I suffered a mild concussion while in Sweden, so when I flew back to the USA this past weekend, I traveled through three airports in a wheelchair, pushed by airport employees known as “passenger service assistants.” My satisfaction quotient varied from Great to Lousy. The three experiences were completely different.
At Gardermoen, an hour north of Oslo, I was glad to have requested a wheelchair because the building is designed in such a way that passengers must walk a distance to reach the gate serving Icelandair, located at the opposite end from check-in. My assistant spoke decent English. Being pushed in his wheelchair reminded me of riding in a bumper car because of the pace and his dodging of the other passengers on the walkway, but he knew where he was going and got me there fast. The wheelchair was modern and comfortable. He also offered to wait while I used the restroom, which was kind of him. I give Gardermoen an 8 out of 10.
At Keflavik in Reykjavik, I lucked out with my assistant, a smart immigrant from Croatia who told me he had lived in Iceland for seven years. We discussed immigration, a topic we had in common since I had just decided NOT to move to Sweden. His wife yearned for Croatia. They had left because of the violence he said, but their country was now more peaceful. He shared his plan for “one more year” and complained about real estate prices in Reykjavik—2000 Euros for a small apartment. Very conscientious, he left me seated outside the gate and told me he would return at a precise time to help with access to the plane via an elevator, which he did. Modern wheelchair again. I give Keflavik a perfect 10.
At Logan Airport in Boston, four wheelchairs waited at the airplane door with a posse of assistants. I plopped myself down in the first wheelchair and one of the men stepped forward. His name was Ahmed. Ahmed did not speak good English. In fact, he barely spoke at all. The wheelchair was very basic, no frills. So, off we went up the ramp, and 300 feet into the building, he engaged the brakes. Without a word, Ahmed disappeared. What the …? Meanwhile passengers who had exited the aircraft after me, steamed past, all eager to reach passport control and get on with their life. I sat there in my wheelchair, wondering what in the world had happened. Anxious after a five-minute wait, my head hurting, I stumbled back to the airplane door. Ahmed stood with the other immigrant employees.
“Ahmed!” I cried. “What happened to you? Let’s get going.”
I like to give him the benefit of the doubt. Ahmed was probably new to the job and had returned to ask directions. I say that because he took the long way around to reach passport control and did not seem to know what he was doing. I did not feel safe in his wheelchair. With regret, I give Logan a 2 out of 10.
It was fascinating to have these three experiences and be able to compare. My conclusions: The passenger service assistants I encountered were all immigrants, so this low-paying job must not have many applicants who are native-speakers. A fancy wheelchair does make a difference, but what mattered most was the kindness and consideration of the person employed to help the disabled out of the airport.
