I decided to use 2020 as a break from leisure travel. I wanted it to be a year of calm and peace, a year to build my savings, finish some home improvement projects, and work on my screenwriting, the whole reason I moved from New York to Los Angeles in the first place. But I never could have imagined what 2020 would bring.

Aviation—with its sky-high booms and tragic lows—has played out like a Hollywood blockbuster. Evil invades, the hero defeats the evil, happily ever after begins. Then the sequel comes out, and it’s the same thing all over again. The evil has included terrorist attacks, economic downturns, and airplane manufacturing incidents. But not even 9/11 came close to matching this pandemic’s effect on the airline industry.

March 2020 was my last regular month of flying as I had come to know it. Flight attendants typically bid for schedules about a month in advance and receive a line, which is a month filled with trips, or a schedule that has on-call days and off days. Both line-holders and reserves, as they’re called, are full-time employees; one group knows where they’re going, and the other doesn’t. Reserve flight attendants commonly have less seniority, but that’s not always the case.

As I finished my 12th year with the airline in March, I found myself on reserve though working a busy schedule. We knew COVID was spreading, but the fear of a pandemic was not yet a concern. It all seems like a blur: One by one, city by city, starting with everywhere across China, flights were canceling. Nearly all my flights were empty the entire month of March. Still, when COVID-19 hit the U.S., I felt a bit secluded from it all—but nevertheless uneasy. In one sense, as an essential worker, it was business as usual for me: I would drive into the airport on the empty L.A. freeways and be greeted by lines of airplanes parked on the tarmac, empty TSA lines, barren terminals, and minimal passenger loads.

Just before Hawai’i implemented its mandatory 14-day quarantine on March 26, I worked a trip to Honolulu. I went from empty shop to empty shop seeking alcohol to make homemade sanitizer. I found what I needed at Longs Drugs and decided to buy a facial mask, too, to try and destress. Back at my hotel room, I chowed down on some Korean BBQ, sipped a beer, then stared out my window with the beauty mask stuck to my face, wondering if this would be one of the last Hawaiian sunsets I would see as a working flight attendant.

Shortly after that trip, Congress passed the Coronavirus Aid, Relief, and Economic Security (CARES) Act and saved my job, along with thousands of others. But CARES’s Payroll Protection Program only prohibits airlines from furloughing employees until October 1. Between the millions of dollars per day in losses and the early retirement packages and special leaves on offer, we’ve all known what was coming. Over the summer, more than 50 percent of the airline workforce—from pilots and flight attendants to maintenance and ramp personnel—received warnings of potential furloughs, and in late August and early September, major airlines began announcing upcoming furloughs publicly. My airline family and I have been contemplating our futures as we watch a recently thriving business be brought to its knees completely overnight.

Like so many others whose lives have been affected by COVID, my airline family and I just want our abnormal lives back. Courtesy of Cathy Torres.

I know we’re not the only industry that’s facing an apocalypse. And I know I’ve glossed over the grind of the job—16-hour days, waking up to the smell of jet fuel at your airport hotel, missing out on birthdays and holidays because you have to be at work. I take pride in the work we do. We are the first responders if you fall ill in-flight. We are FAA-certified professionals trained to evacuate passengers in 90 seconds or implement security measures in case of an emergency. Our industry transports organs; hauls mail and supplies in our cargo bins; and reunites families so they can say goodbye to a dying loved one, or hello to a newborn babe. The success of the airline industry is good for everyone, which is why it’s so heartbreaking to see it in its current state.

I now fly about once a month. I receive a guaranteed amount of money to sit at home and wait for that call. I would be lying if I told you that being grounded hasn’t had some advantages. For years, I have fantasized about what it might feel like to be a “normal” person again: to have a healthy sleep schedule, a daily workout routine, eat three meals in one time zone. Now, most mornings I wake up with a cup of coffee and sit at my laptop to write, read an article, or listen to a podcast. I’ve been exploring a more plant-based diet, and my variations on cashew cheese have been shockingly delicious.

