CT Blue

Regular readers know that I’m not much for religion, but if I had to choose a faith, I’d probably go with the Greek gods, or some similar pantheon. They made no pretensions to being anything but arbitrary and capricious, unlike a certain Hairy Thunderer, who shall remain otherwise nameless.

All this is by way of introduction to a recounting of the events of the past few days, in which the Fates, the most arbitrary and capricious of the gods, took a hand in the lives of my wife and me.

As I said in my last post, we were vacationing in Mexico, where we had a good time, but alas, sooner or later we had to get home. That fateful day was yesterday. Our tickets told us that we were to go from Puerto Vallarta to Bradley airport via Minneapolis; leaving Puerto Vallarta at about 1:00 PM Mexico time, and arriving at Bradley at 11:00 PM our time. The Fates, alas, decided to amuse themselves at our expense.

The first hint of trouble was insignificant enough. We went to the concierge at the resort where we were staying, and asked him to print up our boarding passes. “No can do”, he said, since he could only do it within 24 hours of departure. That, of course, was an insignificant problem, but it was rather concerning that he couldn’t find our flight number, and when he put in our confirmation number, he rather insisted that we were going to Hartford via Atlanta. I checked my email shortly thereafter, and while I did get an email from Delta Airlines asking me about my reaction to a rather insignificant delay on our way over, no email had come, or ever did come, appraising us of the change of route. But, after all- Atlanta, Minneapolis- what difference could it make, though we would arrive at Bradley a half hour past midnight, a slight inconvenience, though there was all that bothersome news about a storm on the East Coast while the weather was all clear in Minneapolis. But, on the other hand, the forecast put off the snow here in Connecticut until after our projected arrival.

But the fates were just warming up, getting in shape for the big game, so to speak.

Friday dawned bright and sunny in Puerto Vallarta, as do all days there, in our experience. The nice taxi driver took us to the airport without incident.

The flight from Mexico was delayed by half an hour. No big deal, for after all, we would have plenty of time between arrival and departure in Atlanta. And so it proved. It took a mere hour to clear customs; we had a hearty meal, and proceeded to our boarding gate. No one was there. We looked at the monitor. Our gate has been changed. We made the roughly half mile trek to the new gate. Not satisfied, the Fates twisted the knife again. After a short time we were sent to yet another gate, roughly a mile away (airports are big) where the sign informed us that takeoff was slightly delayed. Our original 10:00 PM takeoff had been changed to 10:28. No big deal, we thought. What’s half an hour? The Fates chuckled to themselves. We noticed something curious. It was already 10:00 PM, and even we, amateur travelers that we are, were aware that the herd is usually loaded on the plane starting a half hour or so before takeoff. The minutes ticked by. The ticket agents were mute. A seasoned traveler with whom we struck up a conversation speculated that the crew had not arrived, a speculation confirmed by the hitherto silent agents about 5 minutes before the scheduled takeoff, and a like number of minutes before the crew actually arrived. Still, what’s half an hour? We were crammed into the plane at 10:30, primed for takeoff.

But we don’t take off. We sit. What else can we do? It is physically impossible to move in an airplane. It is theoretically possible to sleep on an airplane, but this is a skill reserved mostly to infants and alcoholics. Finally, we are told that the plane needs de-icing, and we are presently third in line. We should take off in an hour. An hour passes. So does another. We are now told by the pilot that we are 12th in line for de-icing (he never tells us how those 9 planes cut the line), and at 20 minutes a plane, we should leave in 2 hours. For those of us still mentally capable of doing math in our head, the news is even worse. Our seatmate (for some reason a woman was assigned to sit between my wife and I ) expresses the hope that the pilot is better at piloting than mathematics, a sentiment with which we heartily concur. The Fates smile, for we are not fated to wait out 12 de-icings, for after an infinite amount of time, the crew makes inquiry: are there any passengers with medical qualifications aboard. Indeed there is, and he hastens to check out the case of a passenger who has become ill. The plane must return to the hangar, discharge the sick individual, and then, believe it or not, re-fuel. This announcement, according to my wife’s contemporarily penned notes, is made at 2:40 AM. We have been on the plane for 4 hours and 10 minutes, give or take a few minutes, all of which have passed by with leaden feet. No one, of course, ever tells us why the plane would need re-fueling. The minutes proceed apace, and at 3:15 we get the happy news that refueling is complete, and that we are now awaiting the “fuel slip”, which the fuel man delivers with breathless haste by around 3:30.

The plane’s engines turn; we taxi around and around. Then stop. Remember de-icing? Apparently most of the 11 planes before us have been sent on their way, for after a mere half hour, we are de-iced! Nothing can stop us now! And nothing does, even the Fates, who have apparently had their fill, and are even now looking for new victims. We are in the air at 4:00 AM, having sat immobile in our seats for a mere 5 and a half hours. By 6:00 AM we are at Bradley. By a quarter to eight, we pull into our driveway. We are home.

And after all, as my wife pointed out, the Fates really were quite kind to us. The first snowflakes don’t begin to fall until moments after we arrive home, where we, after the previous day’s fitful fever, sleep well, at least for a few hours.