Up,
Up And Away
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My daughter made arrangements to fly
me to Montana so I could attend a family memorial last week. The previous week
Dee Dee had undergone total knee replacement (it seems to run in the family).
So blame her medications. Four
airplanes? Count them: Mazatlan to Mexico City. Mexico City to Houston. Houston
to Denver. Denver to Billings.
Under the best circumstances modern
air travel is no fun. A strait jacket might be more comfortable than the crowded
airplane seats which effectively immobilize one.
Nevertheless, I was fortunate to get
a flight on such short notice. Within hours of my ticket confirmation and with
a 4 a.m. start, I was yawning at the sleepy little airport in Mazatlan. Up, up
and away, over the mountains to the huge Mexico City airport complex.
Naturally I landed and departed a
terminals at opposite ends of the airport. I think it is a flight law. I took a
bus and a train, went through security again, to make my connection.
At Houston I made it through
customs, through baggage claim and through security the third time, onto a
shuttle which deposited me at my departure gate. Oops—my plane was an hour and
a half late due to a mechanical problem.
That was not music to my ears. That
meant I would miss my connection in Denver to Billings. None of this would have been a big deal had
not my emotional state made it so.I was on my way to a family funeral. Let’s
just say I was lightly strung together.
The nice man driving the shuttle cart
stopped at a customer service booth to see if there was another flight I might
take. He then whipped me down the concourse to a gate, seemed a mile away,
where a flight was in final stages of boarding. I went to the counter and asked
if I might make this flight. With a negative shake of her head, the attendant
told me there were nineteen people on stand-by.
My heart sank. I knew I’d never make
it. So I hobbled down to the nearest restroom, then back to another customer
service booth to ask for help to take me back to my original gate, while trying
gamely to console myself to the reality of an overnight in Denver.
Over the speaker I heard “Ashton”,
my name. Oh, I thought, someone here is an Ashton. I scanned the crowd,
recognized no familiar face. Lightly strung, remember.
My name was called a second time.
The third time I realized she might mean me. I almost ran across to the ticket
counter, breathless, “My name is Ashton.”
“Sondra Jean?” “Yes, that’s me.” “Do
you want on this flight?” “Yes.” “You’re the last one to board. Seat 38-B.” I
had mis-understood. That nice shuttle driver had put my name on stand-by.
Barely strung together.
38-B was the center seat in the last
row, a row crammed into a space in which no adult human should have to pretzel
his body. The nicest gentleman in the world saw the look of anguish on my face
and gave me his aisle seat in 34. Unstrung. Who says there are no angels?
In Denver I made my connection to
Billings, knowing my luggage would spend the night in Denver. I figured getting
me to Billings was more important. Luggage would follow. It did.
Today my daughter bought my return
ticket. In five minutes the pleasant customer service woman in India arranged
an easy flight home, at civilized times of the day.
“That was too easy.” “Aren’t they
under contract to cause a trauma level of eight on a ten scale?” “She’ll
probably lose her job.” “There will be weeping and wailing and gnashing of
teeth.” “But then she’ll get a better job.” “After months of searching.” “Yes,
customer service at The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel.”
Sondra
Ashton
HDN: Looking
out my back door
December 17,
2015
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