With spring break behind us, I feel it is very appropriate to touch on a fear that probably affected about a third of our student population: miss-a-plane-o-phobia. While this particular trepidation might not affect us on a daily basis, when it hits, boy, does it hit hard. Allow me to recount for you my particular run-in with MaP-o-P. What follows - an entry from my personal journal- is a series of events so random, so strangely evil in nature, that it almost hurts to retell. Actually, I take it back. It feels pretty good.
On Thursday the 15 of March, it was 60 degrees outside. I wore a T-shirt.
On Friday the 16 of March, it was 20 degrees and blizzarding. After math class, I hightailed my way to the campus center to catch the Joey from Tufts to Davis. Keep in mind, it's blizzarding outside. The Joey was cram-packed, and just as I managed to carve my self a hole in which to stand, the driver informed us that we were on the wrong bus. Thanks for telling us sooner, butthole.
We all changed busses. I rode the bus to Davis, caught the T to South Station, rode the silver line to Logan, and walked in the door to find a line that quadruple-backed and snaked down the entire ticketing hallway. Maybe 500 people. I got in the line. My blood pressure rose a couple hundred points. I waited in the line. After about an hour and a half, a woman approached me and told me that I was standing in the wrong line. I got out of the line. I walked down the hall. I saw another line, almost equal in length. I got in the line. You may be thinking, "Olivia - silly you. Use a kiosk!" Apparently, every US Air kiosk was down.
There was inclement weather in Washington, D.C., Philadelphia and New York, so just about everyone was screwed. I waited another hour in that line, praying. Just then, a miracle happened. I looked to my left to see a man playing around with a kiosk. He was alone, and semi-lost looking. He hit a few buttons, reached below the machine, and a ticket came out. I was stunned.
I ran over the machine, punched in my confirmation number, and I got my tickets. I thought I was made in the shade. I hightailed it through security to my gate, and was feeling pretty good about myself (my flight was just about the only one on time and scheduled to take off), when the clerk announced that the flight would be coming in a little late. "That's okay," I thought. "I have a two-hour grace period in Charlotte. That flight will probably be put off, too."
At 5:10 p.m., my plane landed. They switched crews, and we were seated on the plane at 6:00 p.m. As we taxied out, the pilot announced that they would be de-icing the wings, and that we might smell some anti-freeze in the cabin, but that we would hopefully be in the air shortly and that we were confirmed for take-off. I closed my eyes, and fell asleep.
I woke up and looked at my watch. It was 7:30 p.m. The man next to me was asleep. I looked to my left expecting to see lofty grey clouds floating past at snail speed as I made my way, mile by mile, towards family and warm, tasty peirogies. I saw a very different sight. A man was standing on a crane, wielding a hose, spraying the wing of the plane violently with anti-freeze. The wind was blowing the anti-freeze back in his face. I went back to sleep.
I woke up and looked at my watch. It was 8:30 p.m. The pilot came on again saying that we would be turning around and heading back to the terminal, and that an agent would be available to help us make arrangements.
The only "arrangements" the "agent" could offer me was a $50 Comfort Inn suite. Thanks, but no thanks.
I came back two days later, seven hours early for my flight. After waiting in line for four hours and waiting at the gate for yet a few more hours, I was told that the flight would be coming in late, that all connecting flights would be missed, and that there were no hotels available in Charlotte.
The sketchy smelly guy next to me looked over and said, "Well, don't worry, I'm sleeping in the airport, too. We can keep each other company." Eeeeep.
And that's how I ended up on the Bonanza Bus.
People have varying ways of dealing with MaP-o-P. Old people get to the airport five hours in advance. Younger people miss their flights. Businessmen get private planes. We come to school so far away from home under the assumption that "home is only a plane ride away," but boy, are we mistaken.
If you look at the idea of missing a plane in a broader sense, it's like missing a golden opportunity. There's only one five-minute window for take-off, and when you let it pass you by, you don't really know when that chance will come again. The airline industry is evil, and fate is unkind.
