The following takes place between 12 noon and 12 midnight on the final day of the 2009 NCTM National Meeting and Exposition. (blip.. bleep.. blip.. bleep..)
By noon on Saturday, I was on my way to the airport. During the walk and on the metro, I downed the rest of the water in my water bottle, knowing they wouldn’t let me take the bottle through security otherwise. I was regretting drinking it so fast by the time I was waiting in the security line, because my sore throat was raging and nothing but water really helped.
When I got to my gate, a different flight was on the monitor, scheduled to leave just a half hour before mine. I asked if I was at the right gate, and the airport agent told me I was. The other flight had been moved to this gate at the last minute, and although it would probably push my flight back a few minutes, it was nothing to worry about.
My flight was indeed delayed about a half hour, which at first did not seem like a huge deal. The plane was on the small side – a commuter jet – so my bag would not fit in the overhead bins and it was valeted. I would have to pick it up planeside when I disembarked in Chicago.
The flight itself was uneventful – I read a lot of magazine articles and a few chapters in my book, and tried to soothe my throat with hard candy and tea. By the end, I was dozing off. I was jolted awake after about 90 minutes in the air by an announcement from the pilot, saying we were in a holding pattern over O’Hare, waiting out a thunderstorm. After 20 minutes or so of circling, the pilot got concerned about fuel, and headed for Indianapolis. The thought of more delays didn’t exactly thrill me, but the flight crew said that we’d likely only be on the ground in Indy for 15 minutes, so I went back to sleep. We had taken off from Washington at about 3:30, and landed in Indianapolis at about 5:30. I had hopes of landing in Chicago by 6:30 and getting home by 8.
Sadly, it was after 6 before we even got any fuel. The pilot apologized and said he was going to edge out to the end of the runway so we would be among the first in line to be given clearance to take off. He did, and we waited. And waited. And waited. At around 6:45, the pilot announced that O’Hare was now in a full ground stop – nothing was taking off or landing. And now, because so many planes headed to O’Hare had to land at Indy instead, there was not even a gate available. We couldn’t take off, and we couldn’t deplane. We were stuck in the plane until the thunderstorms let up.
In an attempt to make things more comfortable, the flight attendants started passing out free Pepsi and orange juice, and then free trail mix. The time ticked by. By 7PM, they were bringing around free beer, wine, and margaritas. Then more trail mix. At 7:20, I just could not take it any more and had to get up out of my seat and walk up and down the aisle. I had finished my magazines long ago and sat back down to finish my book. My already negative mood was not improved when one of my favorite characters died at the end. I sighed and popped my last piece of hard candy into my mouth, hoping it would coat my throat and keep me from utter misery until I got home.
At 8PM, having been on the plane for 5 hours and finished every distraction I had, I called my parents to see what they could tell me at the storm system. They looked at weather.com and told me they thought that a break was coming. At the same time, the pilot asked us to sit down and prepare for take-off, as they were letting a limited number of planes go. My hope renewed, I turned off my phone and stowed my tray table. Recalculating in my head, I figured I had a chance of getting home by 10PM.
Less than 10 minutes later, the pilot yanked those shreds of hope away and said we would not be taking off. Instead, he taxied us to a gate. I was despairing at this point. As much as I wanted to get off the plane, I would rather have taken off. I so desperately wanted to get home. My throat was on fire, I was exhausted, and oh yes…. did I mention that I was supposed to be running a 5K race at 8AM the next morning?
When we got to the gate, the flight attendants finally confirmed the inevitable. The flight was cancelled. We all had to get off the plane and rebook with the agents standing at the gates. I couldn’t help it; I let out a moaning, “noooooo…” It was now almost 9PM, and Indianapolis was not a very large airport. I doubted that I was going to get a flight to Chicago that night. And according to others on the plane, the airline was not required to provide a hotel if the flight was cancelled for weather reasons. I was looking at a long night in an airport, alone, and it looked like I was going to miss my race. I stood at the end of the tunnel, waiting for my valeted bag, exhausted and disappointed, but not yet in a panic.
The panic came when I walked into the airport. All the iron gates were coming down in front of the restaurants and stores and there wasn’t a soul in the airport except for the people on my flight. Because I had to wait for my bag, I was at the end of a long and very slow-moving line. I was looking at a long night in a dead airport, with nothing to read, eat, or see. My throat hurt all the way into my ears and I had no water, candy, or lozenges. And suddenly I became aware of how alone I really was.
I tearily called my mother and asked her to find out how long it would take me to drive to Chicago. The answer was at least three hours, and I knew immediately I did not have it in me to do a three-hour, unfamiliar drive in a rental car safely. I was going to be stuck overnight. I ended the conversation quickly after that, knowing I needed to try to calm myself down.
Ten or so minutes later, I had managed to stop my tears, but the line had barely moved. The waiting was unbearable – there’s nothing that gets my anxiety going like a lack of information or control, and I had none of either. Luckily, one guy standing near me in line gave me the 800-number for the airline, and when I called, they told me there was one more flight from Indianapolis to Chicago tonight, at 9:45. It was now 9PM. I felt myself physically relax a little. The agent rebooked me over the phone, but told me not to get out of line, because an agent at the airport would have to check me in and print me a boarding pass.
My relief lasted about 5 minutes, at which point I noticed again how slow the line was moving. At this rate, there was no way I would make it to the counter by 9:45, let alone with enough time to board a 9:45 flight. At that moment I also realized that I did not know the flight number of my new flight, or how far away the gate was. I called the 800-number again and related these worries to the agent. She told me the gate was B9 – right next to the one I was at. She also said that all bets were off tonight, and I didn’t need to worry about checking in a full half hour before take-off.
That placated me for about another 10 minutes, but when they began boarding my flight and the line had yet to move, I got worried again. In desperation, I did something I hate… I asked the people in front of me to let me go ahead of them, since I was already rebooked and only needed the agent to hit the print button for me. They didn’t let me go, but a woman near the front of the line next to me heard the situation and did let me go. As I expected, it took the agent approximately 30 seconds to print my boarding pass. I didn’t make eye contact with the people who had refused to let me pass as I walked to my gate and boarded. I was simultaneously ashamed for having asked at all and annoyed they were so stubborn.
Then another interminable wait began. I sat on my new plane, willing the flight attendants to close the bins and the pilot to taxi away from the gate. Although I was relieved to be on a flight, I was not going to relax until I was sure the flight would take off. I sat there, staring straight forward, for another 45 minutes. The only thing I clearly remember about that time is that at one point, it occurred to me that my throat didn’t hurt. While I was glad of that, I said a little prayer that my next symptom would not be congestion. After all, I was running a 5K in the morning. (Or was I?)
Finally, at 10:30PM EST, we taxied away from the gate, and after a 10-minute wait on the runway, we took off. I spent the entire 40-minute flight staring out the window at the clouds and the disconcertingly close lightening. There was a lot of turbulence, too. It wasn’t until later that it occurred to me to be scared; I was too intent on landing in Chicago and not anywhere else. When we finally touched down at O’Hare, it was 10:47PM Chicago time, and I was physically and emotionally spent. I called my mother to tell her I made it, then made my way to the blue line. I got off at Belmont and hailed a cab. Finally, as I sat alone in the backseat, I relaxed. I would be home by midnight – 7 hours later than I intended, but home nonetheless. For those 15 minutes, I had a little peace.
We’re transitioning to Sunday now, so I’m calling second intermission. Can you believe we’re not done yet?
(blip.. bleep.. blip.. bleep..)
No comments:
Post a Comment