
A funny thing happened on the way to Athens
On a trip from Denver to Athens, I encountered a customer service failure that I'm certain occurs far too often on bookings that involve partner airlines.
I had booked my own ticket -- Denver to Munich and on to Athens -- on the United website using MileagePlus points. The leg connecting Denver and Munich is a United-Lufthansa joint venture and codeshare route on Lufthansa aircraft.
For my girlfriend, Holly, we booked the ticket via the Lufthansa website because it was less expensive, and we paid a seat selection fee.
On United, per its policies, I was able to select a seat adjacent to Holly without paying a fee.
After airport check-in (I wasn't able to check in remotely with United despite booking with them, but that's a separate integration problem for another day), I saw that I was not sitting in the seat I had selected. Instead, I had been moved from an aisle to a middle seat for the nearly 10-hour flight. And I was no longer anywhere near Holly.
When I attempted to rectify the situation at the gate, the Lufthansa agent suggested I call United. On that call, United told me Lufthansa would have to deal with the situation, as it had made the change and was operating the flight. I was patched through to a Lufthansa agent who explained that I had been moved because I had not paid to select a seat, as is Lufthansa policy. My seat had been assigned to someone who had.
United ultimately gave me 5,000 Mileage Plus points for my inconvenience.
"Seat assignments can change unexpectedly due to aircraft swaps, schedule changes or other unforeseen circumstances. Still, I understand how disappointing it can be not to sit in the seat you requested," a customer service agent wrote to me.
Airlines and airline alliances often talk about seamlessness when discussing partnerships. It's a major topic of conversation among the Star, SkyTeam and Oneworld alliances each June when I go to the IATA Annual General Meeting. Each aspires to make cross-partner bookings and multi-airline itineraries as easy to manage for customers as when they are dealing only with a single carrier.
Few airline partnerships are more substantial than the one between United and Lufthansa. The two global carriers were founding members of the Star Alliance in 1997. And since 2013 they have been transatlantic joint-venture partners, collaborating on scheduling, marketing and operations. So, when a partnership as robust as that one can't properly work together on something as basic as seat assignments, it makes me realize how far the airline world is from achieving true cross-partner seamlessness.
For another perspective, I spoke with airline industry technology analyst Henry Harteveldt. I wondered why United would present a seat map with free seat selection if Lufthansa isn't committed to honoring those selections.
Harteveldt said that in this example, the issue is a commercial one rather than a technological one. Though he mostly blamed Lufthansa for not fulfilling the seat assignment booked by its partner, he also said that both airlines shoulder responsibility.
"If the two airlines' business policies are not aligned, they clearly need to sit down and say, 'How are we going to manage this,'" Harteveldt said. "It shouldn't be a complex process. It's not like two countries negotiating tariffs."
He added that the situation I encountered is just one example of the fallacy that airlines offer seamless travel with their codeshare and alliance partners.
Unfortunately, I'm inclined to agree.
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Both flights appeared to have been chasing such prospects, as they had both made distinct, last-minute northward changes to their paths. The consequences of these deviations were horrific. 'It was as though their ends were predestined,' Nelson writes, citing their shared delays taking off, the converging paths of their original flight plans, TWA 2's bump to 21,000 feet cruising altitude, and their diversions north to the same square inches of Grand Canyon airspace. The CAB report speculates that the airplanes were simply flying on opposite sides of the same cloud and converged on the far side, perhaps seeing each other for just a millisecond before colliding; in fact, this was what lead investigator Jack Parshall surmised based on the slight downward pitch and the right bank angle of the United DC-7 when it struck the TWA Super Constellation. That happened at 10:31 a.m., the exact time both aircraft were supposed to have arrived at the Painted Desert line 17 miles to the east. The collision altitude: 21,000 feet. The TWA aircraft's distinctive tail assembly was severed from the aircraft, instantly depressurizing the cabin and rendering the craft uncontrollable. It dove like a missile for the ground and impacted Temple Butte, a prominent formation in the eastern canyon, at more than 400 mph. United 718 had slightly more controllability, but the tip of its left wing was mangled, reducing lift. It staggered on for just a mile before crashing into nearby Chuar Butte, copilot Harms fighting for control the whole way in. In his book, Nelson speculates that Captain Shirley of United 718 wasn't in the cockpit at the time of the crash, probably because he was in the cabin greeting passengers. This was an airline tradition at the time, particularly on those dedicated first-class flights. Nelson's reasoning: Shirley's remains were among the only four successfully identified from that aircraft, so he was likely not in the front of the plane, which faced the brunt of the impact; also, his voice wasn't heard in the background of the final radio transmission made by Harms. What's more, that message ordinarily would have been delivered by the pilot, not the copilot. Nelson considers it unlikely that Shirley could have done any better had he still been at the controls. The two crash sites, which crews finally reached a day after the collision, sat a mile apart, near the intersection of the Colorado