I occasionally go hiking at Elysian Park with my friend and fellow flight attendant Lauren. Being at home has been the calm that perhaps my soul yearned for, but my ego and free spirit fought against for years. I could come to better terms with this reality, if it had been my choice.

In July, I had one assignment. It was to report to the airport and stand by for four hours, so that in case someone didn’t show up or another flight misconnected, I could step in, and the show could still go on. That day everyone arrived on time. After my assignment, I walked around the deserted terminals, observing the shuttered restaurants and the lone janitor pushing an empty trash cart around. My extroverted self felt a wave of depression at the emptiness. I left the airport, drove to In-N-Out on Sepulveda, and ordered a burger and fries—giving the proverbial middle finger to my vegan pandemic diet as the restaurant’s signature animal-style sauce dripped on my uniform.

Being a flight attendant is a lifestyle, and many of us have tried to keep our flying lives separate from our home lives. But it’s not that simple. My work life is woven with memories of dining on tapas in Madrid, sipping wine in Paris at the Hotel du Nord, and frequenting jazz bars in Manhattan with the dearest of co-workers and friends. This way of life is ingrained in us, and we’re all trying to solve the mystery of how our identities will change. Who am I, if not a globe-trotting, free spirit of a woman?

For years I’ve avoided the number 13—hotel rooms, flight numbers, floors in buildings. Facing my 13th year of flying, I’m angry and frustrated and anxious—at the company, the union, the members of Congress who won’t sign a new iteration of the CARES Act. But I also know that the only thing that can truly save the airline industry (and maybe my identity, too) is the people. The solution rests on how effectively we come together to fight and defeat COVID-19. Like so many others, my airline family and I just want our abnormal lives back. Days filled with flight delays, crowded seats, and jet-lagged insomnia. Let’s hope we get there sooner rather than later.

The post I Dream of Jetlag appeared first on Zócalo Public Square.

I don’t need to add my opinion to the millions that have been expressed about the incident. But as a professor of operations management, I am interested in the fundamental economic problem that led to the confrontation caught on video: What is the best way for a business to handle overbooking?

Overbooking is a necessity for airlines to manage their seat capacity. That’s because of a fact of life: Many people fail to show up for flights upon which they’re booked. The trouble comes when more passengers show up for a particular flight than there are available seats. In those situations, airlines need to have proactive mechanisms that treat customers fairly without breaking the bank.

United clearly failed in that. And so far, the airline’s response has not been detailed enough. On April 27, 2017, United printed a full-page announcement with a title “Actions Speak Louder Than Words” in all major newspapers and sent email to all United Mileage Plus members. United claimed that it would identify volunteers to give up their seats earlier, in cases of overbooking, and would increase incentive payments for voluntary rebooking up to $10,000. But those pledges are still just words, without a real plan for implementation.

I believe research and practices in information and technology show that there are cost-effective ways to make sure overbooking is customer-friendly.

Such a plan starts with earlier planning and action by the airline. For starters, check-in information for flights should be collected early; this means using technology.

First, encourage more customers to check in early over the Internet or mobile phones. And second, when an overbooking situation develops, inform volunteers as early as possible via Internet or mobile phone, or at the gate. Both measures not only give people more warning, they can give United more data to crunch and use to prevent overbooked flights.

Indeed, with millions if not billions of such past flight records, United can conduct “predictive analysis” to estimate the number of volunteers that is needed for a particular flight. As time progresses, United can compensate those pre-registered volunteers and make alternative travel arrangements way before boarding time. This makes it easier to make volunteers feel warned and respected.

But beyond moving early and using data, United should create a new mechanism to identify and compensate passengers who give up their seats. That mechanism should be a sealed-bid process.

Here’s how it would work: During online check-in, United could gently ask passengers if they were willing to be added to the volunteer list. At the same time, United could ask passengers to state the dollar value (up to $10,000) that they would accept as compensation for volunteering their seats. That amount they submit is the sealed bid.

Passengers should be told that the passenger who submits the lowest bid will be selected to give up their seat, receive compensation, and have the airline make alternative travel arrangements.

