On a Wing and a Prayer

Last week I was out in Ohio for work.  I flew in and out of Dayton for this trip, forgoing my usual direct flight into Cincinatti because of - what else during these days of seemingly never-ending economic turmoil? - the bottom line.  When I'd arranged my flights earlier in the summer, my boss had warned me that traffic can get a bit heavy around Dayton.  So, when I landed in the late afternoon on a balmy Tuesday in August, I was prepared.  And then I promptly sailed directly to my hotel, taking in the beautiful farmlands of Ohio that I enjoy so much as I drove in my rather comfortable silver rental car, not once hitting a single traffic issue.

Now, granted.  Maybe I should have left a tad earlier than I did from our Ohio offices for my return, but really, seeing as it only took me 20 minutes to make the trip - at the same exact time of day - two days earlier, I didn't think allowing myself a solid 45 minutes to get up to the airport was really that crazy.  I mean, I planned for what I thought would be a worse case scenario - doubling my travel time.

You can probably guess where this story is headed.  About 10 miles away from the quiet little Dayton airport, I hit traffic.  Insane traffic.  Not moving at all traffic.  I was non pulsed at first.  I'd planned for this!  I had plenty of time!  Tom Petty was on the radio!  No worries! I can just sit back and listen while I sit in grid-lock.  10 minutes passed.  15.  At the 20 minute mark, I started to stress a bit.  I'd only moved four feet!  I texted my one of my co-workers, my favorite working companion in the Ohio office.  He replied, optimistic: "You've still got plenty of time.  You'll make it." he promised me.  I took a deep breath.  30 minutes.  Still stuck in a stand-still.

There are a lot of frustrating things we all have to deal with in this world, but I find being forced to just sit still in a clock is ticking down and there is nothing - absolutely nothing - you can do about it situation to be one of the worst.  Even if I had been able to maneuver my way to an exit off of the highway, I was too close to the airport to even locate an alternative route.  75 North was where I was staying, like it or not.  So I sat.  And sat.  The radio began to annoy me, rattling my nerves even further, so I shut if off.

Too quiet.         

I turned it back on.  U2's "It's a Beautiful Day."

Really?  Really, Bono?  This is what you're giving me?  Right now, I would argue that it is not a beautiful day.  Radio goes back off.  I stole another glance at the clock.  Another minute had passed.  I thought time was supposed to slow down in these sorts of situations?  Why in the world did it feel like these minutes were clicking by at a lightening fast pace?

My flight departed Dayton at 4:32pm.  It was 3:52pm.  I was, according to the GPS on my phone, fifteen minutes away.  And...here begins the talking out loud to myself, gripping the steering wheel like a maniac portion of my trip.  I texted my co-worker again.  "I haven't moved." I told him.  "Uh oh." was his reply, quickly followed by another message asking for my flight numbers so he could try and rebook my trip.

Because, oh, remember?  I have a connector to make.  Through Baltimore.  Of course I do.

By now, I've moved a mile.  I reply, asking him what the next flight through BWI is.  I've got a long lay-over in Baltimore, so try and calm myself down by reminding myself that there's at least some potential for wiggle room.  Minutes tick by with no response from my co-worker, I continue to creep forward.  I'm moving!  I'm going 20 miles per hour, but I'm moving.  My phone vibrates; a new message: "There aren't any other flights to BWI tonight."

I reply, a single, cursory, word; one you don't utter around parents or children.  I'll let you guess what I said.  (Hint - it rhymes with duck.)

And then finally, I'm moving.  Like 50 miles per hour, moving.  I am talking to myself, announcing every exit I pass, watching for the airport highway.  I'm commenting about each car I'm passing, wondering out loud about how ironical it would be if I ended up getting pulled over now that I'm speeding.  It's 4pm.  I'm pulling into the airport parking lot - because, yes, that's right, I still have to drop. off. the. rental. car.  Barely sliding the thing into park, I hop out of the car, grabbing my purse and my laptop from the backseat.  I'm reaching in the trunk for my luggage with the guy with National - the check out guy - saunters over in the typical friendly Ohioan way.  "I am sorry to be rude, but my flight leaves in 30 minutes!" I tell him, boarding on hysterics.  "All I need to do is print this receipt for you and you're good," he explains.  Taping the hand held electronic machine, as if that will make it print faster.  I snatch it from his hand, yell a thank you, and scurry into the airport.  It is 4:09pm.

I don't have my boarding pass yet.