and Little Colorado Rivers. The airplanes had slammed into separate canyon walls, exploding into flames and scattering debris across craggy terrain accessible only by experienced climbers, and even they had to be brought in via helicopter. Some of the wreckage was recognizable—shredded metal, bits of seat cushions and luggage, fragmented human remains. Then there was the distinctive three-vane tail assembly from the Super Constellation. The metal bore smeared paint from the other aircraft—'witness marks' that would help investigators piece together the tragedy over the coming months. The crash debris and victim remains had settled over two wide areas, with much of it falling into deep gullies and crevices. Though recovery crews gathered as much as possible from the site over the following months, many aircraft fragments were left at the remote and largely inaccessible site for years—some to this day. The collision of United's Douglas DC-7, named Mainliner Vancouver, and TWA's Lockheed L-1049 Super Constellation—Star of the Seine—was at the time the worst-ever disaster in commercial aviation. It happened during a dramatic surge in civilian air travel, at the cusp of the coming Jet Age. Piston-powered propeller aircraft were able to stretch the speed and distances of air travel while their own obsolescence lurked on the horizon, as those faster and longer-range jet-powered airliners began to enter service. Much of the industry's momentum could be traced to World War II, a conflict dominated by the development and large-scale deployment of innovative new aircraft, many of which would be quickly adapted from transporting soldiers and bombs to carrying paying passengers wearing heels and drinking martinis. But the overarching civilian air travel system of the 1950s—that is, the mechanics of air traffic control and the oversight of all the airplanes flying through any particular area—couldn't keep up with all the new planes blazing through the skies. For one thing, there were shortfalls in the federal budget that left the airlines hanging, says aviation historian Robert van der Linden, curator of air transportation at the Smithsonian's National Air and Space Museum. Active, radar-aided control, he says, was available only around major cities, and most air traffic control systems became antiquated and susceptible to human error. The area where the airliners collided was a region where commercial pilots were simply supposed to 'see and be seen' by other aircraft. But that point on the map also happened to be among the most spectacular geological attractions on the planet, and the pilots appeared to be maneuvering to offer passengers better views. That alone wasn't problematic, or shouldn't have been. 'Pilots were allowed to deviate from their flight paths at the pilot's discretion to avoid weather or, in the case of this accident, fly over scenic attractions,' van der Linden says. The accident led to congressional hearings focused on aviation safety and massive changes to how aircraft flew around the country and the world. It was an era of reform that the nation might be revisiting in modern times as well, given a recent surge in aviation accidents and close calls—including the Washington, D.C., collision in January; a FedEx cargo plane passing just 100 feet over the top of a Southwest Airlines jet in Austin in 2023; a Delta Airlines jet flipping over after a hard landing in Toronto in February; a Southwest Airlines flight aborting its Chicago landing after another aircraft crossed the runway in front of it in February; an aborted takeoff due to a similar runway crossing at New York City's LaGuardia airport in May; and, most recently, a private jet crash in San Diego in May that appeared to involve nonfunctional runway safety technology. This list doesn't include multiple midair collisions and close calls among small private or commuter aircraft. These, along with revelations about antiquated technology causing a recent communications blackout at Newark International Airport, are prompting the public and the aviation industry to wonder if our air traffic control system needs to modernize far more aggressively. The FAA recently reported a shortage of 3,000 air traffic controllers. A February headline from PBS News put it this way: 'Aviation disasters and close calls have people worried about flying.' The Grand Canyon crash horrified the public then, too. News spread later that day around the parking lots and visitor centers when the aircraft were reported missing in the vicinity; then the wider public found out as the aircraft transitioned from 'missing' to confirmed lost. As search crews—including a team of five Swiss mountain climbers—were airlifted into the canyon to begin recovering evidence and victim remains, news crews descended on Grand Canyon Village on the South Rim and in nearby Flagstaff, Arizona, where the investigation would be headquartered. Though flying was still expensive and a relative luxury, airlines were already lofting thousands of flights per day in the United States alone. Crashes and midair collisions were actually somewhat common amid this surge in flying—though rarely at cruising altitude—as safety steps struggled to keep up with progress. But this one, above the Grand Canyon, involving state-of-the-art airplanes and experienced crews, and with record-setting loss of life, was huge and unusual, and it shook people. Led by Parshall, the investigative work focused on radio communications, common practices of aircraft while flying off-airways, and weather—the likely culprits for any aviation accident. But he also explored critical nuances as questions emerged not only about what led the airplanes to the same point in space and time, but also about why they couldn't be stopped. Why didn't they see each other? Among the threads investigators explored was the overall visibility from within each aircraft. At the time, cockpit windows in pressurized aircraft were notoriously small, and angles of visibility might have inhibited detection of other aircraft. They also noted a possible illusion scenario: Pilots sometimes can see objects ahead of them on a potential collision course, but the objects register no relative motion from the observing aircraft until they suddenly converge in an instant. (This is similar to the feeling of being a driver in a car stopped at a traffic light and sensing an adjacent vehicle nudging forward, but thinking it's your own vehicle drifting backward—or vice versa.) Investigators also looked into that question of whether crews were chasing a better view of the Grand Canyon for their premier customers, who were paying what would today cost up to $3,000 for first-class transcontinental flights. Meanwhile, the public was growing feverish about the broader air safety system. 