Our American Airlines Story

At the moment I am flying aboard American Airlines Flight 137 somewhere over the Atlantic, returning from a dream trip to Europe with my family—a trip whose conclusion was altered due to an emergency surgery on my thirteen-year old daughter, Daphne.  As I fly on this beautiful new plane—equipped with an impressive entertainment center for each passenger, including the “groundlings” in the economy section like myself—I continue to think of what might be the best case study on what is wrong with American Airlines. 

As the co-founder a web-based company that offers a commoditized product—mortgages—I am constantly looking to learn from good and bad examples of customer service to differentiate my company from competitors who sell that same commodity.  American operates in an analogous space; air travel has become very much a commodity.  The story I am about to tell will show how American failed when given the opportunity to differentiate itself.

My story begins in the Amsterdam.

For three days my daughter had suffered from what we thought was a lingering case of the flu.  However, the constant stomach pain that failed to improve finally convinced us that she was afflicted by something more than the flu.  Thus, we sought the help of the hotel doctor at the Marriott in Amsterdam, who, after a quick diagnosis, swiftly admitted her to a hospital.  Daphne had appendicitis, and underwent surgery within hours.

While Daphne was in surgery, and before we knew of its outcome, I called American Airlines to see how I could get Daphne and our family home in the safest and easiest manner.  At that point, we didn’t know what to expect: if her appendix had ruptured, we could be in a for a long haul of antibiotics and attentive care; if it hadn’t ruptured then her hospital stay would be minimal, and she could likely fly within 5 to 6 days, according to our Dutch doctor.   Regardless, I had one primary objective:  get Daphne home in the least-taxing, safest and most convenient way. 

Our itinerary had called for Prague to be our next stop.  However, travelling miles eastward to a country whose medical care was likely not on par with the care she might receive elsewhere—should there be any residual affects following her surgery—was not an option. It was the 25^th of July and we were supposed to fly on the 28^th to Prague where we would stay for three days and then fly home to Salt Lake City (SLC) through London Heathrow and LAX. I called American hoping to avoid Prague altogether.

A few minutes into my conversation with American, I quickly learned that being rerouted out of Amsterdam—the most convenient and least intrusive for a person recovering from surgery—was out of the question. That would require a “change fee” of $275 plus the “difference in fare” that would amount to $2,800 per ticket.  For my family of seven, that $20,000 bill didn’t make sense (particularly, because I was still wondering what surgery in Amsterdam was going to cost me).

While I was disappointed about that, I couldn’t necessarily be angry about the cost of flying out of Amsterdam.  I was not naïve enough to expect American to care enough to give me seven seats on a flight from Amsterdam that they might be able sell to someone willing to pay much more than what I had paid when I booked my flight eight months earlier.   For reasons that I won’t bother criticizing in this forum, all airlines practice a similar business model: the closer the flight, the more they charge you. I suspect they do that because it works; there are corporate travelers or desperate people who are willing to pay the high price of last-minute travel.  If the market bears that, then so be it. 

Thus, without argument, I tried a different route.  And herein is where American failed.

I essentially told them what I just told you:  we weren’t sure of the outcome of this surgery nor of any of its residual affects, and the idea of flying to Prague to catch the first leg of our itinerary seemed taxing, and potentially risky.  Thus, my proposal:  can we find our own way to London, and board our existing and reserved flight there?

I could hear the American agent tapping her keyboard as I talked, undoubtedly trying to learn what she needed to charge me for my new proposal.  After having to reboot her machine due to a system failure (note the ironey), she quoted me the cost of doing the what I had suggested:  “That would cost $3,100.”

“For all seven tickets?” I asked.

“No, for each ticket.”

I quickly did the math in my head.  They wanted to charge me $21,700 to let me travel 2/3rds of my existing reservation.  “Really?” I asked in disbelief. “What happens if I try to check in at Heathrow?”

“If you don’t get on that plane in Prague, then your ticket will automatically be cancelled.”

“Got it,” I countered, “which is exactly why I would need you to re-ticket me with Heathrow becoming the first leg of my flight.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the American agent responded. “I can’t do that.  My system won’t let me.  I would have to issue a whole new ticket. I can’t just change an existing reservation.”

