My alarm rings at 5:00AM and I jump in the shower and pack. If I get there early, maybe I can bypass the mob at Customs. I might have to sit forever at the gate, but at least I’m through. I get dressed and head down to the lobby. No free breakfast or coffee here. I miss the Hampton Inn.
Mercifully the line isn’t long. The work slowdown appears to be over as well. I get through Customs, pass through the fragrant Duty-Free shop, and get some food.
The flight boards on time. This day is getting better already. We take off and are about halfway through the journey home when the pilot comes on the overhead with some bad news.
The de-icers on the plane aren’t working. That presents a problem as the flaps can freeze and then there’s no way to control the plane. The pilot says we must turn around. I want to walk up and knock on the cockpit door and say “Hey boys, we’re already halfway there, wouldn’t it make sense to just keep going forward? After all, we are in frigid temperatures here at 30,000 feet no matter which direction we fly.”
Of course, they wouldn’t have listened, and I’d be arrested upon landing, further screwing up this situation. I bite my tongue and feel my blood pressure rising.
There is no way to know how long the delay will last. Would they fix this plane? What about putting us on another one? Am I going to make it home on time? The thought of a pack of middle school girls running through the house unsupervised frightens me.
The plane lands safely back at Trudeau. We’re told there is another plane being prepared for us and to walk to gate B12 to catch it. Those with checked luggage would have it transferred over.
It takes longer than anticipated. As I look at my watch, I’m thinking Miracle #4 might not happen. This plane will land us at IAD just in time to launch me home in soul-crushing DC traffic.
We take off and thankfully, the flight to IAD is without issue. That is until we land. Things are backed up at all the gates. We pull over to a large concrete pad with a bunch of other planes. I look at my watch. If there is no traffic and we get to the gate in the next 30 minutes, I have a chance.
Well, that would happen on any other trip, but not this trip, the one you know, from Hell?
45 minutes later, we start moving and arrive at the gate. Of course nobody wants to move fast off the plane. I get off and run alongside my bag and head to those stupid moving terminals. One is boarding thankfully. It arrives and again I start to run. I could back in those days, although it hurt like hell. It was a year before my first hip replacement.
The car is parked far out so I arrive out of breath, throw my stuff in and head out of the parking garage. Traffic, as predicted, is heavy. Using every relaxed breathing technique I know, I resist the temptation to just open up the window and scream obscenities to the world. Especially when I look at my watch and realize Allison and her friends are just getting out of school.
I get off I-270 and make it to our subdivision. I guess Miracle #4 happened because just as I turn onto our street, I see a small pack of middle school-aged girls walking up to the house. Allison is in the lead, her brown hair bouncing as she excitedly shows her friends Messy Marvin’s house. Messy Marvin is the neighborhood hoarder. He collects trash, among other things. You can smell his house two doors down in the summer. It’s the thing scary movies are made about.
But I’m ok. I pass them, honking my horn and they all jump and scream in unison. Jumpy little creatures, aren’t they?
We all arrive at the door and Allison introduces me to her friends. I wonder if they know what a shitstorm I just went through to get home. Likely not. They are more interested in the pizza and soda and cake and those long, giggly conversations all night long that are to come.
I’m just happy to be home.
At long last.