The plane has been delayed. The woman’s voice announced, loud and echoing through the Des Moines airport. It will be another hour or so.
Crap.
This delay would give me only about ten minutes to cross through a large chunk of Chicago’s O’Hare.
We can put you on another flight. They told me. But it won’t be until tomorrow.
I’d wait until I landed in Chicago, I decided. Maybe the airplane would fly especially fast. Maybe I would get there with plenty of time.
I didn’t.
My watch said 9:35 when the wheels hit the runway. My departure from Chicago was also at 9:35.
I was panicking. In my head I was running through possibilities.
Maybe the other plane has been delayed. Maybe I could stay with my brother who lives in Chicago. I didn’t know how far he was from the airport. Maybe I should start running.
I swung my backpack over my shoulders, grabbed my other bag, and tried to move as fast as I could; which isn’t that easy when there is a herd of people pushing out of the same tiny space at the same time. And when you are in a hurry, people always seem to move much slower. It’s annoying. But eventually I broke free from the crowd and started running like a crazy person.
You never realize just how out of shape you really are until you are sprinting your way through a busy airport; trying to weave around people as two heavy bags hit your back and sides repeatedly, probably leaving bruises.
Please, please, please. I chanted to myself as I passed various gates. H16. H17. K1. K2. In the distance was K15, the one that I needed.
9:45, my watch said. I was doomed.
But some days miracles do happen. That was one of those days.
I arrived, gasping for breath, at my gate. A woman in a dark uniform stood in front of it.
Passport please?
Still not breathing quite right, I handed that little leather-bound booklet to her.
She smiled, handed it back to me.
I was all set.
Now I’m on the plane. There is a man sitting next to me whose accent I can barely understand. He is going to Kuwait. I sit in the aisle seat where the carts that go by almost hit my elbows each time. They bring me pasta and water. The pasta is pretty good as far as airplane fare goes. I try to get comfortable, but I really can’t. I can never get comfortable on planes. They play a movie with Joseph Gordon Levitt. I don’t know what it’s called and I can’t hear it but I enjoy looking whenever he is on screen. Sometime around midnight I drift off but I wake up about an hour after that. I turn my music on and Taylor Swift sings to me. I try to go back to sleep but it’s no good so I let T Swift sing some more.
Where are you going? The man going to Kuwait asks in broken English.
France, I say. I’m going to France.
Crap.
This delay would give me only about ten minutes to cross through a large chunk of Chicago’s O’Hare.
We can put you on another flight. They told me. But it won’t be until tomorrow.
I’d wait until I landed in Chicago, I decided. Maybe the airplane would fly especially fast. Maybe I would get there with plenty of time.
I didn’t.
My watch said 9:35 when the wheels hit the runway. My departure from Chicago was also at 9:35.
I was panicking. In my head I was running through possibilities.
Maybe the other plane has been delayed. Maybe I could stay with my brother who lives in Chicago. I didn’t know how far he was from the airport. Maybe I should start running.
I swung my backpack over my shoulders, grabbed my other bag, and tried to move as fast as I could; which isn’t that easy when there is a herd of people pushing out of the same tiny space at the same time. And when you are in a hurry, people always seem to move much slower. It’s annoying. But eventually I broke free from the crowd and started running like a crazy person.
You never realize just how out of shape you really are until you are sprinting your way through a busy airport; trying to weave around people as two heavy bags hit your back and sides repeatedly, probably leaving bruises.
Please, please, please. I chanted to myself as I passed various gates. H16. H17. K1. K2. In the distance was K15, the one that I needed.
9:45, my watch said. I was doomed.
But some days miracles do happen. That was one of those days.
I arrived, gasping for breath, at my gate. A woman in a dark uniform stood in front of it.
Passport please?
Still not breathing quite right, I handed that little leather-bound booklet to her.
She smiled, handed it back to me.
I was all set.
Now I’m on the plane. There is a man sitting next to me whose accent I can barely understand. He is going to Kuwait. I sit in the aisle seat where the carts that go by almost hit my elbows each time. They bring me pasta and water. The pasta is pretty good as far as airplane fare goes. I try to get comfortable, but I really can’t. I can never get comfortable on planes. They play a movie with Joseph Gordon Levitt. I don’t know what it’s called and I can’t hear it but I enjoy looking whenever he is on screen. Sometime around midnight I drift off but I wake up about an hour after that. I turn my music on and Taylor Swift sings to me. I try to go back to sleep but it’s no good so I let T Swift sing some more.
Where are you going? The man going to Kuwait asks in broken English.
France, I say. I’m going to France.