I countered in a calm way, never raising my voice, or hurling insults: 

“Is there a human being in your company that can help me accomplish the following:  I've had a medical emergency that will likely cost me no less than 10,000 as it is.  I am trying to find a way to get my daughter, who is at this moment undergoing surgery, home in the easiest way. If I have to fly to Prague, I’ll have to leave Amsterdam a day earlier to be able to make my 8:30 a.m flight on Wednesday.  That will involve the whole rigmarole of going through security, customs, airport shuttles, lugging baggage to and from a hotel in Prague, etc.  If I can fly here—at my own expense—out of Amsterdam, I can simplify that for her and take less risks along the way.”

“I understand that your systems work in a certain way, and that the routing and pricing of flights is a complex matter.  I get that you've developed a business model that is terribly complicated.  But I am asking for a human being to cut through all that complexity and look at this is a very simple way.  My itinerary includes three flights:  the first with British Airways, your partner.  Based on what you just told me, you've already paid British Airways for the flight from Prague to London (I probably don't need to remind you that you paid them with the money that I paid you eight months ago when I booked).  If I don't step on that flight in Prague, you and British Airways, are still whole. You and they have been paid for the mileage I was supposed to travel on their plane. On top of that, perhaps you can sell my seven tickets from Prague to London and come out smelling like roses.

“My second flight leaves from Heathrow.   That is a different flight with a different gate and probably a different terminal.  The only connection between that flight from Prague and my next flight from Heathrow to LAX is the intangible electronic ticket that binds them.”

“If I show up at Heathrow, having gotten my family there from Amsterdam at my own expense, and board that flight to LAX, American or British Airways will not be out any real money--other than the cost for a human to override the system."  I didn't add that the 55 minutes I spent on the phone with them was likely going to cost them more in human wages than having someone override the system to re-ticket me.  I just need some human being to override the system.”

The agent refused:  “What you don’t understand, Sir, is that we just can’t change your ticket.  If we did, then we’d have to absorb the fare difference.”

They would have to absorb the difference? Absorb what? I was already on the flight I was asking to be re-ticketed on.   Eventually, I requested to be transferred to the agent’s manager.  I went through the same conversation with her. 

She seemed empathic and genuinely interested in helping me, putting me on hold for about 10 minutes while she visited with various people at American, trying to see what she could do.  Ultimately, however, she came back with the same response:  “I’m sorry but there’s nothing I can do.  We can’t just remove the Prague portion of your ticket without losing your entire ticket.”

I repeated myself, “I understand that once you do that, your system is going to require that a new fare be paid. I’m just asking for someone to understand that I am not asking for American to incur any new or real costs or lose any potential revenue by making this change for me:  my family and I already booked on this itinerary.”

Perhaps because I kept repeating myself, the manager repeated what she and her agent had told me no less than 10 times—something that I refused to accept:  “If we change that ticket, we’ll have to absorb that fare difference.”

The tenth time I heard that phrase—we’ll have to absorb the difference—I finally realized what their core problem is: they have become slaves to their own policy, systems and technology, which has made them incapable of understanding how to solve their customer needs.  If their customer has a problem that cannot be solved by their existing policy, systems, and technology, they are incapable of solving that problem.  Indeed, they are incapable of even recognizing a reality beyond those systems.

I had a need (that had arisen from a medical emergency) that I had expressed succinctly and clearly. I had proposed a way to meet my need in a way that would not—in real dollars—cost American any money. They had a chance to meet that need but were blinded by policy, systems, and technology.

I will be the first to admit that an emergency on the part of the customer does not necessarily constitute one on the part of the company.  The customer cannot expect companies to lose money because of independent events that arise in their life. 

Take, for example, my industry: mortgage lending.  The greatest risk we incur each month is not potential borrower default:  it’s interest rate risk.  Whenever a customer choses to lock an interest rate for a specified amount of time, we in turn lock (or hedge) that rate with the market.  We then have X amount of days—based on the lock expiration period chosen by our customer—in which to fund and then deliver that loan to the secondary mortgage market.  If we do not do so, we face dramatic penalties. The cost of a given interest rate can and often does change dramatically from day to day, and if an interest rate lock expires before we have funded the loan, then we can potentially lose thousands of dollars—far more than the per-loan profit we can earn on a single loan.

We have funded loans in the past whose interest rate locks had expired and where we charged the customer $1,500 in fees but had to pay the market nearly $25,000 to deliver that loan at the customer’s chosen interest rate. Essentially, we ended up paying—not earning—$23,500 for the privilege of lending money to that client. Those are real costs and we absorbed them because we screwed up at some point in the process, which kept us from funding on time to meet the lock expiration.

