The Plans Looked So Easy on Paper

OCTOBER 2007

A pressing need to get away? Check. A friend in Richmond, Virginia, who’d have me for a few days? Check. A supportive husband, a cheap flight out of Buffalo, and an unexpected adventure? Check, check, and . . . whaaat?

 Autumn-blue skies and bright sunshine made the drive from my home, north of Toronto, to the airport in Buffalo, NY, pleasant, and security clearance went without a hitch. While waiting to board my flight to Detroit, where I’d get a connecting flight to Richmond, I settled in to read and relax, but the luxury lasted less than ten minutes. A flight delay was announced, and my shoulders tightened with each subsequent announcement. When we boarded more than an hour late, I knew catching the connecting flight would be a challenge.

Sure enough, upon landing, there were only ten minutes to spare, and Gate C14, where I needed to be, could have been anywhere.

“Go to Gate 40,” said a helpful employee, pointing into the distance. “When you get there, turn right, and Gate C14 is just down that hall.”

Good directions? For sure. Achievable in the allotted time? Doubtful. I was at Gate 12, and Gate 40 may as well have been in the next state. I had no choice but to run my first marathon.

Had this been a movie, the race would have been recorded in fluid, slow motion, designer clothing accenting the actor’s well-toned body, a hint of moisture gleaming on her unlined brow. Instead, this was real life, and the word ‘well-toned’ hadn’t been used to describe my body in years. After thundering past ten gates, I was sweating proverbial buckets, and my laboured breathing would have done an asthmatic proud.   

A wheezing eternity later, I reached Gate 40 and turned right, anticipating my destination. Instead, another endless hallway loomed. No quitter, I set out again, thudding down an escalator, along a short hall, and then back up another set of moving stairs.  Winded and panting, I jogged along several moving walkways, empowered by their motion. Then, when any hope of arriving alive was fading fast, I found Gate C14 and came to a breathless stop, leaning on the counter.

 “I need … to be … on … this plane,” I managed to gasp.

The well-groomed employee wrinkled her nose and stepped back. “No worries,” she told me. “The flight’s running late, and the plane hasn’t arrived yet.”

I nearly collapsed.      

When we boarded thirty minutes later, I found myself sitting beside a fatigues-clad military guy coming home from Kuwait. We chatted awhile, then I read, and he dozed, and at long last, the plane backed from the terminal – and stopped.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking.” My seatmate opened his eyes. “Foggy conditions here in Detroit have delayed our takeoff. There are ten planes ahead of us, but as soon as we’re directed to proceed, we’ll get you to Richmond.”

Heat from my run and the warmth of the plane conspired devilishly with my age-related hot flashes, and they bore down with a vengeance. The trickle of air seeping from the little jet above me was useless. Then, finally, an hour later, our plane was racing down the runway. We lifted off, bouncing and bumping through the clouds, and I was hotter than ever. My clothes were sodden, my hair was wet, and I felt ill. When the plane made a sudden dip, my queasy stomach heaved, and I snatched the bag from the seat pocket in front of me. Lucky for him, the military guy stayed asleep.

Before long, we began the descent into Richmond, and my stomach flip-flopped again. I tapped the soldier’s arm.

“May I please have that bag?” I asked, pointing.

His eyes snapped open, and, in a flash, he grabbed it.

“Are you going to be okay, Ma’am?” he asked.

I could only shrug while, contrary to landing protocol, I leaned forward, close to the bag I was holding, but I didn’t need it.

Walking into Arrivals, I knew I looked awful and smelled worse, but my friend welcomed me with a hug before driving me home to a hot bath and nourishing soup.

Far too soon, the visit was over, and it was time to go to the airport to catch a short flight to Washington DC, where I’d grab another one to Buffalo.

“It’s a beautiful day,” Pat said as I hugged her goodbye. “You’ll be home in no time.”

Yeah, right.

 The check-in went okay, but the airline person said, “Your next flight from Washington to Buffalo’s been delayed.” Uh oh! “There’s some fog there this morning.”  

It was no surprise when the Richmond to Washington flight left an hour late, so when we landed in DC, I was anxious to see if my flight to Buffalo had been further delayed. It was delayed, alright! My heart sank when I saw the bright red word on the board: CANCELLED.

Joining the queue at a nearby Customer Service desk, I waited . . . for an eternity . . . until I reached an agent who smiled and said, “I’m sorry. There are no flights to Buffalo today. Bad weather’s backing everything up.”

She scanned her computer screen and then offered, “I can get you to Rochester.” Rochester? “What about Toronto?” I countered.

After much key tapping and throat-clearing, she replied, “There’s only one seat on the flight to Toronto. How many do you need?”

“One!” I almost shouted the word.

“You have checked baggage?” she asked.

I did and gave her the tag number of my small, green knapsack.  

“I’ll send a note to ask them to put your bag on the flight to Toronto,” she said. “You check for it there, okay?”

It was now noon, and she wanted me to believe that at 6 p.m., my small bag would be in Toronto instead of, say, in the hold of a Tokyo-bound jumbo jet. Ha!

With time to relax and wait, I called my dear husband at work, who agreed to meet me when I finally got back to Toronto.

Upon arriving several hours later, I followed the crowd to the baggage carousel, wondering why I was even bothering. And then the miracle happened. My small green backpack slid down the chute and moved toward me, and, pack on my back, I headed outdoors to find Murray. At last, we were together, and the crazy trip was over – except for the small matter of a car still in Buffalo.

We were both tired, and the drive to Buffalo felt very long. It was getting late, but we grabbed some fast food, and then the real challenge began. This was long before GPS and reading the printed instructions I’d left in the car, in the dark, while driving, was impossible. I quickly scanned the directions, tried to commit the main intersections to memory, and headed in the general direction of the border, with hubby following, unaware of my predicament. When tiredness and panic threatened to overwhelm me, a sign for “Bridge to Canada” appeared out of the night. That joy was short-lived, though, because a few minutes after crossing the border, we drove into heavy fog, and the usual easy two-and-a-half-hour trip was slow and exhausting.

We stumbled through the front door at the exact moment our pendulum clock started striking twelve, and I almost laughed. I’d changed from a bright-eyed princess into an exhausted char-girl many hours before that clock chimed.

Hubby put his arms around my shoulders then, holding me close, and in prize-winning understatement, he whispered into my ear, “Isn’t it good to be home?”