Boooooo.

I had pardoned this particular airline's previous sins, commited on my Eastbound flight in June, but since they seem to pride themselves on consistent unprofessionalism, I'll just go ahead and expose them, and omit NOTHING.

The rigormoral began in Chicago, on June the 17th of this year when I and my fellow passengers were waiting to board the overnight flight to Madrid. Official boarding time, 4:50. At 5:30 a stewardess got on the mic and announces to us that we would all have the privelege of boarding the flight just as soon as they were able to locate the flight crew. Not a good start. Things didn't improve on the actual flight, when during both drink services and the meal service they were out of just about everything that I would ask for:
"What do you want to drink?"
"I'll just have some juice."
"Sorry, I'm just down to soft drinks."
"Do you have Ginger Ale?"
"What's that?"
"Guess not. Sprite?"
"Just out."
"Lemonade?"
"Nope."
"Coke?"
"Um....Diet Pepsi OK?"
"I guess. Can I have the can?"
"Sorry, cutbacks."
Sigh.

Equally:
"How about for dinner?"
"What do you have?"
"Beef or Chicken."
"Okay, I'll have the chicken."
"Nope. Here's your beef." Toss.

You know, compromise just comes with the territory when you're flying, as you're locked in a bunker with hundreds of strangers all reaching around each other for pillows and stuff, and I was going to Spain, which I'd wanted to do since I could talk, and they were getting me there, so I was willing to let bygones be bygones.

They didn't restore my faith when the pilots of the above airline went on a ten day strike not long before my return home. Despite being somewhat pleased about the prospect of an excuse to hang around Granada a few more days, I knew that any extra time there would be spent on the phone with other airlines trying to fenagle passage home. Thankfully, after hundreds of cancelled flights, the management and workers came to an agreement days before I was supposed to fly again.

Needless to say I wasn't expecting the VIP treatment on any leg of my homeward journey. My worst fears didn't come to fruition in that my bags made it home with me, but my westward experience matched my eastward one in measures of migraine inducing meddlesomeness. The cabin was filled to capacity with Spanish youths from the ages of 15 and younger who, between their howls of the damned, would run down the passageways playing catch with each other and grabbing on to my arm and head rest, regardless of whether or not my arm or head was using them.

To top it off, everyone jumped into the aisles and started pulling down their luggage the moment rubber touched runway, inducing mass panic amongst the flight crew, who took to yelling over the intercom and running, literally running, up and down the aisles telling people to plant it. Meanwhile, the plane was breaking and navigating the difficult turns toward the concourse, causing everyone to sway madly to and fro like passengers on the freakin' Titanic.

The prize winning moment which sealed my oath to never fly Iberia again (barring the Apocalypse, of course), was this: the plane reaches the concourse, and comes to a stop. The usual mass confusion ensues, elevated this time by the fact that everyone is already holding their bags, guitars and bouquets in their laps, after which the pilot gets on the mic and issues this missive, "Everybody will you please return to your seats, I've come up about a meter and a half short of the concourse and will need to relight the engines to pull forward just a little." I was going to offer to establish the old "tennis ball on a string" method which has worked without fail for years in the Holyoak garage, but was distracted in my efforts to find the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels stashed in the pilot's suit coat.
I