Return to Sender: Planes, Trains, and Automobiles

Hour’s up. It’s now 11:30 a.m. MST. Captain comes on again. Yeah… Please keep in mind we’re not doing this to you on purpose. We want to get home too. But now they’re saying it’s going to be at least another hour. I’ll check in with you then. Meanwhile, the flight attendants are going to come by with drinks and pretzels. I call my father, a weather fanatic. He pulls up the NOAA satellite map (the URL is bookmarked on his toolbar) and tells me that the storm stretches from Nebraska to Mexico, and it’s about to hit Dallas. Hard. At half-past noon, the captain comes on to basically tell us the same thing. My friend in Dallas has clean sheets ready for his sofa, and my mom is on the phone with the airline to try to save my friend the trouble.

By 1:30, I should already be wandering around DFW killing time for my connection, but I haven’t left my hometown. I’ve been dozing to fight the claustrophobia that’s slowly sneaking up on me, when the captain comes on. They’re telling us that we should be able to take off soon. Of course, they told us that at eleven, so who knows? Every person on the plane groans. We could be there all day, and for security reasons, they won’t let us off the damn plane. I could have been back at my parents’ house, curled up in my big bed with the dogs. And I haven’t eaten since 8:30. But miraculously, at about 1:45, the captain is back on the radio. We’ve been given a five minute window to take off. Get in your seats, turn your phones off, and buckle up.

I didn’t know people could move that quickly in such a tight space. We took off within three minutes.

The flight east was a little bumpy, but it was pretty. I’ve always wanted to get out of a plane and walk around on a cloud. I know it’s not possible, but these would have been the perfect walking-on clouds. I was just marveling at how much a particular cloud looked like Falkor from The Neverending Story when I became aware that we were flying in circles. The captain came on. Folks, it looks like we arrived in Dallas at the same time the storm did. DFW is closed, and we’re in a holding pattern in case the storm passes quickly.

No such luck. Half an hour later (4:00 p.m. Central Standard Time, now—5:00 in Philly): Well, we can’t circle much longer, and we have no idea when they’ll let us land in DFW, so we’re going to head back west and land in Abilene so we can refuel. We shouldn’t be there too long.

Half an hour after that, we’re on the ground in Abilene. So are eight other planes. The Abilene airport has two gates. Sorry, folks, you still can’t get out of the plane. The airport just can’t accommodate that many people. Meanwhile, we’re going to see what we can do about getting y’all fed. That’s right. Did I mention there was no food on the plane other than those pretzels we ate earlier, and they were running out of beverages, too? It was a short flight on a small plane that was supposed to take off after breakfast and land before lunch, so they didn’t think they’d need to feed us. Little did they know.

While we’re fueling up, the captain and co-captain walk to the back of the plane and exit the rear door. I didn’t know planes had back doors, but that’s probably for the best. Next thing I know, I look out the window and see the co-captain walking someone’s dog on the tarmac, and the captain talking to the captain of another plane, then disappearing into the airport. The woman sitting behind me calls a friend of hers at the FAA who says there are tornadoes in Dallas and we’ll likely sleep overnight in the plane. Goody.

By 5:30 p.m., the captain, the co-captain, and the dog (?!) are back on the plane. Folks… (Goddammit, couldn’t he call us something else?) Nobody seems to have much idea of when we’ll be able to take off, so I went ahead and ordered us all pizza. Hope you like Mr. Gatti’s.

I text message a friend in Philly who I was supposed to meet up with for a drink after I landed, to let him know what was going on and that I wouldn’t be in till well past last call. In response to the pizza and the dog, he responds: “You just made that up.” Nope. Can’t make this shit up.

An hour later, the pizza arrives. They start handing it out in first class, of course. I call my mom to update her and she tells me she got me on an 8:40 flight out of Dallas, if I can make it. That’s probably good, because the airline just sent me a text to tell me the flight I was supposed to catch in Dallas had been cancelled. My phone battery is nearly dead (shouldn’t have checked my email), so I give her my friend in Dallas’ number and put her in charge of letting him know what’s going on. It takes twenty minutes for the pizza to get to the middle of the plane. By this point it is cold and a little hard. Everyone gets half a slice (no joke) and a small serving of a warm beverage that’s best served cold. They were out of ice, too. (No matter how hard I try, I can’t drink warm soda. It hurts. I settle for the lukewarm water instead.)

