This post is dedicated to my blogging friend, Lidna Linda at 2nd Cup of Coffee, because of her love of flying.
Fiddledaddy booked my flight to and from Texas last weekend. And interestingly, I was scheduled to fly from Texas to Florida, with a 40 minute layover in Cincinnati.
I didn’t even have to break out the globe to see that Cincinnati was a bit to the north. His reasoning was that he didn’t want me to have to go through Atlanta.
And for that I’m grateful. I love Atlanta, mind you. But the terminals are spaced a bit far apart, and there is no free WiFi. A selling point which determines which airport I desire to spend the most time in.
Give me free WiFi, and a Starbucks within spitting distance, and I’ll be happy to camp out at your airport. For the duration.
When I checked my cargo bag at the ticket counter, I was busy praying that I didn’t exceed the 50 pound limit. Not me, the bag. I had to pack for FOUR WHOLE DAYS and trying to sandwich what that entails plus my favorite pillow into one suitcase was an amazing feat. I actually had to lay across my suitcase to zip it.
At first I didn’t hear the nice ticket agent tell me that my Cincinnati flight was delayed by 90 minutes. I used my head as a calculator and determined that I would miss my connection to Florida.
And people, I stood there and seriously contemplated going to Cincinnati anyway. Where I would likely get stranded.
I lived a number of my growing up years in Cincinnati, I haven’t been back since I was 12. I would dearly love to go back and see my old house. And my old neighborhood.
It was so tempting. But then I thought of my husband, caring for my 3 children. All alone. In Florida. And I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.
“Okay, book me through Atlanta,” I sighed deeply, as I hoisted the bag up on the scale.
I made it through security without incident, and trudged down to the gate. Where I learned that the Atlanta flight was delayed by 90 minutes. Something about the plane breaking.
YES, GOOD IDEA, LET’S GET A NEW PLANE. A new crew was also called in, because, I don’t know, maybe the old crew was broken too.
And with that, I settled myself in clutching a Starbucks and taking advantage of the free WiFi.
The time came to board our boeing 747, and I walked down the gangplank walkway just in time to see a mom standing off to the side, holding a baby who had just thrown up. The stench was unbearable.
And you all know me. If I even THINK someone is going to hurl, much less smell the aftermath, then I am going to join the party. And after a breakfast burrito, washed down with a Grande Caffe Mocha, well, I’ll spare you that visual.
Mercifully, I made it into the plane and found my seat with the other sardines. And as everyone was seated, up the aisle came the mom with the puking baby. AND WHAT LUCK, she was seated in the row across from me.
I closed my eyes and tried to think of the quickest way I could get myself kicked off the plane. Screaming and swatting at imaginary insects usually works. But then I thought again of Fiddledaddy, at home with our 3 children.
Guilt. I couldn’t do it. I rummaged in the seat pocket in front of me and located the barf bag. Just in case. And I looked up to see my original ticket agent, now wearing a day-glo orange vest, helping another passenger find her seat.
I watched closely to see if he was going to put a Captain’s hat on and climb into the cockpit. Because if he did, I’d have no choice but to commence with the screaming.
The doors closed, trapping me inside. As we taxied down the runway, and were lifting off, the baby puked again.
Breathing deeply into the airsick bag, I nearly hyperventilated.
Once in the air all was calm. I looked over at this poor mother and miserable baby, and mentally went through my purse for something that would help her. If my own children were traveling with me, I would have been armed to the teeth with moist towelettes. All I could offer her was a lousy kleenex.
In Atlanta, I could practice my rendition of the sprint. Which is always attractive. Strikingly similar to Phoebe’s run from the show “Friends.” And I made it in plenty of time to sit and wait. With yet another Starbucks. But no WiFi.
The flight from Atlanta to Florida was quiet. Mostly because I was sitting next to a nice young man reading his Bible. That brought me comfort.
I like to surround myself with praying folk. Especially while traversing the friendly skies.
It doesn’t hurt to do the same while my feet are mercifully planted on solid ground either. Just sayin’. And I made it home safe and sound. Well. At least safe.
Y’all have a delightful weekend!