Regular readers of this blog may wonder why there was no post at the usual time this morning.
It’s a long story.
My husband and I are taking a trip to Portland, Oregon. (Nerds that we are, we’ve heard great things about its public transportation and other urban amenities.) Yesterday, I prepared for our trip by packing and gathering up the relevant travel information about flights, hotels, etc. Our daughter-in-law was to pick us up at 6:30 a.m. for an 8:30 flight. We planned to breakfast at the airport.
At 5:30, still in my PJs, I logged on to my computer, and was horrified to see a message from the airline confirming that our flight was on time—at 6:30. Boarding at 6:05. Evidently, our original arrangements had been changed and I’d been working from an older itinerary. I looked at the boarding pass I’d printed off—yep. Boarding at 6:05.
We actually made it.
No showers. Teeth not brushed. Hair (mine, at least) standing on end (making me look sort of like the witch so many people think I am anyway…) Impressively, my husband moved faster than he’s moved in a very long time.
I drove (within the speed limit, in case a traffic cop is reading this) to the airport, grateful that we live downtown, and valet parked—damn the expense. (It was only when we were on the plane that we remembered that we are returning by train…We’ll need to figure out how to retrieve my car…).
I was ahead of my husband on the airport escalator when I heard him fall. “Go on to the gate” he yelled, prone, but I couldn’t—I had his boarding pass. Concerned airport personnel picked him up, relatively undamaged, and we continued our race to the gate. At least we were pre-check!
But of course, it was early, and pre-check was closed.
The clock was ticking.
We waited in the security line. Then I set off the alarm and had to go back through the metal detector. Twice.
The clock was ticking.
As we ran down the hall to our concourse, we were met by another airport official. “Are you the Kennedys?” (How he knew that, I don’t know. I guess because we were ticketed and missing…) “You’ll make it.” He promised. “Doors close in five minutes.”
And we did. Unwashed, sweaty, disheveled, hearts pounding, wondering what we forgot in our frenzied rush, and how the hell we’re going to get my car back, but we made it!
As my husband says, another story to share at Thanksgiving….
Tomorrow, this blog will return to its regularly scheduled preoccupations. I hope.