I Hate Iberia Airlines

A tirade

Hello, and welcome to my new and (hopefully) improved Substack page, Trivial Pursuits, a catalogue of my indulgences stateside and abroad.

Allow me to christen this page with a simple, albeit spiteful, message: I hate Iberia Airlines. Yesterday, I spent an irate hour and a half on the phone with their customer “service” team. You see, earlier this month, I booked a multi-city ticket from Los Angeles to Paris, and then from Paris to New York. I even paid extra for a flexible ticket, given my propensity to change my mind at a moment’s notice (some call it impulsivity, I call it cultivating experience).

Shortly thereafter, my dear father, Robert Dwight Semlear, expressed interest in joining me on my European sojourn. “I’m getting old,” he bemoaned. “I don’t know how much time I’ll have left to do these kinds of things.” I offered to extend my trip by two weeks and pencil in a father-son vacation.

I called Iberia Airlines earlier this week (December 21st to be exact) and requested a flight change (they don’t have the option to change via their website). The agent nicely relayed what fees would be involved, and I said that I’d call back after I had confirmation on some things.

The confirmation being whether my dad was actually committed to this trip, and also whether his employers would grant him the time off. Days later, I received the peremptory green light. We booked his tickets and I contacted Iberia Airlines to finalize my flight change. It took the agent nearly thirty minutes to complete—the first of a long procession of incompetences.

“Can I pay the accompanying fees over the phone?” I asked. “No, we will send you an email, and it will direct you to the payment information.” Strange, very strange, I thought. So strange, that I made sure to confirm with the man several times that this was indeed the correct course of action. And his invariable reply: “Yes, sir, you should receive the email in about an hour or so.”

A couple of hours came and went and I received nothing. I figured that, since it was Christmas Eve, whoever was in charge of distributing the email must be piss drunk at the staff Holiday party and that I might as well wait. I donned my robe and lolled about for the next thirty-six hours, eating a sundry selection of sugar-filled and high-sodium foods.

That brings us to yesterday, December 26th, and still no email. I called Iberia back and explained that I had put in and finalized a change request with an agent two days prior but had not yet received an email directing me to the payment information. The new agent fumbled on the other end of the line and said no such change had been approved. “Well, I was told it had,” I retorted.

I was put on hold so that he could “investigate.” The agent came back and repeated what he had initially said, and added that the change fees were now $400 more. Oh no, Iberia, oh no you didn’t. My flexible ticket notwithstanding, I declared the new price an outrage, given that I had been confirmed on a cheaper option, whose unconsummated status was through no fault of my own.

The impish agent then proceeded to tell me that payments were done over the phone, not via email. I parried and said that I was told exactly the opposite. I was put on another hold so that the agent could again “investigate.” “We have records,” he slowly began, “of your phone call on the 21st, but not on the 24th.” Ah! How convenient. So all your remissness has gone undocumented! Seriously, how convenient. Kudos, my friends.

What followed was a series of emphatic sighs followed by what I can only describe as my “outside” voice. I used words like “frustrated” and “disappointed,” and claimed that this was a “master class in negligence.” “The only option, I’m afraid, is to cancel my return flight, get a refund, and book a new one with a different airline, because, quite frankly, I’ve had it up to here with you guys,” I chided.

“Sir, I’m sure we can find a solution. I am working on one right now.” “And what’s your solution?” I asked boredly. “I don’t know. Please hold.” During this interim, I researched other flight options and found a very affordable one-way back to New York.

“Hello, Mr. Semlear, thank you for waiting. I have found a solution.” “Yes?” “You can file a claim with our claims department.” Oh, lovely, yes, brilliant—that sounds easy and not at all convoluted. This asinine exchange had gone on long enough. It was time to deliver the coup de grace. “Right, well, I’m booking another flight and requesting a full refund from Iberia. You guys have been terrible.” There was a pause, followed by an antiseptic, “Thank you, sir. Please make sure to complete a satisfaction survey at the end of this call. Good-bye now.”

Let this woeful account serve as a caveat to stay, nay run, the fuck away from Iberia Airlines. Even the petty thieves who nick your phone or wallet on crowded streets have more integrity than these pilfering corporate cogs. At least the former doesn’t try to dress their wrongs in brain-atrophying prattle.

And if you happen to come across any promotional material for Iberia Airlines, be it a pamphlet or digital coupon, I would be much obliged if you joined me in my boycott. Tear it up, spit on it, set it aflame, defecate on it if you have to.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, hear my plea, and, if you’re not yet tired of my ramblings, please subscribe below. I promise less vitriol in the future and more whimsy.

Yours,

Gawain