There are some days you just know are going to be bad as soon as you wake up. The worst day for it to be one of those days is when you’re flying - intercontinentally, at that.
I went to Nashville all last week for our Legalman conference. My coworker and I flew together all the way there and were flying together all the way back. Our flight out of Nashville left at 10:20, so we needed to be there at about 8:30-8:45, which meant we had to leave the hotel at about 8:00.
My phone rang while I was still sleeping. It was my coworker. “Karyn, aren’t you awake?!” I looked at my alarm clock which said it was 12:00. Flashing 12:00. Oh God, that can’t be good. I asked what time it was - 8:00! I hadn’t started packing because I’d set my alarm for 6:30 so I could pack, shower, and get ready and be down by 8:00! I threw all my stuff in my luggage, cursing myself for packing my carry-on bag as my only bag for a week’s worth of clothes including uniforms, my enormous uniform hat, and 4 pair of shoes. But I all got it to fit and got down to the lobby by 8:30. We caught the next shuttle and made it to the airport by 9:00. Not too bad.
I was pretty sure that was going to be the end of it, but fate had a funny little prank up its sleeve: that was just the beginning.
But before I get into all that, can someone explain to me the term “nonstop”? Because every flight - all FOUR of them getting me back home - were “nonstop”. Nashville to Charlotte, nonstop. Charlotte to Philadelphia, nonstop. Philadelphia to Madrid, nonstop. Madrid to Jerez, nonstop. Couldn’t they just say, Nashville to Jerez, with 3 layovers?
When I got to the airport in Nashville, I stood in the line at the counter to get my tickets for 45 minutes while about 100 people got their tickets before me. My coworker got her tickets right away, and we were on the same flights, so why would I expect that they were going to tell me I WASN’T GETTING ON THAT FLIGHT. The clerk got on the phone to see if he could resolve things and I waited. And waited. And waited some more. He goes on to explain to me that there were restrictions on the plane tickets and there wasn’t room on the flight for me. Fortunately, he got me on the flight but gave me an earlier connecting flight out of Charlotte, a different flight than the one my coworker was on. He told me that her flight was delayed out of Charlotte so he put me on the earlier one, which was nice except what about her? It turned out that her flight was delayed enough that there was question whether or not she’d make it to Philadelphia in time for her flight to Madrid, and there is only one flight a day to Madrid so if she missed it, she’d be there for another full day. He advised us to have her wait for a standby seat on the flight I was on.
A picture of Nashville to bribe you to keep reading:
By the time I got my tickets, it was already 10:00 and we still had to get to our gate to our flight that was already boarding, so we hustled our way to the gate and got there with just a few minutes to spare. Are we sensing a theme yet?
We got to Charlotte and with the new tickets he gave me, we had about 15 minutes to make it from our gate to the next, which was 2 TERMINALS away. So we ran. And ran. And ran some more. And we passed Cinnabon TWICE; I’m not sure which was worse, the threat of missing our flight or the certainty of missing out on Cinnabon twice. When we got up a flight of steps, there was less than 10 minutes left until our flight left and we were still a considerable distance from our terminal, so we hopped on one of those little airport carts and got dropped off at least closer to our gate but still quite a ways away (they had to pick up someone else - Thanks!) We got off and started running again, and I made it to the gate as they called the final boarding call. My coworker went on standby (behind about 7 other people) and I waited on the flight biting my nails hoping she’d get on. 4 people later, she got on as they were about to pull out of the gate - to the fury of several people who did not get on.
Once we got to Philadelphia, we had a few hours’ layover. We figured we had a good 3 hours so we had a few minutes to stop and breathe. First, though, we had to pick up a piece of carryon luggage that had to be checked in with cargo on the flight from Charlotte, and then we had to make it back in through security. After that, a little shopping at the Gap and the Body Shop. And then, finally, lunch - relaxation. We sat around and ate and talked and relaxed for about an hour, and at 4:30 (our flight wasn’t til 6) we made our way to the gate, grateful for not having to rush. We stopped on the way to pick up some magazines for the long flight to Madrid, a snack, and at the duty free shop to smell the perfumes that we couldn’t afford. And then it happened: I looked at my watch, and oh my god, what the hell is that, could it be right? It was 5 minutes until 6:00??? Our flight left at 6:00!! Not boarded, LEFT!
If you’re familiar with Terminal A at Philadelphia, you’ll know that the terminal is split into a V. One wing is gates 1-14, the other is gates 15-24. 1 and 15 are at the point where it splits, so the last gates at the terminal are 13/14 and 23/24. The duty free shop was at about gate 18, and our boarding passes said we were leaving from gate 23. So we (once again) started our sprint to our gate. At about gate 22, when the gate was RIGHT THERE, we heard over the PA: “United Airlines announces a gate change for flight whatever number to Madrid. Your departure gate is now gate 13.”
Remember how the V was? Yeah, that meant we had to get to the absolute furthest gate from where we were. So we turned around and started sprinting, because now it WAS 6:00! About 2 gates later we heard, “Final boarding call for the flight to Madrid from gate 13.” Oy vey. At this point I was cursing myself for not working out for the last few weeks, because at this point, I was at a full sprint with my gigantic camera bag with all my equipment in it, my purse loaded to the point of bursting, 2 loose magazines, and I’m wearing shoes that are totally not conducive to running. Because when you live in Spain, you learn quickly that you choose airport footwear based on the fashion factor, not at all the comfort factor.
5 minutes after 6 and the gate is in sight, and I’m now yelling, “Hold the plane!” My coworker by this point has taken her shoes off altogether and is running through the airport barefoot. And people are moving aside and gawking. We were a spectacle. I made it to the gate, panting and sweating, but thank God, just in time to make the flight. We were the last ones on and got our fair share of glares as we made our way to our seats. But we made it.
Another picture, another bribe to keep you reading:
One would think that would be the end of the stress, right? Why, of course not. After all, this is me, and this is my luck. We got into Madrid late and as soon as we landed and got through customs and down to where we had to pick up our luggage so we could re-check it for our last leg, I caught a glimpse of the departures monitor which said that our flight boarded in 10 minutes. We still had to wait for our luggage to come through, and on an intercontinental flight, there is a ton of luggage to unload. When we got ours, we ran - who needs to worry about PT by this point - and had to make it 2 terminals over to where we had to wait in an enormously long line to check in our luggage and get my coworker a boarding pass (they didn’t issue her one in Nashville). By this point, our flight had already been boarding for 15 minutes, but we still had 15 minutes before the flight left, so we were still feeling a little bit optimistic until we got to the clerk who said, sorry, but we can’t get on the flight.
All those flights of near misses, all that stress to make our flights, and we would have to miss the last leg of our trip.
So we’re done with the stress now, right? Come on now, could it be that easy? Our last flight’s gate changed and then was delayed, just to maintain the theme of the day.
Bribing you to finish the post is a picture of the approach into Jerez:
And the icing on the cake was getting to our final destination where there was only one pay point for parking, which would of course be nowhere near where our car was, and once we made our way back to the pay point with our ticket, the price came up - 58€! That’s $78! For 6 days! I had 45€ and my coworker had 10€, which left us 3€ short, so by this point we’re frantically digging through our purses for change and adding up .10 and .20 at a time. By the time we got home, we were exhausted, poor, covered with the grime of 4 flights and smelled like we’d spent the night at a bar after walking through Madrid airport.
But - we were home. And there’s nowhere better to be.
:) 