I run over to AirTran's self-service kiosk, harried, frazzled, and desperately trying to pull out my credit card.  You know how these things go, of course.  The more you rush, the more difficult the most simplest of tasks become.  An AirTran clerk calls out to me from behind her computer: "What's your final destination today?"

"Uh, Boston." I cry.  Christ, I think to myself.  I'm becoming too frazzled to even remember where I'm flying.

"Via Baltimore?" she asks, her left eyebrow raised.

"Yes!"

"You're running really late."

"No shit.  I know!  I know!"

(Ahem.  Let me just take a quick aside and tell you that I rarely ever - if I have ever - uttered a curse word at someone in the service industry, particularly one that was trying to help me, especially one that could easily have the TSA grab me and toss me into a dark room never to be heard from again.  But really, lady?  Really?  You don't think I am WELL AWARE of the fact that my flight leaves in exactly 23 minutes and I haven't even made it through security yet?  Come on.)

She hands me my boarding passes, I grab my carry on luggage, wallet flying, laptop in hand and hop in the security line.  There are five people in front of me.  And guess who is having a nice long chat with the family that's currently having their passports and boarding passes reviewed?  The TSA agent.  It's when I hear him ask, "Oh, you're originally from Australia?  What's the weather like down there this time of year?" that I begin pacing.  I'd been holding out hope up until this point, but the minute I heard ol' chatty TSA man, I knew I was doomed.  The guy standing in front of me turned his head toward me, probably on the alert that there was a crazed 30-something muttering to herself behind him.  "I'm going to miss my flight," I told him.  "It leaves in less than 20 minutes."  A young man standing at the top of the line, the one that would've been next if the TSA agent wasn't STILL talking about Australia (I mean, I really, really want to go there too but there's a time and a place you know?) asked if I wanted to go ahead of him.

I scurried forward.  "Oh, I do. I do.  Thank you so, so much."

I ran over to the ONE security line they had open, threw my shoes, my laptop, my luggage, my 3oz liquids, and my purse onto the conveyor belt.  And that's when I heard it over the load speaker.  "This will be a final boarding call for Flight #341 into Baltimore."  I pointed to the ceiling, looked for the nearest TSA agent.  "That's my flight!" 

Without missing a beat she replied: "Step into the security chamber, stand for 10 seconds." 

Any idea how long 10 seconds feels in moments like these?  It's almost unbearable.  Onto the other side of security, where I scrambled to slide my shoes on, shove my laptop into my bag, and repackage everything else I'd had to spill onto the belt, I heard something even worse than a final boarding call over the loudspeaker.  My name.  They were paging me, over the loudspeaker, mispronouncing my last name over and over and over.

I looked down at my boarding pass for the first time.  Gate 24C.  Guess where Gate 24C is?  At the top of the escalators?  Like maybe they'd started the furthest gate number at 1 and worked backwards? Of course not.  It was the very last gate, down a very, very, long hallway, which lead down another very, very long hallway.

And so I ran.  In flip-flops.  I passed people left and right, I heard one guy yell "you'll make it!" in my wake.  I thought of the Olympic sprinters I'd just watched on television with my father a few weeks earlier, recalled commenting about how easy they made those sprints look. Ha.  This was not easy.   

Finally, I saw it.  Just as I was hearing my name called yet again over the loudspeakers.  I waved my one free arm, yelled to the man by the door.  "I'm coming! I'm coming!"

"Are you Kelli?" he called.

"Yes!  It's me!  I'm here!"

"Okay, you made it.  You can walk.  It's okay.  You're gonna make it."

Just like that I stopped running, and started panting.  "I am so sorry." I stammered when I got to the gate.  AirTran guy smiled.  "It's all good." he said, gesturing me to head through the gate.  He didn't even swipe my boarding pass.

Of course, I was the last one on the plane and of course my seat was all the way in the back.  So I did a different sort of walk of shame, one that involved huffing, puffing, and knowing that everyone sitting in their seats was mentally rolling their eyes at me and my carry-on luggage as I bumped into almost every armrest moving down the isle.  Finally, finally, I reached seat 30A, slid my suitcase above me, and collapsed into my seat.  An airline attendant walked past, surely doing their final check before the plane can back away from the gate.  "Could I please have a glass of water?" I asked her.

She nodded and obliged. I imagine it took me a good twenty minutes in the air to regain my composure, to feel my heart beat drop back to the norm.  But I had made it.  Somehow, somewhere, my travel guardian angel was looking out for me.  And man, that glass of water I sipped at 30,000 feet?  Nothing had ever tasted as good.