With this method, United can identify potential volunteers and their requested compensations in advance. That, at the very least, reduces the likelihood that anyone will have to be wrestled off the plane.

There’s another benefit. Considerable research on auctions shows that such a sealed bid process entices passengers to reveal the “true value” of their seats. The late William Vickrey, the economist and Nobel laureate, used game theory to describe how best to optimize such auctions. His work also has been applied to congestion pricing on toll roads in places like London.

And if United wanted to get really fancy, it could try to capitalize on one of his insights: People will make more generous bids in a process that awards the best bidder the amount of the second-best bid. Vickrey showed that letting people know this fact when they bid made them less likely to try to game the system by guessing what others might bid, and instead submit their best bid according to their “true” private valuation of their seat that is not known to others. United, by making its sealed-bid for volunteer compensation a Vickrey option, would give the winning volunteer, or volunteers, a little bit more than they asked for—e.g. the winner asked for $200 in compensation, but gets $250, which was the second best bid—while overall producing bids that are more generous to the airline. (Of course, this might be too complicated, but even a regular sealed-bid process would be a vast improvement.)

No mechanism is perfect. And clearly, some passengers will refuse to be added to the volunteer list. But some would be willing to volunteer if their demands are met. Such a process is also consistent with the values of volunteerism: If you volunteer to give up your seat, compensation should be on your terms. A sealed-bid auction makes it less likely that the airline will overpay the volunteers. And airlines can fall into that trap. Delta, for example, sets the dollar amounts for volunteers and can end up attracting too few volunteers if the suggested dollar amount is too low. Or it can end up overpaying too many volunteers if the suggested dollar amount is too high. (The figure below shows how that happens.)

Smart design of information technology and clever use of business analytics can make a huge difference for a company and its customers. With a proactive process like the above, United, even after the damage of that infamous video, could make the skies friendlier again.

The post Too Many Airline Passengers and Too Few Seats? Let’s Start the Bidding! appeared first on Zócalo Public Square.

This thought ran through my head as I stood one morning last week at Gate A3 of Burbank airport, enraged and fully engaged in another of my now-frequent battles with Southwest Airlines.

My morning flight to Oakland, where I was giving an afternoon talk, had been canceled without explanation. But Southwest wouldn’t let me on an earlier flight that had room and was still sitting at the gate. The Southwest agent said he couldn’t get me to Oakland before 3 p.m.—which wasn’t reassuring since my talk started at 4. He could get me to San Jose, but wouldn’t offer me compensation for the extra travel time or car I’d have to rent.

When I protested, he told me to call Southwest customer relations in Dallas. But the line there was busy.

I used to think that a $68 billion train project from L.A. to San Francisco didn’t make much sense because the great state of California had Southwest Airlines. For most of my adult life, Southwest has been more reliable in California than any utility. It provided the essential north-south connections in our long, tall state with the downscale charm of a great bus service. It was cheap, on time, and offered constant flights staffed by people who did everything they could to get you to your destination. The airline’s stock symbol, “LUV,” seemed appropriate: Passengers, investors, and communities hoping to attract competition to their airports, and thus lower fares, all loved Southwest in equal measure.

As for me, it’s not too great a leap to say that Southwest made it possible for me to do my job. I routinely used it to commute from Southern California to Sacramento or the Bay Area for a day of work–up in the morning, back in the evening, often for less than $100 round-trip. While covering California politics and Governor Schwarzenegger in the early 2000s, Southwest was so good that I often beat the governor, who flew via private jets, to his destination. And when Schwarzenegger’s aides were trying to duck my questions, I could reliably corner them on Southwest planes. (I’ve always loved the open seating policy for two reasons: its democratic spirit and the way it enables journalistic stalking.)

But the glory days of Southwest, and of its power to connect the state, may be coming to an end. Once known for its low fares and high customer satisfaction, the formerly idiosyncratic airline, sadly, is becoming more like its more dysfunctional competitors. Bags get lost, more flights are delayed, fliers are irritated. And prices have risen well above bus-service level. Advance purchase one-way tickets in California are often more than $100 and walk-up fares now approach $250 each way.