Ninety minutes later, at 8:15, DFW swears they’ll let us land. We take off, but not before I text both my mother and my friend, telling them that I no longer know what’s going on, and to talk amongst themselves. Just after 9 p.m., the captain puts us down in Dallas to thunderous applause. I call my mom on her cell phone. She has the airline on the landline. I haven’t missed my flight, as I figured I’d done: it is now scheduled for 10 p.m. All I have to do is find my gate and get a boarding pass. My reservation has been confirmed. Easy as pie.

Did I say pie? I mean soufflé. Because there are sixty people in line in front of me. Nevermind that I actually have a damn ticket. I can’t cut. I need a massage and a nap. And maybe some tequila. At 10:00, the time the plan had been delayed to, there are still forty people in line in front of me. The departure time is now 11:15.

By 10:45, they’re boarding the plane. I yell ahead to the agent that I’m supposed to be on it. She asks my name, checks, says yes, I am. I start to cut the line and she tells me to stay back, they won’t leave without me, but the other people in line were there first. Everyone on standby hates me. I can feel it. Half an hour later, I get my boarding pass and board the plane, at last! But we’re obviously not taking off at the new-new departure time, as there are ninety people flying standby, and the airline is going to fill every damn seat. At 11:45, we’re cleared for takeoff. I’m passed out before we start to taxi, and only wake up long enough to purchase a snack box and eat the contents thereof. Only thing but the pizza that I’d eaten since breakfast—who knew a sausage stick could be so good?

When we land at 3:45 a.m. Philly time, it occurs to me that I haven’t been this happy to see the Philly skyline since I started Penn. I get off the plane and practically run to baggage claim. They start unloading the bags onto the carousel. All those people who didn’t get on the plane in Dallas? Their bags still made it in. By the time I spot my (literally) eighty combined pounds of luggage, there’s so much on the belt that I practically have to jump on the carousel to even make a grab. I see the larger of my two suitcases circle four times before a baggage handler finally realizes that there’s no more room on the carousel and starts unloading big suitcases. Like mine. Exhausted, I get into a taxi. I’m home free.

Or am I? At 4:20 a.m., the taxi driver pulls up in front of my apartment building and tells me that, in spite of the existence of a credit card reader in his taxi, he will accept cash only—the card reader is broken. I tell him it’s clearly not, as it’s brand new and happily flashing away, and if it’s broken, he should really put a sign on it. He tells me that if I didn’t have cash, I shouldn’t have gotten in his cab. I don't think I have enough (no PNC ATMs in Texas), and he starts yelling at me. I ask for his license, so I can call the Parking Authority in the morning. He tells me he doesn't have one. By this point, I have found enough cash (pockets are tricky), and tell him to please help me get my luggage out of the car, and that I will then pay him. He locks the doors and says he won't let me out until I pay him. I call 911. Mom calls me. My battery is almost dead, so she calls 911, too. From El Paso.

Ten minutes later, the first squad car arrives. The driver, obviously not wanting to get into any more trouble, unlocks the doors, and I jump out, run toward the officer (turns out, I think, that he was actually the sergeant), and burst into tears. I do that sometimes. A minute later, a second squad car arrives. The bemused sergeant sends me to the second officer on the scene. Two minutes after that, a third squad car arrives. My mother must have told the police dispatcher that I was being held hostage. The first and third officers go talk to the driver, while the second stays with me.

By 4:37, I've finished giving all my info to the second officer. The sergeant comes up with the driver's license. Turns out he had one but didn't want me to call the PPA and file a complaint. Because a police report looks so much better in his file. Sergeant tells me that I still have to pay the fare. I say obviously, but with the blessing of all three officers, I won't be paying tip. Sergeant laughs, tells me he wouldn’t either, takes my money to driver and makes him take my luggage out of the trunk. I see the driver yelling as the money is exchanged—was he honestly expecting a tip?

Moments later, the sergeant returns to me with my change, the officer I was speaking to gives me his contact information, and I’m free to go inside. With my eighty pounds of luggage. My building has an elevator, but in order to get to the front door, you have to climb eight steps. I’m stressed and exhausted and you’d think the least three police officers could do would be to hold the door open for me, even if they couldn’t or wouldn’t help me up the stairs.

I pause from struggling with my suitcases to look at my watch. It is nearly five a.m. It’s been nearly twenty hours since I got to the El Paso International Airport. The three officers are still speaking with the driver. One—the third on the scene—turns and looks at me as I resume trying to get the larger of my bags up the stairs. He smiles, but makes no attempt to help.

Yep, Philly. I’m home.

Image via Filmreference.com.