However, when a failure of not meeting an interest-rate lock is not our fault, but is rather the result of an emergency that arises in our customers’ lives that prevents us from funding their loan on time, we typically cannot always absorb the cost of not meeting their lock.  We try, and we grovel with our investors on their behalf.  But with our low margins, we cannot absorb the very real cost of not funding by the expiration of an interest-rate lock.

Again, this is partly why I was not upset about American’s refusal to reroute us from Amsterdam.  That could have potentially cost them money in lost revenue.

However, the difference between my company’s inability to absorb the loss on an interest rate and American Airlines’ inability to make Heathrow my first leg was this:  the expenses associated with missing an interest-rate lock represents tangible and real-dollar losses that must be paid to the independent market while American’s loss to meet my needs would represent a paper-expense that yielded no true or real net loss in actual dollars to American. And debits and credits on accounting ledger do not necessarily represent real revenue or expenses.

I tried explaining an abbreviated form of that to the manager at American (without the complicated comparison to interest-rate risk).  She didn’t concede an inch.  Let me rephrase that: she didn’t concede a millimeter.  I suspect that’s because she truly could not understand what I was saying.  American Airlines’ culture has stifled any ability for her to create and solve a need when that need conflicts with policy, systems, and technology.  Sadly, I can’t chalk this response up to the inability of one or two people to think clearly, for the manager told me that she spoke with “several” people on this issue, all of whom agreed that they simply could not absorb this fictitious expense.

American Airlines has a problem. I suspect it is part of the reason it went bankrupt a few years back. Despite the fancy new planes it just purchased to entertain its customers, American may very well go broke again unless it figures out how to remove the shackles of its systems from its people.  Soon everyone will have fancy planes—if they don’t already—and the only thing that will save this company that is selling a commodity will be its ability to see what its customer sees.

Everyday Paris

I wrote this post while I was still in Paris, thinking I was going to return to Paris and add final details.  With Paris' sudden end, I'll post it now:

Right now I am at the Laundromat, doing four loads of wash. We have a washer in our apartment, but this is so much easier. For reasons that I can’t explain, the typical euro-washer that has been in most of our apartments takes about two hours to complete a thorough wash cycle. And because of the size of these euro-washers in our apartments, it would take about 16 straight hours to get through four normal-size loads of Laundry.  I’ll pay 3.50 a load any time to get this done commercially at the local Laundromat in 45 minutes. That is a much better use of my tourist time.

Speaking of chores, I have generally enjoyed doing “normal” things on this trip.  Yes, we came for the sights (and Europe has a lifetime of those), but we also came for the experience of living—though briefly—in a foreign land.  And there are few better ways to experience a city than to do laundry, get a haircut, buy a local cell phone or SIM Card, shop at the grocery store, and eat at “neighborhood,” non-touristy restaurants.

My favorite moments in Paris so far were last Friday and Saturday nights when Lisa and I left the girls at home (Sam and Jeffrey were in Germany visiting their friend Charlotte).  We found two great restaurants with the help of TripAdvisor.com.   There’s no better international resource that I know of to help locate great places to eat.  From our apartment, we used TripAdvisor’s “Near Me Now” function to locate restaurants within 5-10 minutes of our location.  The results usually return hundreds of options, most of which include ratings and reviews from regular people. You can’t always trust the star-rating (as a 5-star rated place with three reviews doesn’t give you any statistical confidence that the place is any good), so you want to look for places with as many reviews as possible. Thankfully, we found two places near us that came with 100+ reviews and whose average rating was 4.5 stars. 

Our first restaurant was quintessential French:  dark, small, rustic, wood-beamed, colorful pictures and paintings all over the walls.   It had no exterior seating, perhaps because the exterior wasn’t pretty.  It was across the street from some ugly municipal building.  Locals don’t come here for the view; they come here for the food.  We had a delightful two-course meal with a killer salad with shrimp and grapefruit (I hate grapefruit, mind you).

The next night we ate at a place that was even a step up from the previous night. Like the previous restaurant I mentioned, this too was on a quiet street with no view, although it did contain outdoor seating, which was nice.  Regardless of the view, eating outside in Paris in the summer is always a treat.  We were treated to a five-course meal, which sounds like a lot, but each course was a small but perfectly-sized portion of something that tasted completely different from the previous course.  It was one of those meals that you try to eat slowly (not easy for me as I typically inhale my food).  At 40 euros per person (which includes tip and tax), this was a bargain.

Speaking of tipping, you generally don’t need to tip much in Paris, or in most of Europe. The tip is typically included in the price (in other words, they pay their servers a wage that allows them to survive without tips).  You can always round up and give a little extra, but American-style tipping of 15-20% is just not necessary here.  That is one of the reasons that restaurant food seems so expensive here.  You have to remember that tax and tip are already in your price, so reduce the price by about 27% to make a real comparison with the price of restaurant food in the states.

