The group’s vacation to Aruba began at various airports throughout the northeast. All flights funneled through Tampa’s complex airport with its terminal trains carrying travelers into a hub before shuttling them to their departure gates. Our company had sent each passenger a name tag and asked them to wear them, especially at airports, where we had staff waiting to conduct them to their departure gate.
The staff meet the planes they were assigned to. So far, so good. Except the flight from the small New England airport with a couple who had insisted that they could not make the two hour drive to a larger airport where a dozen of their friends were traveling in a group. I had forgotten this couple and there was no one to meet them upon their arrival in Tampa. They had to find Air Aruba departure terminal themselves.
I was waiting for the last group to pass through security at the entrance of the departure terminal when I saw them. I recognized them immediately since I had traveled with them before, a couple of times, and remembered them as trouble. As their carry-on bags emerged from the x-ray machine, and their red, puffy faces, scowling, looked up into mine, I instantly recognized that I had made a mistake. I had not sent a guide to meet them. They glared at me, angry. Of all the people to short change, this couple was a poor choice.
The man, short, rotund and balding with a round face was an executive of the company sponsoring the trip. His wife, a squat woman wearing a flower print dress and Sunday white shoes, had a reputation for being royalty. For an instant the emotions of being a tour leader converged in the pit of my stomach. Guilt. I had screwed up. Fear. Had I jeopardized a solid account? Uncertainty. How could I make amends? Eventually pride prevailed. I prided myself on the way I managed our trips. For a moment I was paralyzed. Then I saw it. The solution to my quandary became evident. They were not wearing their name tags!
No sooner had they picked up their carry-on bags and started into the terminal where the gate for the flight to Aruba awaited, a long terminal length walk away then I was in their faces. “Where are your name tags?” I barked at them. “I have people all over this airport looking for you. Where are your name badges?” I spun on my heels and began to walk swiftly to the departure gate. When I turned and let them pass me so they could present their boarding passes to the gate agent, I said, “Next time wear your name badges.”
