I'll Fly Home... Eventually

Getting home from Vermont proved to be far more difficult than one would imagine, a more than fifteen hour experience altogether. Arriving at the airport, I first discovered my flight was delayed by an hour, which wasn't a big deal, because it should still give me time to make my connection. What's the difference between waiting in the Vermont airport rather than the one in New Jersey?

Once the delay was complete, we boarded the plane; my seat was in the second row. The flight attendant asked the person behind me, "Sir, would you mind sitting in the emergency exit row? Sir? Sir, are you listening to me?" At that point, I realized that the attendant was cross-eyed and actually speaking to me. I might have picked up on this sooner if she weren't referring to me as "sir"; I'm still not quite used to being addressed in such a manner. Though I wouldn't normally be, I was a bit apprehensive to hold this position considering our plane had been delayed because of weather conditions so I suspect that there was an increased chance of needing to fulfill my duties.

Alas, all of this proved inconsequential when, after sitting for half an hour, we were asked to deplane. Since I was in the front row, I made sure to pop up immediately, rush to the desk, and worry about booking another connection since I wasn't going to be able to make my scheduled one. Immediately, fifty other passengers lined up behind me, so I was glad to get there first. The employee said ey could get me to San Francisco, but that's so far away that they might as well be putting me in Texas. Finally, ey found a direct flight from New Jersey to Los Angeles, not my intended final destination, but close enough that I could figure out the rest later. Also, I was going to have to fly first class since that was the only seat available. I know I complained about my previous experience, but it seems significantly less pretentious when it's an accidental, forced first class voyage.

The employee told me I was "all but confirmed" on this new flight, which gave me enough concern to leave the terminal and go back to the front desk to make sure I was actually booked. During my hour wait in line, I met nice, though equally frustrated passengers who went as far to offer me a place to stay in Vermont for the night if I couldn't obtain a flight. When I finally spoke to another employee, ey said I actually wasn't booked on the other flight, because ey couldn't "synch" the fact that I was changing from three flights to two, especially since I was ultimately landing in a different location. After a few phone calls "to headquarters" I was booked.

Back at my gate, the first line I was in still wasn't even halfway helped. Everyone was restless, particularly when our next departure time was delayed again. The anger faded into camaraderie, however. Because everyone was in the same predicament, the passengers dropped the role of strangers, bonding instead. I was fortunate to be in Vermont as opposed to most airport locales, since the people there were friendlier than I would be likely to find in other areas. At one point, simultaneously, I became so impatient and unconcerned with social norms, I just started dancing to the music playing on my headphones. This action helped break down a barrier and inspired people to come talk to me. I met a woman with a newborn baby named Zane, whom the mother let me hold. Next, I met a backpacker trying to get to Germany who had a guitar. He played "Wonderwall" by Oasis, and another stranger and myself sang along with him, because it's nicer to be cheesy and communal than bitter, even though this concept seems to go against my every instinct.

I successfully stopped stressing until the flight was delayed for a third time and I realized I probably wouldn't be making my newly scheduled connection flight either. I got back in line, which still hadn't dissipated from when it first started. A person I met earlier in line had found an alternate way to get to Los Angeles that night, but it required getting on a flight for Detroit leaving in ten minutes. "Put me on that, too," I shouted. The few people in front of me in line allowed me to cut in the hopes of getting me on the flight. A person from the other flight came over, wondering why someone was getting booked on a flight about to depart. The employee agreed to take my cohort, but when I tried to do a similar thing with the another agent, ey said that there was absolutely no way I had time to get on the flight. I nearly cried, then begged, but the employee repeated, "No, sir." Again with the sir. So the helpful agent tried to find yet another way to get me to Southern California. In the meantime, they were boarding us on the original flight even though it hadn't been cleared to take off, in the hopes that we might be able to leave, because, they admit, it was essentially now or never. I was having an Amazing Race stressful decision moment to either get on the flight now and take a chance to make a remarkably tight connection which was probably impossible or forfeit it to another passenger hoping to somehow find another solution. "Make a decision now," the attendant demanded, so I got on the flight, expecting the worst.

This time, I sat as closely to the front as possible, next to the elderly woman who I traded seats with earlier. She was reading a book by Obama and, when I explained my situation, she said a prayer for me, which I strangely appreciated. We sat for a while, which I didn't take as a good sign. Unexpectedly, however, suddenly we were cleared for take off; after so many tribulations, taking flight actually seemed surreal. Still, I was so antsy knowing that seconds could count in terms of making my connection that I couldn't read, sleep,

Upon landing,tThe friends I made earlier permitted me to move to the front of the aisle so that I could be the first one off. I thanked them repeatedly and they all encouraged me to run hard and catch the flight, which was just the encouragement I needed.

Off the plane, I sprinted, stopping occasionally to catch my breath. I had to go from gate 53 to 131, which was probably, no joke just short of a mile apart. Part way through my run, my bag, which must have been not zipped shut all the way, spilled its contents onto the ground. A few strangers helped me retrieve my belongings, so I responded graciously before continuing my sprint.

I arrived at the gate as they were preparing to close it. If I was three minutes later, I wouldn't have made it at all. Minutes make a difference, even a brisk walk wouldn't have sufficed. Granted, once the plane pulled away, we proceeded to sit on the runway for more than half an hour, but it still would have been too late. I really wanted to somehow relay to my new friends that I did, in fact, make the flight, that's how convinced I was that they truly cared about my situation. If only I could have let them know.

I felt bad for the person next to me in first class. After running so much, I sweat so profusely that I could smell myself. When you pay that much for a seat, you probably don't expect to have to plug your nose. My odor became easy to ignore once I was served an excessive five course meal. I don't eat such good meals on the ground, so it was an unexpected treat on an airplane. Because I was the last to order, my only meal option was veal, a food I've never had before. I agree it seems fairly inhumane, but, you know, "when in Rome." Everyone describes veal as tender, and I can offer no better of a description.

Arriving in Los Angeles so late at night, I was unable to return home that night, but it did afford me the opportunity to have a slumber party with Kat, which can only be considered a perk.

After having made such a tight connection, I was not expecting to see my luggage once I landed. Being mentally prepared made it less upsetting when the carousel never produced my bag. Then again, I assumed I would have my belongings back in my possession within a day or two. It's alarming for the airline to repeatedly call you and question, "Hey, you haven't by any chance picked up your baggage on your own, have you?" as if I took it upon myself to travel around the country to locate it. They never once copped to it being lost, however, only "delayed," a euphemism which made me feel so much better, I assure you. After they called to ask if I might have tagged my bag with the name "Fujimoto" rather than my own name, I realized it was time to compile an itemized list of the bag's contents in case I never saw them again. Finally, tonight, a full four days later, I just received my luggage, with everything intact.

Altogether, my bad day at the airport was actually a fairly positive experience, or failing that, not too negative. I wasn't flying high, but at least I was able to fly period.