While planning my trip through Europe, I had to get myself from my hotel in Antwerp back to Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam for the flight to Sweden. The airport posted a notice advising passengers to arrive four hours before their flight. Which just seemed obnoxious. I devised a plan that would get me there by train with 2.5 hours to spare.

Well, when I arrived, I understood what they meant. They don’t pay their security staff enough, so the lines went out the door to the next terminal over, and looped back again.

I found myself in line behind a pair of grad students who were on their way to present at a conference on extremophiles – those bacteria and other organisms that like to hang out in volcanoes and hydrothermal vents and the like. Their flight left a half hour before mine. It was clear at one point that they would not make their flight if they stayed in this shambling line, so with our line-neighbors’ blessing, the three of us booked it through the line, cutting in front of whole line segments at a time, always apologetic.

We parted ways after security and booked it to our respective flights. I arrived at my gate greeted by this sight:

Me: “That’s my plane.”

Gate attendant: “Oh, I’m sorry, you’ve missed your flight.”

“Yeah, I know. What do I do now?”

“Head over to T2 transfers to get yourself re-booked.”

I find myself in another line, this one no more than a couple hundred feet long, but which stood at a near standstill. Very few staff on hand.

After three hours we were nearly at the front, when we were then told, “Go away, there’s no one to help you here, get yourself re-booked online and go to this website here for reimbursement.” Gravy.

So I managed to snag one of the last tickets out of Amsterdam late that evening, which is better than some of my other line-buddies fared, as some of them had to get flights for the following day and deal with hotel bookings.

My flight sorted, I then had to deal with luggage. KLM was nice enough not to put my bag on the flight, so it was sitting in a holding area somewhere in the airport. I was told I’d have to go out past security to a baggage claim office to get it rerouted to my new flight later that evening. Off I went, only to find myself in a third slow-moving line. And like the last one, by the time I got to the front, I was told, “Sorry, there’s no one here that can help you, come back tomorrow.”

I sat down to mull my options. It was 3:30pm. Just then I got a text message saying my flight – which was scheduled for late that evening – had been delayed to 4:30pm. Nonsensical, but hey, if there was a chance I could get to Sweden before 11pm, I was gonna take it. I decided to let Amsterdam keep my luggage overnight and I’d see if the airline could be convinced to get me my luggage later that week.

To get to the gate I’d have to go back through security. I managed to skip about 90% of the line by sneaking through a weak point in the guide-posts. After security I booked it again to the gate, debating with myself the whole time whether this was really worth it. I arrived at last-call before the boarding doors were closing, and the very kind gate agent got my ticket adjusted for this flight and waved me through the gate.

We landed at about 7pm and Gothenburg Airport actually knew how to keep staff around. The desk agent took my info and hotel address and said not a problem, I could expect my luggage to arrive later that evening, or the next day at the latest. Fan-fricking-tastic.

Well, the night came and went, as did the next day. No luggage. I checked online repeatedly and only ever saw “search underway, check back later.” That, along with news articles from earlier in the summer detailing how atrocious the situation was in Amsterdam – 16,000 abandoned pieces of luggage – put me in a dour mood.

But then, during a talk on the second day of the conference, I randomly checked again and the status changed to “luggage in transit, expected delivery by 10pm.” Oh thank heavens, I was so excited to wear fresh clothes.

I was marveling at my luck on this trip, but it was about to run out. That evening I went out with colleagues for dinner, and felt a bit of a scratch in my throat. The next day this developed into an infection that felt pretty darn viral. Nothing for it but for me to just hang out in my hotel room the whole day. Missed 2/3rds of the conference that had been the whole point of me traveling in the first place. I eventually got myself medicated and feeling great, enough to eat out one last time and get myself home.

As I transited back through Amsterdam airport, I felt kinship with these unfortunate souls who were waiting in line to get out of the main thoroughfare and into baggage claim. Can’t imagine what the hold-up was. Maybe they needed all available space in baggage claim to hold the security line?

In the end, I’ll always have a part of me left in Sweden. Specifically, my trusty Apple water bottle I’ve kept on me since 2013, which fractured after I dropped it on my way out of the hotel room.

All the best old friend.