It would be the worst, actually. Fourteen hours late.
I was coming back from San Diego last Thursday for a drug store conference. I had a 9:22 A.M. flight (Pacific time) landing in Newark at 7:23 P.M. (Eastern time), so the whole day was just for travel. Any long trip east turns into an all-travel day. Any long trip west turns into a 27- or 30-hour day, where you eat five meals and find out what it's like to get a fourth wind.
This wasn't a direct flight back to Newark, technically. It had a stopover in Dallas/Fort Worth, but we didn't have to change planes. We'd just watch Passenger Manifest A disembark and Passenger Manifest B come on board.
American Airlines has cut flight attendants giving out food on shorter flights. There's still food, but now they come in Bistro Bags, a.k.a. paper bags you pick up before stepping on the plane. A small cup of yogurt, an apple berry bar and a raisin pack felt suspiciously like an empty paper bag. I was grateful just to have food. I was so hungry I ate the raisins.
I'm still new enough to regular flying so the ground from six miles up is neat. Add that to the pressurized airlock of my bladder, and I always try for window seats. I was in 23F this day. Our flight took us over four states of desert before boring cloud cover dominated.
We dropped through the clouds to land in a Dallas/Fort Worth that looked like a comet just hit. It was dark as twilight, and the undersides of the clouds were battleship gray. We could see lightning exploding from clouds rubbing against each other.
The pilot confirmed that us Newark people were staying put, and we watched everyone else file out. Six or seven of us were left. Good thing we were taking off soon; this weather could delay a flight. After five minutes, the pilot announced that this plane was now going to Columbus, Ohio. We had to disembark after all.
I was going to ask an attendant at the gate where to go, but the guy in front of me was yelling so loud I overheard all I needed to know. He was about 70, from the old school of swearing where you said 'hell' and 'damned' like you had coupons for them, but saved the real potent swears for golf.
We shared airport grumblings, never bothering with politenesses like names or handshakes. He knew the Dallas airport, and hated the Dallas airport. It's in several horseshoes, and our new gate was in a different terminal on the other end of the horseshoe. There was a train that ran between terminals, but he said the train took forever. The horseshoe parts connect, so it would be quicker to walk. We walked for several minutes until we found our horseshoe end closed for construction. We backtracked to the train terminal.
I did not wake up that morning expecting to take a train ride in Dallas. I rode with my carry on baggage on my lap, an enormous gym bag that probably weighed thirty pounds. I pick up product samples from various stores when I go to other parts of the country, many of them breakable. Having your bags checked by an airline is like having your bags checked by a hockey player. Everything glass or fragile was in my carry on, and unfortunately, a lot of interesting wines and salsas were being sold on the West Coast.
The Newark flight wasn't taking off for close to an hour, so we weren't late in reaching our new gate. But the sky went from battleship gray to recently torpedoed battleship gray, pouring down rain by the furlong. The plane we'd be flying on was a hundred feet from the gangway, not moving. It was a lightning risk to move it. The old passengers were still on it, where they'd been sitting for an hour.
I kept the same grumbling conversation going, only this time with a Latino guy in a suit with a skateboard wedged in his carry on. I could tell he was also picking up a grumbling conversation he had with someone else. Since we were having identical conversations, we synced up without a problem.
Realizing I wasn't getting my Bistro Bag lunch any time soon, I went to the food court. All I had was a five dollar bill, which was about a dollar too little to buy anything at anyplace. I settled for a chocolate shake at TCBY, which was four bucks and change. The cruel mistress of fate had me walk by the McDonalds at I took my first sip, where I could see that their Value Meals were $4.65.
The rain came in fierce spurts, like eighteenth century riflemen. Sunshine would fire a return volley and break through the cloud cover for a minute or two, and then the rain would reload and take aim again. During a small battle won by sunshine, the plane was rolled to the gangway. Passengers disembarked with the dead eyes of prisoners of war. Our turn now!
We filed in (I had the same seat, 23F) and figured two hours late was better than no flight at all. The Chicago flight in the gate across from us had their flight outright cancelled. I always wanted that to happen to me, especially at unfamiliar stopover points in the flight. I could get a great night going in a strange city last minute, especially if an airline was picking up the tab for the hotel room.
We taxied for an hour waiting for our time on the runway. A dozen planes were in a merge for one lane, looking very much like a highway merge for cars. I was hoping our pilot would get on the shoulder and cut to the front of the line, but then again, I hate it when other people do that.
The sky above Dallas was shocking, it was so beautiful. Huge puffballs thousands of feet high slowly changed from landscapes to thrones for ancient gods. These were the clouds you see in the stereotypical Heaven, but only if you've been a very good boy.
I held onto my Bistro Bag for this flight, waiting for drink service. We hit several bouts of turbulence, enough to postpone drink service until two hours or so. The drink cart eventually made an appearance, but I couldn't wait for it to reach row 23. I started dinner around row 9, and it was gone by row 11.
I felt the plane starting to descend, and the pilot came on the intercom. "There's a major storm system in the New York area, and all three major airports aren't accepting flights. Newark, JFK, La Guardia. Philadelphia too. So we're going to be landing at Dulles, and see if we can't wait this out."