'The incredible odds against an accident such as this occurring, and the fact that it happened in such a dramatic and terrible fashion over the Grand Canyon, focused the public's attention on the pressing need for increased vigilance over the airways,' van der Linden says. The crash ultimately led to the creation of the Federal Aviation Agency (now the Federal Aviation Administration), which van der Linden says gave the government more regulatory authority over the nation's airways. In August 1957, President Dwight Eisenhower signed the Airways Modernization Act, intended to develop and modernize the national system of navigation and air traffic control facilities to serve the present and future needs of civil and military aviation. At the time of the Grand Canyon collision, the FAA says, there was a debate in Washington over whether the common civilian and military air navigation system should be the military TACAN (Tactical Air Navigation System) or the civilian VOR/DME (VHF Omnidirectional Range with Distance Measuring Equipment). The former was a more precise system used for military operations, while the latter was more affordable and readily adaptable globally. It took time to make such determinations, and there wasn't a single authority forcing the decision. 'Airlines were delaying the purchase of navigational equipment as there was uncertainty regarding what standard would be implemented,' an FAA summary reported in hindsight. 'At the time of the accident, negotiations on a compromise system were ongoing. Shortly after the collision, in August 1956, the deadlock was broken and the details of a compromise agreed upon.' The solution, dubbed VORTAC, incorporated key advantages from both systems in distance measuring and directional guidance, and it would provide a critical melding of civilian and military navigation systems. The Grand Canyon disaster also became a lesson to the industry against trusting the odds. 'When it happened, it was confidently regarded as impossible by nearly the whole populace,' Nelson, the author whose uncle died in the crash, says. Though midair collisions were indeed more frequent at the time, they typically occurred at low altitude near airports, not in high, wide-open skies. Nelson places this disaster in the same category as another familiar, and perhaps equally unlikely, transportation tragedy. 'The Titanic was confidently held to be unsinkable, and then, on its maiden voyage, it sank. The world was shocked. And the world was shocked with the Grand Canyon disaster, too. No accident like it had ever happened before,' he writes. As accident investigation methods improved, global aviation became safer and safer and safer. How safe? That conversation is ongoing, as is the broader one about upgrading current air traffic control technologies once again. The system is dated, rife with old technology, and still reliant on human intervention and oversight. A digitally based upgrade, with modern high-speed data communication systems and eventually automated tracking and collision-avoidance systems long in planning, may now arrive sooner than expected: In May, Transportation Secretary Sean P. Duffy announced an effort to radically overhaul the nation's air traffic control system, including recruiting more air traffic controllers and upgrading networks. Meanwhile, the site of the tragedy that spawned the first industry-wide improvement in aviation safety nearly 70 years ago remains just as inaccessible from the ground now as it was then. Only the heartiest of hikers can reach it, though technically the area is closed to the public. It became a National Historic Landmark in 2014, the first such designation to commemorate something that happened in the air. At the ceremony, attended by Nelson, victim relatives, and others affected by the disaster, park officials unveiled a plaque. It reads: 'This tragic accident site represents a watershed moment in the modernization of America's airways leading to the establishment of the Federal Aviation Administration and national standards for aviation safety. The site possesses national significance in commemorating the history of the United States of America.' The Potomac River collision in January 2025 was the first major incident on U.S. soil in 16 years, but to a lot of people, that 16-year stretch isn't good enough. In 1956, mass air travel was not yet fully realized—the accident then, while tragic, somehow feels explainable. But today millions of people fly every day, every hour, and helicopters aren't supposed to crash into planes. The investigation of that crash will take a while. But whatever the conclusion, the crash happened. Yes, we have vastly better technology now. But inexplicably, we somehow don't have enough air traffic controllers, not even close, nor do we have the required technology to do this job in their absence. As in the terrible quiet moments that followed the Grand Canyon crash that no one saw, it's as if it never happened, so little have we learned from it. And so the questions haven't changed: Are we so smart? Have we figured this out? Will it happen again, and again, and again? 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