If you are going to complain, go big and find a good audience. Be sure to make it as entertaining as possible.
The worst travel nightmare I ever experienced was when I went to Italy. Out of nostalgia and perhaps a sado masachistic streak I decided to fly Lufthansa to Italy through Germany. In order to get in early and avoid delays, I stopped over in London for a week, and left bright and early on a 9 am flight to Florence via Frankfurt the Sunday before classes started at my Italian language school. I was excited about practicing my German again, which I got to do when landed and went through customs. They eyed my former student visa suspiciously and grilled me regarding whether I had any plans to drop baby in their socialist state. No, I replied, I really am just going to language school in Italy.
Then it was on to my puddle jumper, which I nervously realized was remarkably small. The flight was supposed to be 45 minutes. We ended up circling and trying to land twice. Every time we got close to the ground a huge gust of wind would bounce the plane like a small hard rubber ball perilously close to the ground. As we clung to the arm rests and the remaining gummi baerchen left in our ridiculously small mid-flight snack the pilot announced we were being diverted to Bologna, and would be bused several hours to Florence.
It took hours to deplane, board the buses, and make it across the Italian countryside. We arrived late evening, hungry and bleary eyed. But the last train was leaving for Sienna so I raced to the station and jumped on board. This was the slow train, and it quickly filled with some rather creepy guys. I suddenly realized how alone I was. I asked a single guy traveling alone if I could sit with him in my baby Italian. He said yes, and people just assumed we were traveling together. The loud boisterous travelers left me alone. When we made it into Sienna we all ran for the single bus. I had no idea if it was the right one, but ultimately it would take us into the town since we were on the outskirts.
I was disgorged in the town square of Sienna in the middle of the night. I went to the pay phone to call Mauro and realized that they all only took phone cards. There was no place to buy a phone card so I begged some guy sitting on his vespa to use his phone. The town was dead, and this seemed to be the most exciting thing happening on a late Sunday night that was already bleeding into Monday, so he let me use it, and after I talked briefly with my host I began wandering for another two hours dragging my suitcase around the campo looking to find my apartment.
Most of this story would be a bunch of super boring, bitch ass whining. But I got to tell it in Italian, to the first female rider in the Palio while sitting in the underground meeting room of one of the Conrtradas with horses that won, and she who looked bemused as I went through my fortunata, sfortunata tale. So if you are going to complain, go big or go home.