It was brutal this morning getting up at 3:30 a.m. Following nights of 4 hours and 5 hours of sleep, it was painful. Why I had scheduled a flight out of SFO at 6:55 escapes me.
But I did get up, and managed to cajole my son Will into truly believing that we needed to get into the car and on our way by 4, a process that involved some not-so-gentle parental guidance. The clock on the dashboard said 4:02 a.m. when we backed out of the garage into the pitch black.
The advantage of the hour, on a Saturday no less, was the almost complete absence of traffic, and we were rolling our way down the construction zone on 101 just past the 116 interchange in Cotati when something didn’t sound right. Thump-thump-thump-thump. In denial, I asked Will, “Do you hear that?” To which he replied, “It sounds like your tire on the road.” Which if he’d included the word “flat” in there would have been completely correct.
Soon the smell of burning rubber and the sound of rims on pavement confirmed it: A flat, at the worst place and time. Completely dark, narrow shoulder, plane to catch (on Virgin America, a carrier with limited flights to O’Hare from SFO).
I called Suzie just because I thought she should share in the joy. Actually I first called Triple-A, who said I’d get priority for assistance because I was in a construction zone and thus in some physical danger, but the wait would be 20 to 30 minutes. It was 4:25 by now, so the only way to catch the plane, I thought, was if Suzie could come and switch cars with me.
But as it turned out, the tow truck arrived before she did, and the efficient and friendly-as-could-be-expected-at-4:45-a.m. driver did a NASCAR pit-stop number on the tire, completely changing it faster than I could have found the jack. So much more quickly than expected, we were rolling again, although our likelihood of getting to the off-site parking, checking our bads, clearing security, and making a 6:55 flight seemed marginal at best.
No traffic, though, and we flew down 101 (blessed be the Highway Patrolmen on their coffee breaks, for they shall inherit the earth). We made it through San Francisco on 19th Avenue faster than ever — three stops the whole way. We got to the Park SFO lot quickly enough that I thought, well maybe we have a chance. I dropped Will off with the bags, zoomed up the ramp, found a spot, and ran down the stairs.
To find, to my consternation, Will standing behind a group of 15 Japanese tourists, waiting to board the shuttle bus. Crap, crap, crap, it’s going to take God-only-knows-how-long for them to get on, and even if there’s space for us, it will delay our getting to our terminal. But — a miracle — we were the last ones on, and the elderly lady driver must have been a racer in a prior life, and we were to our terminal more quickly than could have been expected. Still not likely to catch the flight, but still possible.
The line to check bags — moderate. We got through and rounded the corner to head to security, where our hopes of making the flight dimmed considerable. A huge, huge line, so long that even with all of the screening positions open, it was going to take a while.
And it did take a while, snaking through the line, ID and boarding pass check, another wait for screening, belt, shoes off, laptop out, come on, come on, and finally, finally we were through. Just then we heard, final boarding call for our flight, better get here because we wouldn’t want to leave without you.
So we ran, sprinting, to our gate, which when we arrived was completely empty except for the gate attendant, waiting for the last passengers. Amazing, amazing, we’d actually made the flight. Then Will said,
“I forgot my bag.”
Huh?
“I left my bag at security.”
Crap again. I asked the lady at the gate how long she could wait before closing the gates. She said 5 minutes. OK buddy, hustle on back to the screening and hope they haven’t destroyed your bag as a security threat.
Off Will goes. I wait. After a few minutes the gate attendant says, “You should probably board the plane now.”
“We’re traveling together. Just wait, he’ll be here.”
I paced around the gate, swearing under my breath. But of course I couldn’t really blame him; that’s exactly the kind of thing that happens when you’re rushed.
Waiting, waiting, waiting …
And here’s Will, running down the corridor with his bag! And here we are, walking down the jetway, hearing the door close behind us. And here we are, in our seats, all ready for our 6:55 flight, with a good 15 seconds to spare.
A long flight, a wait for the rental car shuttle, a long drive from O’Hare, and here we are:
I love to travel.
Categories: Travel -- General