*written on a long layover in Newark being that my flight out of Toronto was mysteriously delayed for 2.5 hours so I missed my connection to Charleston.
Here I sit at in the airport, thoroughly unsatisfied after a dinner of Corn Nuts, in the middle of my 10th hour stuck in one of two airports today. I’m at the point where I’m all but shrugging with resignation, for surely this is my lot in life. Here I am, spending what should be Friday happy hour among people wearing pajamas and Uggs as they plan to summer this weekend in Branson, or wherever their little hearts desire. Does that sound bitchy? I don’t mean to sound bitchy. I’m trying to be zen.
I’m the point where I’m prone to existentialism. Why am I here for so many hours? Why am I prey to endless delays? Why do I possess intimate knowledge of which Hudson News has the macadamia white chocolate Cliff bars?
I woke up early this morning in Toronto. It was gloriously sunny and clear out. Not a single possible weather delay in sight. I left 2.5 hours early for the airport so I could do Customs right (after the last time, not realizing this was a thing at Pearson) and then I got the text. And then I got more texts. Delayed half hour. Then another hour. Then another half hour. And like that, I knew I wouldn’t be getting to Charleston any time soon. Like that, I knew I was in for the kind of long travel day that should have me arriving in Asia.
Wishing to be proactive (fancy that. Me, planning right), I called United to see when the next flight to Charleston out of Newark might be, as I was surely missing my 2pm connection, so can ya book me on it, ha, please? I was told the 4:17 flight was alllll booked, and was thankful enough to be put on the 8:57 pm, visions of standby success dancing in my head.
I landed in Newark and waited on the customer service line in front of a lady who was crying so hard she was choking. Someone was having a worse day than me. I was told to go to the gate for standby on the 4:17.
With great hope in my heart, I waltzed past the whiskey bar in Terminal C, boarded the lousy transit bus to the lousy terminal A that doesn’t have a whiskey bar or any alcohol for that matter, and tried to charm the lady at the gate. She wasn’t having it. And because I was tempting the gods by forgoing whiskey or wine or anything alcoholic, in United’s infinite wisdom, they delayed the 4:17 flight for 45 minutes, just enough time to allow those late lucky fools who would have otherwise missed their connecting flight to make it just in time, thereby standby was stood up. Why doesn’t it ever work out that way for me? Why? WHY?! I all but shook my fist dramatically at the sky. I immediately bought a large bag of corn nuts and tried to allow the intake of excessive salt to heal my internal wounds.
But it didn’t really work. And now I sit here, wishing I could brave the lousy bus back to terminal C so I can partake in just one single adult beverage to get my Friday started right.
Charleston, here I come! I come hungry (no time for a real breakfast and I threw out the only vegan sandwich I was able to find in disgust when I realize the arugula was wilted) and in need of adult beverages.