Southwest’s on-time performance is now among the worst in the airline business, and last month it canceled more flights than any other American carrier. Southwest’s democracy has atrophied as rapidly as California voter turnout; the airline that once treated us all the same now has different classes of entry, tickets, and customers. And its once simple and generous frequent flier program has become less so.

Most distressing has been the decline of its service culture, which may be connected to labor unrest at the airline. Southwest gate agents and flight attendants who once were empowered to get you on the plane now routinely explain how they can’t help. The gate agent who denied me access to the earlier flight last week explained that he’d love to get me on board, but it was above his head.

Of course, Southwest is a public company and must do what is best for its business. But in California, Southwest’s troubles have left an unmistakable void, and it’s not clear who can fill it. Other major national airlines offer far fewer flights between California destinations and, when you count all the baggage and change fees, are usually more expensive than even today’s more expensive Southwest trips. It’d be nice if Virgin America, headquartered in Burlingame, could step up and reduce our reliance on Texas-based Southwest. Virgin America’s pricing is similar to Southwest’s, but its California flights are limited to Palm Springs, San Diego, LAX, and SFO, the last an airport that time-sensitive travelers must avoid because of the frequent weather delays.

In this context, high-speed rail looks less like an extravagance and more like a necessity, albeit an expensive one with serious funding challenges. Critics of high-speed rail, like yours truly, used to point out that the projected cost of tickets, usually in the $40 to $120 range, wasn’t any cheaper than flying. But with walk-up fares to go from Burbank to Oakland at $223 last week on Southwest, that’s no longer the case. The projected three-hour train travel time between L.A. and San Francisco also doesn’t look as bad given all Southwest’s cancellations and delays. And high-speed rail is less likely to have its schedules altered by bad weather.

There’s a larger point here. California is a big state, and, for reasons of commerce and culture and connection, we need to make it less of an ordeal to get from one place to another. The number of trips between Northern and Southern California by air and by car–15 million a year (about half by each mode) seems awfully low for a state of 38 million people with so many different attractions. But who wants to subject themselves to the misery of Southwest or the 5?

Last week, I did make it to my speech, though it cost me. I flew to San Jose and paid another $100 for a rental car and gas to get to Oakland. And Southwest did manage to get me home late the same night.

But the battle left me scarred. My family and I had been planning to go up to the Bay Area to see my grandmother and uncle this Thanksgiving week. Now we’ll probably stay home.

The post Southwest Airlines Is Failing California appeared first on Zócalo Public Square.

On days like that, strained airlines make cable companies and tax-collecting agencies seem like beloved American institutions. There is no fury like that of a trapped passenger, and I found myself contributing to the chorus of grumbled expletives, acting out as if my fundamental human rights had been violated by the world’s most sinister cabal. It definitely didn’t get me to my destination any sooner, but somehow it made me feel less powerless.

The funny thing is, when I am not being delayed by doors that refuse to shut properly (couldn’t we have simply taken turns holding onto it?), or by weather, or by runway congestion, I am quick to defend the maligned airline industry, which last year boarded and flew more than 800 million passengers from U.S. airports. Actually, even when I am grumbling, I never succumb to the seductive nostalgia for a fictional past when flying was better. Warts and all, this is the golden age of flight.

The first thing to understand when it comes to airlines is that bigger is in fact better. An airline is only as good as its reach and its ability to distribute passengers and costs across its network. It’s been fashionable to knock the airline consolidation of recent years. But four formidable network carriers with over 80 percent of the market can get you almost anywhere—and provide a more competitive, more pro-consumer landscape than nine large-ish carriers with coverage gaps and dominant positions in certain regions. Megamergers also have allowed different types of airlines like JetBlue, Virgin America, and Southwest (one of the four giants now, but a different beast from the other three) to flourish.

The federal government’s initial opposition to the latest big merger, of American and US Airways last year, was driven more by politics than substance. A settlement forced the airlines to free up some gates to competitors at congested Northeast airports (which should have always been part of the deal, and was far from being the government’s main initial concern). In the end, the Justice Department was forced to do an abrupt about-face and throw in the towel rather than face the airlines in court.