I did not wake up that morning expecting to visit Washington D.C. It took another hour before we touched down, so it was close to 10:30 by then. Dulles must be swamped with New York's rejects, I figured. If I wasn't from New Jersey, I'd make a Jersey joke.
Half the plane whipped out cell phones once it was safe to call, and everyone had the identical conversation. "Hi honey, ... no, I'm not back yet, I'm in Washington D.C. ... there's thunderstorms, so we've landed at Dulles ... I have no idea if we're taking back off tonight ... yep, this sure does suck donkey ass." Exact wording did vary.
If suddenly visiting Dulles wasn't surprising enough, our airplane rolled to a stop right by a Concorde. Concordes had just been put out to pasture a few months ago, but this Air France model had landed earlier in the day to be dropped off at the Smithsonian. My seatmates and I had some idle talk about commandeering it and reaching Newark supersonically in twenty minutes.
Every time the pilot used the intercom, it was bad news. This time it was to say that the flight crew could only be on the clock another hour before not legally being able to work any longer. Unless we took off immediately, we'd need to find another flight crew or get off the plane for the night. The more experienced travelers on the plane began predicting that we'd be spending the night. Would we get free rooms?
I began planning my ideal unexpected day in D.C. Just hitting regular tourist attractions would be fine, but I might be able to work out a White House tour from a friend of mine. I had two suits from the conference in my garment bag, so I'd be able to look respectable while I convinced George Bush in two polite sentences to resign.
A people mover lined up with the plane door, and we walked into a waiting room on wheels. The people mover had seats and metal poles like a subway car, but was two cars wide. We were as high above the tarmac as a monster truck cab. We really began thinking about commandeering the people mover. Newark was only a three hour drive.
I reached the gate at Dulles, found a bathroom, and urinated for at least two minutes. I factored in the drinks from both flights, but not an extra three hours and an unplanned chocolate shake. I ought to contact Guinness one of these days.
I found half my fellow passengers standing around a baggage carousel. Our luggage was being offloaded. An airport worker was giving out vouchers for hotel rooms. I missed the "You're spending the night here, suckers," speech in the bathroom.
While I was waiting for my luggage, I couldn't help but notice one of the reserved limo drivers had an "M. Jackson" sign. I had never seen a celebrity in an airport. It'd be neat to catch one, even if they had a suspected history of pedophilia. Then, just to show the universe's power for heightening, I saw another limo driver with "Paula Poundstone." I checked back with the drivers throughout the night, but never saw either of their fares.
The carousel's bags were taken, and I didn't have mine. Everyone from the San Diego leg was missing their bags, including Grumpy and the skateboard guy. Our luggage was in all likelihood exploring Columbus, Ohio. There went my plan to enter the White House with a suit on. Or my teeth brushed.
All us passengers were crowded around an American Airlines booth where hotel vouchers were slowly being assigned. A youngish blond guy screamed something at the top of his lungs, obviously pissed at the situation. "There's no need to yell," Grumpy said.
"Mind your *&%$ing business!" he yelled back.
"When I'm right by you, it is my business."
"Hey old timer," (I swear, 'old timer' was used in conversation in 2003) "we're all under a lot of pressure. My friend's all the way across the terminal and if I want to yell at him, I'm going to yell at him!" This guy was looking for a fight. And he targeted someone forty years older than him.
The airport was 100% on Grumpy's side here. Grumpy had every intention of continuing the conversation, but all of us around him said it wasn't worth it. "Yeah, HE isn't worth it," Grumpy said to us.
And then the yeller was at Grumpy's side, staring him down like an umpire. "Were you talking to me?"
"No I wasn't," Grumpy said with a sneer. I wanted to jump between them and get this jerk to move on, but I couldn't get a playing card between them without bumping Ol' Yeller. Preventing a fight by getting into one of your own is the sort of military intelligence the situation didn't need (although it did seem appropriate for Washington D.C.). After a couple more seconds, Ol' Yeller blew off enough steam to not explode, and clomped off. Grumpy was unfazed. This guy was the real thing.
I heard people getting assigned a Hyatt room, but I got a Holiday Inn. Our flight was full, so the quartering took multiple hotels. There was no physical voucher, just my name checked off a list of passengers. All I had to do was show my boarding pass at the Holiday Inn and I'd get a room. I was hoping for a physical voucher, so I could drive a rental car home for $35 bucks and save the voucher for a night at the Four Seasons.
I was to wait for the Z shuttle outside, which would take me to my Holiday Inn. I had never heard of Z shuttles; maybe they were D.C.-specific. I went to a long line at the airport doors and asked an attendant if this was for Z shuttles. "This is for taxis. I've never heard of Z shuttles before. But a lot of people have been asking." Good to know the airport workers are just as clueless as I am.
I recognized a collection of fellow passengers (gaggle? flock? herd?) and joined them. We were standing by 2B, and no one knew if this was where the Z shuttle came. If this wasn't the spot, at least there was the security of having a crowd of people who made the same wrong choice as you (again, appropriate for D.C.).
