a day in the (travel) life

"A traveler without observations is a bird without wings."

-- Moslih Eddin Saadi



My alarm sounds at 5:15 a.m. I wake up at 5:15 at least three mornings a week, but it's harder this morning. It's harder every time I'm dragging myself out of bed for a day of travel.

I back out of my garage well before the sun rises, and my neighbor is heading out to work. Per usual, he greets me like good neighbors do. He's getting married in a few months and will move out of his house. It's too bad, because he's the best neighbor ever. Polite, generous, helpful to the girl next door, and to the elderly woman who lives two doors down.

At the airport, I'm frustrated with the parking deck construction. I always park on Level 5. The routine of that ensures I will remember where my car is. But this morning there is no room, so I go to Level 7. I always pick odd numbers, so it's the next best option. As it turns out, Level 7 is the uncovered rooftop parking, and I hope for a second it won't be raining when I return home Sunday.

The security line is uneventful. I'm an efficient traveler, because I don't want to be that girl in the security line who needs five bins for her belongings. My shoes are easy to slip on and off, I don't have liquids, gels or laptops to remove from my bag, and I don't wear a belt on travel days. In and out. Smooth.

At the gate, I settle in and note a weather delay on the screen. I have some cushion on my layover, so I'm not concerned about my connection. A lady next to me strikes up a conversation with me; she is from Wisconsin and has been here working for ten days. She is gracious and tells me she enjoyed her time in this city where I live.

As our departure time continues to be delayed, the passengers are irritable and anxious. As if air travel isn't stressful enough. I feel such compassion toward the gate agents as they listen to every one of the traveler's complaints and rebook them on new flights. I do not envy them.

The lady from Wisconsin seems trustworthy enough, so I ask her to watch my bag. Is that naive? Maybe. It's too early in the morning to care.

There is a young couple nearby, maybe early 20s, trying to get to Lansing, Michigan. I know this because they talk loudly, and make a production over the delay. They take ridiculous selfies and SnapChat with contacts. I cringe at the immaturity of it all.

Our delay creeps to 90 minutes and then approaches two hours when we begin to board. I usually wait to board last, because I don't need overhead bin space (it's another key to low-stress travel), but this morning I uncharacteristically inch my way into the Zone 2 mass. It's seemingly the entire plane. Am I unknowingly cutting the line? I don't know. I assume someone will huff aloud if I am.

I scan my boarding pass bar code that's on my iPhone screen (I feel so tech savvy), and pat the gate agent on the arm with a wish for a better afternoon.

On the flight, I don't initiate conversations, per usual, but I'm happy to oblige the young physical therapist next to me who is traveling to New Mexico. Her grandmother lives there, and they are going to a hot air balloon festival. Interesting, I think to myself, and what a good memory to make.

The captain informs us we have to taxi back to the gate to "close the cap" of something-or-other on the plane. Oh, to just take off will be glorious. The man next to me sighs an audible "crap" at that announcement. I spot his boarding pass for the next flight, and he will make his flight without issue. I can't sympathize with him, because I may not make mine.

We land, mercifully, and everyone is frantic to get off the plane. A toddler two rows ahead of me stands on her mom's lap and pushes the attendant call button. I smile to myself, her mom unaware.

I race through the Atlanta airport, jogging sometimes and running up the escalator, only to find this flight is also delayed. Again, I settle into one of the uncomfortable chairs at the gate, and send a couple of text messages to friends who are on my mind.

We board late. This captain tells us we have been "over-fueled" by what seems like an alarming amount. 1200 pounds. How does that happen? The crew announces we must de-fuel, and so we wait on the plane for another hour or so while we unload the 1200 pounds of fuel.

It occurs to me that I probably won't arrive in time to pick up Little Man from school.

It's a good chance to text friends again. I want them to know I think about them randomly throughout the day. And if I'm honest, it passes the time, too. My bestie makes me chuckle out loud once. I don't care what people think about that.

It is freezing on the plane. The man next to me pokes me in my right arm to point out to me the vapors of the air that billow underfoot. He works a crossword puzzle, and I remember my Mimi and her love for those. She sought assistance from these crossword dictionaries that, when I was old enough, understood them to be straight-up cheat tools.

I order hot tea from the nicest flight attendant ever. She smiles even when she's not interacting with anyone. It's a gift, I think. She's in the right business. I burn my tongue on the first taste and think as I do every time I sip hot tea, Why do I do this every time?

Our wheels touch down and for at least a little while, my travel ends. Until I approach the rental car counter.