This is the comparison of two airports. But really, it is a comparison of two cultures.
Exhibit A: Argentina
After allowing my bag to explode while couch-surfing in his three-room apartment, after cooking me delicious meals complete with bottles of wine, and personally doing my laundry, my new Buenos Aires friend drove me to the airport at 3:30 a.m. Wednesday morning – not only an ungodly hour, but also a ridiculously far drive outside the city limits. It was still dark outside when we arrived and fog coated the ground as though we were driving on clouds. He parked the car, despite my pleas that he shouldn't go out of his way anymore for me, should just drop me off on the curb and go back to bed. Ignoring me completely, he escorted me to the terminal where we were greeted warmly by an agent steering traffic and sincerely greeting both passengers and the new day.
When we arrived to the check-in desk, the agent politely explained that the flight was delayed indefinitely from the fog and that we should return in 20 minutes to check on the flights' status. “Thanks for parking,” I told my friend. “I know my country,” he replied. We left my bag and headed to grab a coffee. When we returned to the desk, all the passengers were hovering around the tiny female agent standing on top of a chair to talk above the crowd. She explained that the flight was canceled and that they were working on dispersing all the passengers to other flights. One rotund, balding man was arguing loudly and getting the crowd to clap with him to rally, as though they were picketers fighting for voting rights or a higher minimum wage. But somehow even as the noise increased, the anger never did, and for some reason I felt as though the entire performance was put on in an relatively amiable and jovial nature. Likewise the agents never raised their voices or rolled their eyes, but instead continued using their overly polite manners* and offered everyone a free espresso and croissant at the cafe upstairs on the company's dollar.
*(All Argentinians begin a conversation with: “muy buenas tardes, como estas?” and end with: “muchisimas gracias, muy amable, ciao ciao, beso grande.” It doesn't matter if it's two male friends or a business acquaintance, everyone gets a beso grande (big kiss) to end a phone conversation).
I was directed to the next company over and told that I would be put on a direct flight to Los Angeles – making my new itinerary much better than my previous one. As I stood at the sidelines, three different agents approached me to verify where I was going and to ensure I knew they hadn't forgotten me.
Exhibit B: United States of America
After spending 12 hours in LAX's international terminal writing, reading, attempting to sleep, and prolonging my inevitable entrance to the States by remaining surrounded by as many languages as possible for as long as possible, I eventually walk to the domestic side of the airport. As I walk through the automatic sliding doors, I am greeted by confusing signage (despite it being in my own language) and a long row of self check-in kiosks. There is no one to call the passengers to the front, and there is confused discussion among the row of sleepy travelers as to when they can step forward and assist themselves.
When I eventually check myself in, the machine does not realize that I am flying internationally and I can not proceed without paying my bag fee. I greet one of the five attendants standing bored behind the counter. I wave, signaling I have a question. All of the attendants refuse not only to answer any questions, but even to look passengers in the face. One young woman barely looks in my direction before shaking her head and remains standing with her arms crossed. She does not greet me or listen long enough to even know what my question may be, but instead says “I'm only paid to put the stickers on the bags.” Good job America, you have successfully hired human beings to do nothing that requires a lick of brain power, while putting any thinking that needs to happen into the hands of chunks of metal. Ford would be one proud papa.
The machine continued to flash at me: Do you need more time? Like it's citizens, even America's machines are impatient and obnoxious. I quit my session at the kiosk and abandones my long-earned spot in line to hunt down the only person who may know anything...a.k.a. the only human given enough power to own a walkie-talkie. After I wait on her to finish her gossip with four other workers hiding behind a computer so they can all look busy, she tells me: “I'm sorry honey, I forgot about you, you have to go stand in line 6 to speak to an agent.”
Another line for another row of kiosks. This time the kiosks are backed by humans that have graduated Lisa Frank sticker class, but have still not learned how to smile. I watch as a group of six Chinese get desperately confused with where they are supposed to go and when it is their turn to step forward to greet a computer. Their confusion causes a tangled traffic jam which the agents attempt to fix by simply shouting “step back to the yellow line” over and over again. Who's struggling with language more – the Chinese who are struggling to understand a second language or the Americans who can't switch out of robot-mode long enough to think of anything else to say in their first?
Once I arrive at the counter, I explain that I am traveling internationally and that my bag fee needs to be waived. “What's your confirmation code?” I explain I don't have the number because I was in South America and didn't have a way to print my itinerary out. “Do you have an itinerary with you?” she asks. “No.” “Do you have a laptop,” she asks. “Yes, is there free wifi?” “No.” So since she can't do anything without me having my number and because I refuse to pay as much to access the internet as it would cost for my bag, we're just in quite a pickle aren't we? You're going to have to pay now and contact corporate so they can reimburse you. There, America, is your problem. “Contact Corporate.” Your problem is somewhere between the kiosks and contacting corporate. Just when I am about to either cry from complete exhaustion or get pissed (hadn't figured out which yet, but one was inevitable), she says: “Oh here's the code.” She found the code on the ticket she had printed out before she began preaching about corporate. Thank you very much, I say. Silence.
Welcome home.
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