Airline mergers are good for consumers. Contrary to popular belief, the consolidation of the industry has not led to dramatically higher fares. A recent PricewaterhouseCoopers analysis found that average domestic airfares have risen at a rate of approximately 2 percent a year since 2004, lagging behind not only inflation, but also behind the airlines’ twin costs of labor and fuel, which have soared in this period. And even when you factor in all the additional fees these days, airfares on average are still less than half of what they were on the eve of the industry’s deregulation in the late 1970s—back when bureaucrats in Washington determined how many thousands of dollars airlines had to charge to fly passengers from one coast to another, and barred any new entrant from trying to do it for less. It’s no wonder the airline lobby has a nifty graphic on its website comparing airfare inflation over time with the rise in cost for education, NFL tickets, gasoline, and even postage stamps. It also has graphics decrying how much of your ticket price—more than 20 percent on a $300 fare—amounts to baked-in federal taxes.

Besides sparing passengers from dramatic fare increases, airlines have also improved on measures like delays and baggage handling. And, while there’s no direct non-stop flight from Washington Dulles to Tucson or Albuquerque, the scale of the three dominant network carriers—Delta, United, and American—means they can all offer me many options for a seamless trip connecting at their various hubs, and will compete vigorously for me to opt onto their network.

The airlines are benefiting, too. After years of being broke, they’re making money and spending tens of billions of dollars on new aircraft and terminals.

The good news nowadays is that the same economic logic—the advantage of expanded, competing networks—is starting to take hold in the global marketplace. Antiquated, protectionist regulations in many countries (including U.S. laws barring outright foreign ownership of airlines here) have stymied the creation of truly global airlines. But the development over the past two decades of ever more integrated alliances is offering the same win-win dynamic we’ve experienced domestically.

These alliances—Star (anchored by United), Sky (Delta), and oneworld (American)—allow airlines to sell seats on code-share partners, share terminal infrastructure, and collaborate on schedules and amenities like frequent flyer miles.

There are no direct non-stop flights from Washington to Hamburg or Krakow, but Star, Sky, and oneworld will offer me plenty of seamless one-stop options for getting there on their networks. I tend to fly United, and its close partnership with Lufthansa means I can choose from far more daily transatlantic choices on “my airline,” getting or redeeming miles. But if United and Lufthansa were ever tempted to jack up fares too high, Sky would be happy to get me to Hamburg or Krakow via its Amsterdam or Paris hubs, and oneworld would be happy to do so via London.

The creation of these larger global carriers (OK, “alliances”) are a market fix to a balkanized regulatory landscape. Launched as somewhat limited partnerships in the 1990s, the three alliances are increasingly acting like integrated carriers, and branding themselves as such. It’s not uncommon now to see aircraft painted in the colors and logo (the “livery,” in airline-speak) of the alliance as opposed to the individual airline, and London Heathrow’s new multi-billion-dollar Terminal 2 is being marketed explicitly as the terminal for Star’s 23 airlines, meaning that at the world’s busiest airport in terms of international traffic, United, Lufthansa, and Singapore airlines can essentially act as one airline.

Flying over time also has become far safer, which is yet another reason why our commercial aviation system should be appreciated, and not maligned, though of course I don’t expect that to happen. We may be paying a lot less than we once did to get to our destinations, and for the most part we get there far more efficiently than we ever did before, but human nature dictates that the expletives will fly when you’re crammed into a long narrow tube with hundreds of others and something goes awry—like the door refusing to shut properly on your way to Arizona.

The post Show Your Airline Some Love appeared first on Zócalo Public Square.

I may be forgetting one or two others, but my quick count makes me fairly representative: The research firm Colloquy estimated last year that the number of loyalty programs per U.S. household stands at 22.

