twenty-five hours in limbo

The three connecting flights in three countries thing is a bad idea. If you can avoid it, don't do it. I don't care how cheap it is. Just don't. There are a lot of other stats for this trip. Like 6 trams. And 3 inter-gate busses. Remember how paranoid I was about the scanning and the patdowns? I had to go through security three times. On all three flights. All three flights were delayed and my luggage was lost in Paris. I can't help but think that we're better than this. 

Aren't there algorithms that solve for everything? Didn't we just cure AIDS?  I know we're smarter than this. There has got to be someone smart enough to fix flying. 

I knew my luggage was lost as early as Atlanta because I actually had to reclaim it and go through customs and re-check in as soon as I landed in the states. I get why that is. But wow. They don't build a big enough window for you to do all this and still make your flight. After waiting for luggage that never came and waiting in the same long line to tell them I'm an American citizen with no customs claims, I ended up at gate B21 in Atlanta too late to get on my flight, even though I could see the plane on the tarmac. My dad was on that plane and I was so excited to see him.  


No Delta personnel was anywhere to help me. And at the moment where, 19 hours into my sleepless journey, I thought I couldn't take anymore, the entire gate area full of AME church congregations started up a loud, clapping rendition of "Oh, How I Love Jesus." 


Just try to imagine my face. 


Finally, I tracked someone down who told me that I couldn't get on the plane, even though it continued to sit there. He said he could fly me Vegas the next afternoon. To which, I said, "like hell you will." 


My policy to airline workers is this: smile smile charming until you cross me. I was so tired and so uncomfortable, I told him he'd better just move some stuff around and get me on the next flight. I had no luggage, no American cell phone, no way of charging any of my electronic devices that would get me in touch with anyone. And if he thought this little blonde girl with pigtails looked nice, he was sorely sorely mistaken. 


I was rerouted to the A Gates for the next flight out. And thanks to Dena, I remembered that there was Chic-fil-a in the A Gates, thus providing for the only true moment of joy all day. 


One other nice thing: I had forgotten that if you get on a West-bound plane at the right time of day, you can chase the sunset all the way home. Just about 4 straight hours on sunset. Gorgeous.


But I'll tell you what. I don't love America this much to do this again. Luckily, I've only got one connection in London on the way back. But I think I just can't do this West Coast thing. I'll do East Coast. Or West Coast if I've been on the East Coast for a bit already. But Dad said to me in the car last night, "I can see you living somewhere remote in Scotland and not flying anywhere," and I think he's right.