We found out the shuttle didn't stop at 2B (answering that pesky Hamlet question) so we waited at 2A. Stories got shared. Some people were visiting friends or doing business, others were coming back from them. Two women were going to a one day conference, had scheduled to fly back home Friday afternoon, and would probably miss it entirely. A girl had turned 21 yesterday, had planned to meet her father this evening, and really regretted not getting some alcohol on the plane. We concurred.
Hotel shuttles from Hyatts and Marriotts and rental car agencies trolled past us, at least one or two every minute. The drivers all glanced at us, but stopped for someone else. I felt like an ugly hooker.
After an hour of waiting, a van from Comfort Suites pulled up. The driver said his rooms were $59, any takers? I've never seen anyone hustle hotel rooms before. Do they go to towns hit by floods or tornados? It was after midnight by then, but no one took him up.
A Super Shuttle driver came out and offered people a bargain. $12 to go to the hotel. This was down from his fee of $22, since he "didn't want to take advantage of the situation." Half the crowd went with him. I stayed, along with Grumpy. We weren't paying anyone money because of this. (I also only had a dollar.) 15 of us were left.
Ten or fifteen minutes after the Super Shuttle, an unmarked red van pulled up, the Z shuttle. If it took close to two hours to get here the first time, it'd be sunrise when it came around again. 12 of us squeezed in, and immediately began shifting ourselves and our luggage around to fit the other three. We weren't leaving anyone behind. We ended up with five people per row, two in the front passenger seat, and one girl on someone's lap, but we got everyone in with luggage. If the San Diego luggage wasn't lost, we might not have been able to fit everyone.
The Fair Oaks Holiday Inn is in Fairfax, twenty five minutes from the airport. I have a feeling everything closer was booked for the night. The ride was enjoyable, since we were all so tired we reached an alcohol-free state of drunkenness.
I did not wake up that morning expecting to go to sleep in a free hotel room in Fairfax, Virginia. I've always wanted to get a free room this way, but I had to be back at the airport by 7:00 A.M. I defy anyone to have a pleasant experience when they get into a room at 2:00 A.M. by themselves, set their alarm for 5:30 A.M., and don't have a toothbrush.
I used the little four-cup coffeemaker the next morning, guessing (correctly) there wouldn't be food on our flight. I called work and said, for lack of a better term, I was taking a sick day. I took a quick shower with the little shampoo and soap, and got right back in my old clothes.
Most people were wearing yesterday's clothes. Us San Diego people didn't have much of a choice. I had one t-shirt used to cushion a bottle of wine in my bag, but that t-shirt had so much sweat and spilt food on it that it turned the wine from white to red.
The shuttle arrived at 6:25 A.M. The hotel breakfast buffet started at 6:30 A.M., naturally.
It took an hour to get seat arrangements worked out with the first people in line back in Dulles. During this time I had the same Intro to Private Label conversation I've had many times, and enjoyed each time.
When I reached the attendant, all I had to say was "Newark" and I got 23F assigned immediately, for a 9:00 A.M. departure. We were assigned to gate 12, which was switched to gate 21 right when we reached gate 12. The people behind me in line insisted on buying me breakfast at Burger King. I insisted on giving them my dollar, so I only owe them $1.97 now. Value meals really are a value at airports.
A fellow San Diegan called Newark from the gate (switched once again to gate 19) and found out our luggage was already there. It must have been tossed on the first flight from Columbus to Newark. If I checked myself as baggage, I'd be home by now.
Our third plane (the same plane we boarded in Dallas, I think) was half an hour late to take off. That was a hiccup to us at this point. There was no food or beverages on the flight, presumably since no one was expecting to still be carrying Dallas people on Friday morning. We'd live. Hell, turn off the pressurized air, we'd just hold our breath. We were travel survivors.
Right before takeoff, I noticed two things in my free Holiday Inn USA Today. 1: It was now Friday the 13th. 2. Sean Ryan had just been charged with murder in South Orange. Different Sean. I'm not superstitious, but that's never good information to stumble across at a crucial time. Still, break a mirror over my face, throw a black cat under a ladder, nothing's stopping me now.
The plane took off in clear weather, flew for about 29 minutes, and landed at 10:23 A.M. I think we had so many things go wrong at the same time, fate ran out of bad things that could happen to us. Hopefully we'll all be incident-free for the next few years.
I didn't even need to wait for the luggage to be unloaded, since mine reached Newark long before I did. I made great time at the baggage carousel, considering I was fourteen hours late to begin with.
I'm going to tell the story as a nightmare, and the facts certainly spell it out. But for most of it, I enjoyed myself. The camaraderie was incredible. For half a day, everyone on the plane had their regular lives cancelled and the same undesirable drudge dropped on them. We could relate to each other so much we didn't even need to ask names to become friends. I wanted to drive some of these people to Connecticut, just to save them cab fare.
We felt like we went through a tour of duty in an air conditioned jungle. Instead of Saigon and Pork Chop Hill, we have Dallas and Dulles. Instead of ears of our enemies, we have little hotel soaps. And after the fact, I've got a bond with these veterans that civilians just won't understand.