I have derived tremendous value from some of these programs, particularly those of the airlines and booksellers. Having concentrated most of my flying on United lately, I am rewarded with a little extra legroom in coach and the ability to check my bags for free. I know, I know, it’s a glamorous life: I even get to board with Group 2 these days, and once in a long while I have been able to trade in miles for a free trip.

At Barnes & Noble, the 10 percent discount I get with my paid membership adds up, even if it represents a conflict of interest with my Amazon Prime membership. Prime (also a pay-to-play) is among the more ingenious of all loyalty programs, featuring unlimited free two-day shipping—whose value to me (and cost to Amazon) increases with every purchase I don’t make elsewhere.

Now that I think of it, it feels odd being in a relationship with both booksellers. What kind of loyalty is that? Retailers call it “polygamous loyalty” (a term I advise you try not to use in other contexts), which speaks to the lack of seriousness underlying the loyalty program craze. By 2012, Americans had amassed 2.65 billion loyalty program memberships, which isn’t difficult when loyalty is defined so loosely.

It’s not hard to understand the reasons for our current craze for this form of marketing, which began in the mid- to late-1990s. Companies want to track your habits and preferences to improve their business. And new technologies like cell phone apps are making it ever more easier for companies to vie for your next purchase with targeted seduction.

The Federal Trade Commission issued a report last week on just how extensive the tracking of your consumer data is; the FTC also called for legislation to force more transparency around the issue of how much privacy you are surrendering for your loyalty. Your consumer behaviors are tracked even if you don’t sign up for a rewards card at your neighborhood grocer, but the tracking is far more individualized and accurate if you do open an account. Still, I suspect a majority of consumers are perfectly content to surrender their privacy not only to get better deals, but to recreate (even if in a virtual way) a seemingly more intimate, relationship-driven identity not just as a consumer but as an individual. Most people like the fact that multi-billion-dollar enterprises like Amazon and their grocery chain “know” them, much like people in a different era appreciated being known by the general store clerk, or the dairyman who made daily deliveries. It’s all about shrinking our worlds down to a scale where we matter.

Retail rewards and loyalty programs aren’t new, of course. I can remember being impressed as a child, on visits from Mexico to my relatives in East Texas, by how fun one of the pioneer loyalty programs seemed. We’d go shopping at Piggly Wiggly and get rewarded with a bunch of green stamps that would go in an album that could be traded in for goodies. And banks for decades would lure in customers with promises of free toasters or other tangible goods. Still, you have to credit Robert Crandall, the CEO of American Airlines who launched the first frequent flyer program in 1981, as the patron saint of contemporary loyalty/rewards programs driven by once unimaginable computing power. Few business leaders have had a bigger impact on how we lead our lives, even if his legacy has little to do with the mechanics of how we fly.

I am torn about all this commercialized loyalty. Yes, I have benefited. I derive some satisfaction (and, dare I say it, purpose and identity) in defining myself by the choices I make as a consumer. But I am often annoyed by retailers’ clinginess. Sometimes I just want to buy a cookie without entering into a lasting relationship (I’m talking to you, Panera Bread). As much as I benefit from my relationships with United or my grocery store, I enjoy being an uncommitted free agent in other arenas. I am loyal to no gas station, department store, or barbershop, which gives me a lot of freedom and anonymity, at the cost of picking up some rewards.

What’s most worrisome is the rising cost of not opting in. There have long been members-only stores, but I fear we are heading into a future where every retail experience will be defined by whether you are in or out of network. Fly an airline whose program you’re not signed up for, and you’ll be treated as an aggravating nuisance. Refuse to hand over your card or phone number at the grocery store, and you’ll be greeted with incredulity, making you feel like an anti-social element, or a visitor from North Korea. And they’ll charge you higher prices.

One welcome exception to this trend is Albertsons, the West Coast-based grocery behemoth, which announced last year that it was discontinuing its rewards card and offering the same “special” prices to all customers, all of whom deserve to be treated equally well. What a concept. Too bad Albertsons isn’t in my area—I could imagine becoming quite a loyal customer.

The post Why Do We Love Being Frequent Flyers, Buyers, Shoppers, and Eaters? appeared first on Zócalo Public Square.