We have made it back home. And, in true us fashion, we are leaving home again. But we are in the United States. It took three tries to leave lovely Cape Town, South Africa. We were due to fly out Tuesday night of last week, but fog and a sick co-pilot nixed us. We were due to fly out Wednesday night, but the still sick co-pilot and a passenger’s medical emergency nixed that effort. Delta has a contractual obligation to not work on Thursdays, apparently, so we tried (and succeeded on Friday.
How it went, we took a cooking class at lunch with a friend and colleague. (It was pretty incredible.) Later, we assembled all of our things once again. My roller, backpack and a small camera bag. My lovely bride’s two rollers and a backpack. Our friend’s 19 pieces of luggage. She was starting to rally and feel much better, but still allowed me to carry most of her things.
Somehow our friend got pushed onto the new, earlier flight. We were on standby for that plane. We were also scheduled for our original flight, the flight of the Delta Damned. Got to the airport, checkin, security, passport control, and through the terminal, all of which stopped feeling novel a few days back and began to feel like a chore.We said our goodbyes, and our friend got in line for her plane. We went to the lounge to kill a bit of time. We made it to our gate, went through the two different boarding queues and the second round of performative personal security. (Guy looked in one pocket of my huge backpack and waved me on.) We got on the plane. By now everyone here pretends like they know one another. We’ve trauma bonded. A guy on the jetway said he had been on this plane twice and immediately took his shoes off, so he wasn’t doing that. I said I hadn’t taken my shoes off, and I was going to do that. We had to shake things up, you see. This was my neighbor, an older woman and, honestly, props.
I talked with the flight attendant who’s daughter went into labor Tuesday. Apparently that woman was still in labor Friday night. Her mom, our Delta companion, was trying to get home and help out.
“So, straight to the hospital, then?”
No, she had to go home in Atlanta, pack a back, and then fly to Portland. I hope she made it in time. But also, for the new mother’s sake, I hope grandma was late.
We were settled in and people around us were getting updates on the other plane. And so were we. They were having a host of mechanical issues. Drains and pumps and lights and things. and then the paperwork. And they were running out of time. There were some empty seats around us so I said, “She should demand they let her off that plane and run over to this one.” They did not. And so, for a third time, she had her flight home canceled.
Our flight, meanwhile, was delayed. The word from the cockpit was “Waiting on paperwork.” And, look, I’m not an efficiency expert, per se, but a great deal of my work and the things I do and try to teach others about are creating efficiencies. And I couldn’t let this slide. Pointing out that we’d been trying to leave since Tuesday and Delta, this airport, the many governments involved, or Charles down in baggage had 72 hours to get their act together just seemed a moral imperative.
Finally the paperwork came. Finally we took off. Finally we were headed to Atlanta. Hours late. I stayed awake with a good strategy for how to sleep. I slept a bit, because my strategy, foolishly, did not take into account that absolutely nothing can happen on that plane in a quiet manner. So I was awake by 5 something.
You know how those in-seat monitors now let you track your flight and gives you an ETA? Never look at that. Because we were bumping right up on the departure time for our Atlanta flight.
All we had to do was this: land, grab our belongings, exit this plane, grab our checked bags, give them to some other security people (because the US doesn’t think the South African security process is sufficient), then pass through security, change terminals, run to the opposite end of the terminal, and make the plane. Since we were late we now had 41 minutes.
We needed 38 of those minutes, and I ran the whole way to get there just in time.
My airplane drink of choice is apple juice (though I am thinking of changing to V-8). I like to pretend it is something more stiffer, like orange, or grapefruit juice. Or four fingers of an off-color scotch. And after all of this, I felt, on that plane out of Atlanta, I had earned my Tennessee apple.
We arrived at Dulles, which was great, since that’s where we were headed. And two of our three bags arrived there, too. I fetched the two bags, wondering how two of these bags made it, but the third didn’t, while my lovely bride went to talk to Delta, wondering how two of these bags made it, but the third didn’t. In Atlanta you collected your bags, walked some more, and then gave them to a guy who turned, put them on a conveyor belt, and they magically appeared on the plane. How did two manage to do that, and one didn’t?
The Delta person offered to let us know when the bag arrived at our nearest airport so that we could go collect it. I believe she laughed at that poor person and gave them the address to which they could deliver the suitcase. We’ll see if it arrives.
Then there was just the shuttle from the airport to the car. The first shuttle drove off without us. We got boxed out by an extended family for the second shuttle. (They come in 30 minute increments.) I feared we might come to blows trying to get on the third shuttle, but we boarded the thing without incident. At that point we just had to hope the car was where we left it (it was) and that it would crank (it did).
And so here is my proof of being back in the country.
We were supposed to arrive on Wednesday at 11:39 a.m. We landed at 11:35 a.m. on Saturday.
And after one full day to adjust to the time zones, we’re going to pick up the kitties.
