into what that environment looks like, please click the link below for some real life examples!

Mr T. Tate

Now, you might imagine that being a high-tier frequent flyer with Air Canada would afford some cushioning from the abrasive indifference of understaffed customer service during the run up to the holiday season. You would be wrong. So profoundly, achingly wrong. Marie Veronique, with the casual disinterest of a cat watching the wrong documentary, informed me that not only were there no convenient flights, but she also seemed to imply this shortage was somehow my fault.

The hours waned, my mobile phone threatening to overheat, and my ear was developing a distinct cramp that I was certain hadn't been there earlier that morning. The rain seemed to be letting up outside, but the stormy frustration indoors was reaching its peak.

It's humbling, isn't it? Here you are, a seasoned traveler with more air miles than Santa Claus, being subtly patronized over the phone by two individuals who hold the fragile thread of your holiday plans between their fingers, ready to snap it with no more than a bored sigh.

By the time I had rebooked – on a flight with more stopovers than a presidential campaign trail and at the approximate cost of a small diamond – I realized something profound. Chantel and Marie Veronique (not their real names), in all their infuriating un-helpfulness, had done more than just ruin my afternoon. They'd provided a stark reminder: no matter how grand one's status, we are all but mere mortals in the face of customer service's capricious gods.

And so, dear reader, as you embark on your holiday travels, remember this: pack patience, for it will be tested, long before you need to decide on which toothbrush to take. This process had taken way too long and my will to live. I felt drowsy and was having a hard time keeping my eyes open. I sensed I was nodding off.

The journey continued, as most do, with a misguided sense of optimism that perhaps the worst was behind us. How quaint that notion was. We arrived at the airport, bags laden with the kind of necessary items one needs to survive a trip that included layovers long enough to ponder the meaning of life. There, at the departure gate, we were to be greeted by Francis – though "greeted" is perhaps an overstatement.

Francis, you see, had the distinct air of a man who had wanted to be anywhere else on the planet other than dealing with the likes of travel-weary, question-armed passengers. He didn’t so much check our boarding passes as he did begrudgingly acknowledge their existence, offering the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes, or frankly, any part of his face.

But the real treat, the pièce de résistance, was yet to come. The Maple Leaf lounges, oh, the sanctuaries for the weary and privileged traveler, enclaves of comfort and care. Or so one would think. At Vancouver, and later in Montreal, it became abundantly clear that "sanctuary" had been redefined to mean a place where apathy reigns supreme, and the snacks have seen fresher days.

The staff, evidently following what must be a comprehensive training program in nonchalance, barely registered our presence, much less our status. It's a talent, really, to be so consistently disinterested, and they were virtuosos. One might wonder, in moments like this, where the hefty fees and taxes one pays go. Surely not into the staffing budget, or indeed into any aspect of the customer experience.

No, one could muse, those funds are perhaps funneled directly into the essential aviation fuel that keeps this great airline aloft – or possibly into federal tax dollars providing luxurious accommodations for the likes of Prime minister Trudeau on his whimsical jaunts to visit the Aga Khan. Or perhaps a massive west coast beach house used as a retreat for windy walks and skipping stones across the tidal pools of Tofino’s beaches with Melanie Joly (too soon)? One of life’s great mysteries, indeed.

And yet, as our journey finally, mercifully, continued towards its Parisian conclusion, a revelation dawned, casting a warm, if slightly resigned glow over the entire experience. A soliloquy of sorts bubbled to the surface, a ponderous voiceover to the slapstick comedy of errors this adventure had been.

Oh, Air Canada, with your indefatigable ability to deflate the buoyant spirits of even your most loyal passengers, how do you stay afloat? It's simple, really. Your secret weapon: the existence of competition so remarkably below par that next to them, you appear a shining beacon of adequacy. Yes, WestJet, we glance in your direction with a knowing nod.

For it matters not how you are treated in the warm, indifferent embrace of Air Canada. The alternative could indeed be worse. And so, we continue, gluttons for punishment, or perhaps just hostages to geography, loyal in our disgruntled way. Because no matter how high one's status, in the grand game of Canadian airlines, we're all just playing in the minor leagues, hoping for a call to the show that, we suspect, will never come.

But here's the rub, the twist in the tale, the unexpected morsel of hope in our traveler's buffet of despair: from the time we arrived at the airport it had all been a dream. A concoction of the sleeping brain, a mirage of misadventures that hadn't actually transpired — just yet. My eyes flickered open, phone still nestled against my ear, hold music quietly serenading me, as reality dawned with the softness of a feather yet the shock of cold water. There I was, still anchored firmly, if not somewhat deflatedly, in my living room, not a single bag packed, not a single apathetic employee endured.

The ordeal with Chantel and Marie Veronique had indeed happened and was a certified reality, a dance with bureaucratic absurdity that no amount of wishful thinking could erase. Still, the future, oh that sweet unwritten symphony, remained a slate upon which no nightmare had etched its signature. What lay ahead could still be the smooth sail we hope for in the deepest reservoirs of our travel-addled hearts. Yet, I feel that everything that I dreamed was simply just time reliving itself based on the hundreds of similar negative interactions I have endured over years of travel around the world with A.C..

The beauty of this revelation, dear reader, is the succulent suspense it brings. Here we stand, at the precipice of possibilities, the brink of adventures untold. What Paris holds, what Provence promises, remains shrouded in the mists of Tomorrow. Could it be that the universe, in its infinite jest, has tucked away an upturn in our fortunes, a serendipitous twist waiting to erupt from the ashes of our airline-induced despair?

So, I invite you, no, I implore you, to join me on this journey of hopeful redemption. Stay tuned, for the road winds ever on, and in its curves, we might just uncover vistas of joy to dwarf the valleys of tribulations we've trudged through. Let us stride forth, hand in weary hand, towards that shimmering possibility that the path from Paris to Provence, sprinkled with the gold dust of French allure, can soothe the sting of any customer service scuffle, can heal the wounds inflicted by the talons of travel's trials.

Because, in that hopeful, perhaps naive heart of the traveler, lies the eternal optimism that the journey — unpredictable, tempestuous, and beguiling — will, in its final turn, make everything splendidly, breathtakingly better. After all, isn't that what keeps us exploring, even when the world seems bent on sending us in circles? Ah, to travel is to live, live through the chaos, and emerge, perhaps slightly ruffled, but undeniably alive in the tale that awaits its telling.

I hope you have enjoyed this post, different as it may be. Please leave a comment, as feedback is the best opportunity to learn from mistakes and make positive change. Said Air Canada customer service never!

Live Well!

Mark