In 2007 I was studying in Europe for graduate school. I had about a month off around Christmas to do whatever I please. My mom is from Germany originally and I, at 26, had never met my grandpa, aunts, and uncles. So when I randomly called my grandpa asking if I could visit for Christmas, I got more than an enthusiastic yes.
As I was leaving Amsterdam to head to Munich, a snowstorm invaded and I missed my connecting flight in Copenhagen. But I was quickly booked on the next flight out to Munich, although my luggage didn’t make it.
About an hour before landing the pilot made an announcement that the wheels were frozen in the aircraft and we were unable to land. We were descending and you could visibly feel the wheels try to force themselves out. The pilot, however, insisted we would make the landing in the second attempt.
WOMP!—that's the sound the landing gear made as it sadly failed at trying to come out the second time. Whoosh!—the plane takes off again midair while I notice the mother to my right reading the emergency evacuation to her children.
Then the pilot informs us it’s just too cold and we’re going to have to land in Stuttgart. We do. But then the whole plane has to board a bus and trek to Munich for four hours. I can’t call my grandpa—who, remind you, I am meeting for the first time—so I borrow a random phone to let him know what’s going on.
In the end, I make it to Munich at 5am to a more-than-happy-to-meet-me grandpa. Talk about making a great first impression! But my luggage didn’t for another three days.
I left town on a whim. No planning, no expectations—and most importantly, as always—no traveling companion. Just me, my thoughts, my desires, and my money.
On Thursday afternoon during my lunch hour, I booked a room downtown in Montreal, just off Saint Catherine. On Friday after work, I headed north out of Vermont. Immediately upon my arrival, I noticed a wild party in the center square, Place Émilie-Gamelin. House music, flashing lights, half-dressed men in leather—Holy stroke of luck! Fierté Montréal! Gay Pride weekend! Just need to drop off my bags! A block to the hotel, and …
The front desk attendant spoke only French. We flung incomprehensible words at each other until we landed on one we both understood: “Reservation?”
“Yes! Yes, I have a reservation!” I replied.
“Nom de famille?” she asked.
I showed her my credit card to display my name. She looked at me and shook her head. “Un moment,” she said as she picked up the telephone.
She spoke a few sentences in French to the person on the other line, and then handed me the phone. “Hello?”
“Nicola?” said the masculine voice on the other line.
“Yes?”
“Sorry. We did not think you were coming. We cancel your reservation.”
“What? Cancelled? WHY?”
“Check-in is 3.”
“So it’s MANDATORY check in at 3.”
“Sorry, cancelled. If you would like to rebook, it’s $390.”
“$390? My original reservation was for $265.”
“Yes, but now this is late booking. Price increased.”
I was decidedly irritated. But honestly, what could I do? I was in another country, it was Pride weekend, and I had no internet or cell phone. “Fine. $390.”
“And you need to pay cash.”
“Cash? I don’t HAVE cash. I only have a credit card on me. I barely just arrived in the country.”
“You can use the cash machine to take money,” he said. “If you want to use credit card, there is an additional 10%, so it will be $429.”
“Ok, no. Cash it is. I just need to find an ATM.”
I walked a block away, found an ATM, withdrew $500, and returned to the hotel.
“$395.”
“$395? You just told me $390.”
“$5 charge for the room key.”
“I am alone, I don’t need an extra room key.”
“Each key is $5.”
“So the room comes with ZERO room keys? How would I get into the room I paid for without the key?”
She shrugged her shoulders, “Sorry. No English.”
Frustrated, I paid the $395, took the key and headed to my room.
I put my bags down. The room was, not unsurprisingly, unkempt.
Ok. Scam or not, I have no recourse for action. I have two choices here, and justice AIN’T one of them: So I can either let this ruin my trip, OR I can shake it off and just roll with it.
“I choose the latter,” I thought.
Many people would have argued persistently. Maybe they’d have won the room at the lower charge. Maybe not. Maybe they’d have told the front desk to get lost and tried to find another hotel. Maybe they’d have ended up spending even more money. Maybe they’d have just driven right back home. But the frustration and anger would settle on them and envelope them.
And in that moment, I realized how lucky I actually am to be a person who CAN choose to shake things off. I CAN choose to be happy. And even in unjustified defeat, ultimately the ability to choose happiness is the greater reward in life.