Back to the narrative.  We had another delightful food experience on Saturday.  We visited a place in the Latin Quarter (famous for its charm and history) called Don Lucas, a newly opened Spanish-style deli that is owned by a member of the LDS ward that we’ve been attending in Paris.  We were going just to be nice.  We left having one of the best food-experiences of our trip. 

As our host seated us on the terrace outside his shop, we told him, “Just bring us whatever you feel like making.”  A few minutes later he plopped down a plate of what looked like anchovies and a bowl of mussels that, well, didn’t exactly look appetizing.   The skin was still on the fish, and while I like mild-tasting (white meat-based) seafood, fish still in its skin has never appealed to me.

Moments after he plopped the fish down in front of me, I knew I couldn’t hesitate. I’ve always taught my kids:  “if someone feeds you, you eat whatever they give you. It won’t kill you.”  I had to lead out—and quickly.  I stabbed the first fish through the skin and quickly inserted it into my mouth.

I didn’t vomit.

In fact, I loved it. It was some sort of tuna, and with a touch of sweet, thick balsamic sauce drizzled over the top, it was superb.  I had another.   Apparently, that set the tone, and Daphne, who isn’t exactly an adventurous eater, dove in, and did the same. Her response: “That’s good!”  We then tried the mussels, which were divine.  Even Abby—without a doubt our most picky eater—was inspired and tried the fish.  If you know her eating habits—she doesn’t like anything with “spots” on it—the fact that she tried the fish shows how contagious our enthusiasm was for what we were eating.  When she put the fish into her mouth, and took the first few chews, it almost came up, but she kept chewing, and then frantically reached for the water.  She found and gulped down at least a cup’s worth, trying to wash the fish down as fast as possible.  The fact that she didn’t spit it out—something she hasn’t been afraid to do in the past—when she didn’t like it shows that she probably didn’t want to disappoint us because she could tell we were enjoying it so much. Pictures below.

Our host then brought out some Spanish cheese, sharp and dry, and perfectly complimentary with the divinely baked-bread and meat he brought with it.  The meat came from the pig leg that has been sitting in a vice on the front counter in the store for a few weeks. The leg had been specially cured for 42 months prior to leaving Spain.

After the meal, at our request, our host shared how the curing process works for his meats. We asked him a few questions about his business: how it was fairing, whether he planned to open other locations, etc. 

One of the treats of our trip has been to go to church. At Church, you meet normal, everyday people who are not travelling, and who have real lives in the places you’re visiting.  You also meet fellow travelers and have a chance to exchange stories and places to see. 

Daphne, who initially was a little irritated that we had decided to attend all three hours of church in a foreign country (after all, we won’t understand a word they say, she asked), ironically complained yesterday when she learned that we were not going to be able to attend all three hours this coming Sunday due to the time of our flight to Prague.  She ended up loving going to Church in Paris, which is actually quite nice for an English speaker. 

The Paris Ward is quite international. Though mostly French, the congregation consists of a substantial English-speaking constituency.  Apparently, they welcome the bilingual nature of their ward. Last week they even asked me to give the opening prayer in Sacrament meeting. When a member of the bishopric approached me and mumbled something in French I responded with one of the two lines I know in French, “Je ne parl pa Francais” (sp). Undeterred, he grabbed a member next to me, who spoke English.  He repeated his request to him, who then relayed his question to me:  “He’s wondering if you would mind giving the opening prayer?”  I accepted and gave the prayer in English.  I must say that I felt a little odd doing so in a Paris Ward, but I suspect that about 75-80% of the congregation understood me.

Last week in our high priest group meeting, the lesson was given in English, and was translated into French.  That was strange.  That was due to the fact that the instructor, who teaches every other week, is an American working in Paris.  The week before it was in French.  Apparently, they trade off.

Getting around in Paris and most of Europe as an English speaker is a breeze.  That said, for some reason it gives me anxiety that I can’t speak the language of the land I am in.  I actually feel bad that I’m making these people speak my language.  I can’t imagine living anywhere for an extended period of time, and NOT learning the language. It would drive me crazy.

Our time in Paris has been what we hoped it would be:  for the first week with Coleman and my parents, we were in super-tourist mode, seeing all the famous sites (which I promise to write about soon).  That part of Paris is wonderful: I’ve done it now three times, and I will do it again.

