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Todd Gross, Fargo, Published February 20 2014

Letter: Never again will I fly out of Fargo

As I write, I am tired, angered and sad that I decided to “Fly Fargo.” Delta has done it to us, again.

Instead of being on an airplane on my way to Costa Rica for business/pleasure, I am at home awaiting the possible arrival of a mechanic from Minneapolis to replace a part on the plane that was supposed to take us to Atlanta, for a connecting flight to our final destination. The day started at 4 a.m. so that we could arrive at the terminal early, even though we had checked in on Friday, to expedite our departure, of course.

While waiting in line for more than an hour, without any official information, we overheard another couple saying that the flight that was supposed to leave at 6:30 was delayed until after 1 p.m., which would assure that we would miss our connecting flight in Atlanta. We were advised to call Delta to “re-book” our fights. While we were on the phone, a very nicely dressed, official-looking woman announced to all in line that Delta was, indeed, flying in another plane, that actually worked, to Fargo, and that all was well. We checked in and proceeded through security – in fact we were expedited (which means that I could leave my shoes on – whoopee).

While sitting at our gate for another 30 minutes, I overheard (nope, not over the public address system) another officially dressed woman say that there would be no plane coming, and that a mechanic would arrive at 1 p.m. to repair our plane. Puzzling: They knew all night long that it was broken, but a mechanic could not arrive until 1 p.m. to repair it (must be a union issue). The nicely dressed woman advised us to call that same 800-number to “re-book” once again.

Now, officially, we will not be leaving the U.S. until tomorrow (Sunday). The agent offered us a flight out of Minneapolis that would make our final destination today, meaning a four-hour drive – that does beat the heck out of sitting at Hector terminal for eight hours.

“Fly Fargo” – my aching arse. Next time, we drive.