When my parents and Coleman left, we got to slow down and see, maybe, a site a day, or visit a park, or take a walk, or take a metro just to get ice cream.  I didn’t feel as much internal pressure to make sure they were having a good time.  That pressue was without question self-imposed, but it was there nonetheless.

Some days I stay home and work, and Lisa becomes tour guide.  The pace of the vacation is perfect at this point, and we’re happy we chose to spend so much time in Paris, having as many “normal” and non-touristy experiences as possible.

Out front of Amorino's, one of our favorite discoveries for treats in Paris.  

They serve as good of Gelato as any Gelato shop in Italie.

Three of my favorite ladies at the bus stop in front of our Paris apartment.

One of things we loved doing in Paris was visiting parks.  Here we are sailing rented boats at Luxembourg Gardens.

More of Luxembourg

Amsterdam and an Appendectomy

Wednesday, July 24:

Right now I am on a train, zipping across The Netherlands (i.e. Holland) at 200 mph.  We decided last week to take an excursion to Amsterdam (after some pleading by my kids).  I love Holland, having spent two years here as an LDS Missionary.  I love the people, the flat landscape, the tulips, the cheese, windmills, the little dorpjes (small villages) that dot the landscape, the canals, and the distinctive Dutch architecture.  I love fries with mayonnaise, pinda saus (peanut sauce) and uitjes (diced onions).  I love Indonesian Food (as prevalent in Holland as Chinese is in America).  I love Dutch painters. I love the Dutch history of making a big splash in the world despite being such a small country. I love it that everyone under 40 in Holland speaks at least three languages well, and that most speak better English than I do Dutch (okay, so I’m lying: I hate that part, but I can appreciate it).  I love how they have  become world-leaders in water-management technology, having reclaimed nearly 1/3rd of their land from the sea.   The Dutch love to boast, “God created the earth but the Dutch created Holland.”  I love it that the average height of males must be at least 6’3” and that they have always great volleyball teams.  I love world-famous Dutch cyclists and speedskaters.

Yeah, I’m pretty much fond of everything Dutch.

Yet Holland was not on our itinerary for our 60-day journey to Europe.  Why?  Because, believe it or not, 60-days was not long enough to meet the list of places I still wanted to experience in Europe.  I actually had to scratch a few places that I really wanted to see in favor of a more rational travel plan.  I had been to Holland twice since leaving in the summer of 1993, each for a week at a time, and although a trip to Holland always interests me, I had other fish to fry on this journey.

However, my kids prevailed.  They wanted to see Holland.  They’ve celebrated SinterKlaas  (Dutch version of the commercial Christmas complete with a Santa Clause that arrives via a boat from Spain mounted on a white horse), eaten enough Indonesian, heard enough mission stories, and watched the Best Two Years enough  to demand that we make a trip—albeit for a few days—to Holland.  I am glad they go their way. Holland is a cool place.

The TGV, the high-speed train, zips northward and gets from Paris to Amsterdam Central Station (even with four stops) in three short hours. Incredible.  For this trip, I wouldn’t even consider flying.  Being able to step on a train five minutes before it departs, and ride in complete comfort (this high-speed rail is smoother than an airplane) is so nice.  The train takes us from downtown Paris to downtown Amsterdam with no hassles from the TSA, no taxis,  and no flight attendants who want me turn of my phone for fear that it’s going to bring the plane down. I am jealous of European public transportation.

At Amsterdam Central Station, we will pick up six bikes for our mode of transportation around the city. Yes, bikes.  There is no more bike-friendly country than The Netherlands, and no better bike-friendly big city than Amsterdam.  To understand how connected the Dutch are to their bicycles you need look no further than the bike racks at any train station.  There are literally thousands of bikes parked a station. 

Sam, Emma, and Jeffrey with their bikes on a typical Amsterdam canal street

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They even have separate lights for bikes.

Nearly every public street has a defined bike path and cars are conscious and respectful of cyclists. In fact, in The Netherlands, when there is an accident between a car and a cyclist, it’s always deemed the car’s fault.  Always.  That is not necessarily fair but it does keep the Dutch auto aware of the cyclist.

Abby will sit in a child-seat attached to one of our bikes. In Holland, it is very common to see a mother on a bike complete with groceries and child attached.  Grandmas ride bikes.  Businessmen ride bikes.  Everyone rides bikes.  So we are too.

Abby "achterop"--attached to the back of my bike.

Each of us has our clothing in daypack, which we’ll strap to our back, and then pdeal to our hotel.  We’ll drop off our light luggage at the hotel, and then complete our tour of the city, which includes the Van Gogh Museum and Anne Frank House, and whatever else catches our fancy. We’re just arriving, so I’m a going to disconnect.  I’ll continue this conversation later tonight.

Monday, July 29:  An Appendectomy Later

Twelve hours after I wrote that text above, we sat in the Emergency Room of an Amsterdam hospital.  Two days prior in Paris, Daphne awoke with what we thought was the flue.  By Wednesday morning, she was still feeling the same stomach ache, though she said she still felt fine to travel, and did not want to miss a chance to go to Holland.

Our plan was to spend one day in Amsterdam, touring the canal streets in the center of the city on bike, visiting the Van Gogh Museum, the Anne Frank house, and ending the day with Indonesian Food, very must apart of the Dutch gastronomy.   After arrived on Amsterdam’s central station, we walked 500 meters to a biker rental shop and picked up six bikes for the family.  We carried two days worth of clothing in day-packs on our backs, and made our way through Amsterdam’s picturesque canal-lined streets.  With waterways on every street in its historic center, Amsterdam is called the Venice of the North for a reason (frankly, I would take Amsterdam over Venice any day).  We rode over an endless series of bridges and lanes on clearly marked bike baths that cars and pedestrians respect.  I am convinced that there is no better way to see Amsterdam than on bike, and if a tourist misses that experience that he misses much of Amsterdam.

By the time we made it to our hotel via bike, Daphne looked wiped out, and still has very visible effects of the flue, and she just wanted to sleep.  Lisa decided to stay at the hotel with Daphne and Abby, while Samantha, Emma, Jeffrey, and I visited the fabulous Van Gogh museum.  By the time we returned, Daphne has slept a few hours and, thought still not feeling well, said that she didn’t want to “miss out” on anything else, so she joined us for excursion at the Anne Frank House. 

Our bike ride to the Anne Frank house was approximately 15 minutes from our hotel.  By the time we arrived, Daphne looked even more ill, but she persisted that she wanted to endure and see it. She and Jeffrey sat at the side of the canal on Prinsengracht, the street upon which Anne’s house sits, while the rest of us waited 45 minutes in line to get in. 

Halfway through the tour, Daphne looked even more pale.  She told me that she couldn’t take it anymore and that she just wanted to go outside and sit down.  She and I left the exhibit and waited at the entrance of the house on a bench while the others finished the tour.  Daphne lay down on the bench, resting her head on my lap, here legs curled in a semi-fetal position.  At this point, I began to worry that this was not the flue.  I wondered if she might have appendicitis.  While we waited, I called the concierge at the hotel to inquire as to where I might find medical help in the city.  He gave me name of a hospital (which step I was not ready for), and so he suggested that we call the hotel doctor for a consultation. 

The fastest was back to the hotel was by bike. I hated to make Daphne ride back to the hotel, but any other method—public transportation or taxi would have taken twice as long.  We first consulted the hotel doctor via telephone, who after two minutes of questions decided that he need to come see Daphne.  45 minutes later he arrived, asked a series of additional questions, felt around, and then proclaimed, “I think that it’s appendicitis.”

Ten minutes later, and after a priesthood blessing, Daphne and I were in a Taxi, heading toward Onze Lieve Vrouw Gasthuis in Amsterdam, a fantastic hospital.  The next morning she went into surgery. The care she received was superb:  friendly and efficient staff who, of course, where happy to speak English; the accommodations were top notch as well. We felt blessed to be in the Netherlands during this episode.

Daphne, pre-surgery in her bed in the hospital. She's resting after three days of continuous pain.

The Fam with Daphne post-op.

Daphne, on her way out of the hospital.  We cannot speak highly enough about our experience with the healthcare at this facility.  So happy we were in Holland versus Paris, as everyone's ability to speak so easily in English made this experience so much less scary for Daph.

Suddenly, the end our trip completely changed, and we had to alter our plans quickly.  It was now Thursday; we were in Holland and most of our stuff was sill in our apartment in Paris (we only took two days worth of clothing for our two-day trip to Holland), and we were supposed to vacate that apartment by Sunday morning.

Our plan was to fly to Prague on Sunday where we would stay for three nights.  Our return back to the states would originate from Prague on Wednesday morning.  Our original plan was no longer on table:  there was no way I was going to have Daphne fly two days after her surgery, and especially not to the eastern end of central Europe where I’m not sure she would get the same kind of care she had in the Netherlands should there be any lingering affects—ie, infections--from the surgery.

I also did not want to make her travel back to Paris, only to move to yet another place two days later.  After consulting with the kids, we decided to stay in Holland for the duration of our trip, remain at the same Marriott, and while Daphne recovered the rest of us would savor this great country. 

We had two obstacles to clear:

·      What about our stuff in Paris?

·      How were we going to get home?

The question of Paris could only be settled once we knew how we were going to get home.  Ideally, we wanted to reroute from Amsterdam.  Those hopes were dashed after a disappointing call with American Airlines, who wanted to charge us $2,800 per person to fly home from Amsterdam as opposed to Prague.  I then asked them if could keep my original itinerary with one simple modification.  My original itinerary with American consisted of the following legs:

·      Prague to London Heathrow

·      London to LAX

·      LAX to SLC

At this point, I simply did not want to drag Daphne eastward to Prague, which would require a needless flight and another night’s stopover form Amsterdam. It wasn’t worth the strain on her body. 

So my request to American was simple:  "can I find my own way to Heathrow and join the flight from Heathrow to LAX that I am already on?”

“No,” American flatly refused.  “Once you miss that flight in Prague, your ticket will be cancelled.”

“Hmmm, so can someone override that for me, and re-ticket that?  I really don’t want to drag my girl that just had an unexpected surgery in a foreign country to Prague:  that’s more airports, more security, more customs, more transfer, more luggage, etc. All I want you to do is let me travel 2/3rds of the same legs I'm already booked on.  That won't cost you any money or keep you from selling a ticket to another customer. I'm not asking for anything that will truly cost you any money.”

American refused. 

All they wanted was another $3,100 per person to remove Prague as my originating city.  I wasn’t pushing them for what really would have been ideal: Amsterdam to Dallas to LAX.  I didn’t expect any empathy, so I didn’t push for that kind of a reroute after I initially inquired about it and was quickly shut down.

I did, however, push for the small modification in making Heathrow my jumping-off point instead of Prague.  Sadly, they refused.  Yes, they wanted to charge me $21,700 more than what I had already paid them to book me on the same two flights on which I was already booked and for which I had already paid.   I am writing a separate blog entry discussing this conversation in greater detail.  It will be a fascinating case-study in just about everything that is wrong with not only this horrid company but with the industry itself.  I hope you’ll share it with as many people as you possibly can.  I may not have found an easy way home, but I am bound and determined to make sure that this costs American far more than it does me.

So, after American failed to be of any help, we decided that Prague was the only sensible solution as long as we could delay that flight for as long as possible, which meant pushing it to Tuesday night and flying out of Amsterdam instead of Paris.  So, I purchased 7 tickets from Amsterdam to Prague at a cost of $150 euros ($195) per person.  On top of that I have the Prague apartment to pay for that we’re not going to use, and a night at the Prague Airport on Tuesday night (our flight lands at 8:30 p.m and twelve hours later we head back west to Heathrow).  You could also throw into the mix the cost of the flight from Paris to Prague that we paid for and never used.

I am also waiting to see what this little adventure at the Amsterdam hospital will cost me: so far I have paid them $5,000. No idea what my insurance will pay but since my deductible is $4,000 this little medical adventure will at least cost me that (insurance pays 100% after that, as long as it’s in network—I suspect they’ll make an exception on the network thing here, but who knows).  By now, I am sure that my insurance is ready to fire me after four years of heart surgeries, breast cancer, and foreign appendectomies.  I am their worst nightmare.

Anyway, back to our second problem: Paris and our stuff.  Because we had ruled out returning to Paris, we now had to find a way to get our the majority of stuff that was still sitting in the apartment in Paris.  I decided to send Jeffrey and Samantha back to Paris on the high-speed train to grab our suitcases, stroller, Emma’s soccer ball, Daphne’s blanket, and a slew of other items. 

They left Amsterdam at 9 am and returned that evening at 11 pm with all of our belongings. 

Samantha and Jeffrey, on their from Paris with the family's entire set of luggage.

So, despite the added expenses associated with all of this, we have been quite happy with our detour.  Amsterdam is one of Europe’s greatest cities (though I am admittedly biased). My kids now feel the same.  It has the charm of Venice without the same temperature or level of crowds; it has fantastic art with the Van Gogh and Rijks Museum a stone’s throw apart from each other.  It has great gastronomy with food from every culture represented.  It contains a citizenry that is welcoming, tolerant, and hospital.  Throw in the pleasure (and safety) of bike travel and this city becomes magical.  

Sure, there’s a raw side of Amsterdam with its legalized marijuana (small doses only) and prostitution that don’t appeal to me or to many travelers, but that crowd is easy to miss.  Speaking of the Red Light District, I had never been there prior to this trip (as you can imagine, I didn’t spend any time there as a missionary), nor had I been there on my two previous trips after I left Holland as a missionary. 

This time, however, I lead my entire family (Daphne not included) on a tour of the Red-Light District. That was unintentional, of course.  Apparently, Siri doesn’t have an option to filter out pornographic streets from her directions, and the American Movie Association has apparently not rated any of Siri’s suggested routes from the Amsterdam Marriot to the Star Bike Rental shop. 

It was Saturday and we had to return our bikes before 7:00 p.m., as the rest of our journey in Holland was going to involve a car.  10 minutes into our journey, we turned onto a ridiculously crowded street with no auto traffic but with thousands of tourists making it very difficult to cycle.  200 hundred meters into the street I realized where we were:  large windows flanked us on each side, some with red-lights on, some with curtains closed and some with curtains open.

“Jeffrey,” I turned and spoke directly to my rather innocent son, “look straight ahead.”

I had avoided this street for all these years. I seriously had no idea where it was. Yet here I was pedaling leisurely on a bicycle with my three year-old, my wife, my sixteen year old son, my eighteen year old daughter, and my eleven-year-old overly-perfectionist-minded daughter who worries that there are sins that she may committed but has since forgotten.

As soon as I realized where we were, I had one mission:  get the heck out of dodge before I scar these kids for life!  At the same moment, the humor of it all hit me.  I was the only person on the street with a baby seat attached to his bike.  And I was the only guy on the street not taking in the scenery.  As frantic as I was to get off the street, I realized how hysterical this really was.  I can only imagine what the other tourists thought of this Family Night Stroll with the Little Ones through the red light district. 

I nearly ran over a few gawking tourists and pimps in my attempt to leave the place.  Eventually I finally found my escape route with a right turn (literally and figuratively) out of the Red Light District.

Oh well, if my kids were going to be introduced to that part of the world, I suppose it’s good that I got to show it to them!  How Clark Griswaldian indeed!

  

The Red Light District notwithstanding, our trip to the Netherlands has been a spectacular way to wind down the trip.  In addition to getting to know Amsterdam, we rented a car to see other highlights of Holland (memo to self and bank account: don’t rent a car until you are ready to leave Amsterdam because it costs a veritable fortune to park here).

On Sunday, we went to church with and visited some friends of mine in a place called Spijkenisse, near Rotterdam, where I spent 6 months of my life.  We visited Zippora Pattiasina and her family, Mavis Isselt, who we found, taught and was later baptized into the LDS church. 

Today, we spent the day visiting other places where I lived as a missionary (Hilversum and Gouda).  We also wound our way through various little back-doors and villages full of canal-front farm houses that are so plentiful in Holland.  We also visited Kinderdijk, a series of 19 windmills built in the 1700's that are all jam packed within about a square mile.

Tomorrow we head to The Hague before we board our plane to Prague at 7 p.m.  Our longer than expected trip to the Netherlands has been a treat that all of us have immensely enjoyed—even Daphne, despite the misery associated with her first day and the recovery that continues to follow her surgery.

And my Dutch—well, frankly, I was surprised that it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be (though my vocabulary is probably that of 3^rd grader).  I will say that I have felt the same kind of liberating sensation as being in England:  I can understand what is being said, and I can communicate all of the essentials.  The reality is that I don’t need to speak a lick of Dutch, and I’m not overstating it when I say that most Dutch people speak better English than I do Dutch, but it is nevertheless fun to speak in their language—something that is always a surprise to most Dutchmen, and something they typically appreciate.

I love this land and I still love this people.  Good night.  I still have a few blog entires before I wrap this up. Stay tuned.

• Everyday Paris
• Paris sights
• American Airlines

Parting pictures of Holland:

Samantha and Jeffrey, moments after swallowing raw herring, Dutch delicasy for the first time.

The kids and I enjoying Indonesian "Rijst Tafle" (Rice Table).

My family with my dutch friends from Spijkenisse.

Sam and Jeff on our back-door journey today.

Kids in front of Stadhuis (City Hall) in Gouda.

Family at Kinderdijk

I've taken 5,000 pictures of Windmills since I was 19, and I still can't get enough of them.

5,001

5,002

Abby has some big shoes to fill.

So do Sam and Daph apparently.

The girls in a big shoe.

Reed, this is for you.