With the wisdom of our “Anything but Delta” rule confirmed
on our trip down to Sarasota, Dave and I sat at JetBlue’s Gate B5 waiting to
board Flight 432 for our return to LaGuardia.
Throughout the early part of the day, as we’d sat on floury white sand
and then relished fried oysters, grouper fingers, salad, and margaritas at the
Daiquiri Deck on Lido Key, Dave had followed our flight’s status, so we knew it
was running late. Because of high winds
and winter weather in New York, it was delayed two hours, so we’d taken our
time before turning in Dave’s beloved black Mustang convertible and checking in
at the airport.
Having pointedly left at least one empty seat between
themselves and others, those we assumed would be our future fellow passengers
sat in rigid green vinyl seats around us.
A sturdy woman with bushy hair and glasses. A tall, artsy, dark-haired man in a “Tillamook”
emblazoned black tee-shirt and navy sportcoat. A girl, about thirty I'd guess, in a crotcheted
yellow sweater. A slender brunette with
stylish shoulder-length hair and smoky-blue glass hoop earrings. Her companion, a balding man in a cream
colored linen suit. A portly gent
in a checked cotton shirt, his eyes sparkly, his hair, crewcut.
But for the guy in the black Tillamook tee-shirt who was
riveted by his book, most stared at their phones, thumbs flipping on screens as
they scrolled. Little eye contact. Few smiles.
Everyone biding time.
Periodic flight updates by a female announcer, her voice so
drowsy she must have been recently shaken awake, competed with a chirpy robotic
broadcaster who cautioned us not to leave bags unattended at the risk of
impoundment. Music played quietly in the
background, Adele, of course, singing, “Hello.”
Right on time, or on time for the most recently posted delayed time, flight 432 pulled up to
the jetbridge. At the counter, two airline
representatives busied themselves at their monitors. One was a handsome guy with tousled brown
hair and the sleeve of his white oxford shirt pinned closed at the
shoulder. The other, a fortyish woman with short blond hair, wore a trim navy uniform and scarf.
The woman, Kris, we later discovered, turned on the
microphone. She was soft-spoken, so
there was a ripple of motion as everyone leaned forward to listen. “Your flight has arrived, and after the passengers
de-plane, we’ll clean up the aircraft and get you off to LaGuardia as quickly
as possible. To expedite the boarding
process, please remove everything you’ll need from the carry-ons you plan to
store in the overhead bins to minimize blocking the aisles. If any of you wish to check your
roll-aboards, you may do so at the counter at this time.”
Standard stuff. We
were an obedient crowd, and there was a general flurry as we rooted around in
bags and backpacks for water bottles, snacks, and magazines. While we stood and
stretched and looked around for our belongings, well-bundled passengers with
wide smiles and expectant eyes trickled into the terminal as the plane from New
York emptied and vacations commenced.
I trotted off to the restroom, hoping to time it just right:
late enough to hold me well into the flight and early enough to avoid
last-minute anxiety. While perched on
tiptoes in my stall, a gold necklace spilled onto the floor by my feet.
“Is this yours?” I asked my unseen fellow percher as I held
the necklace in my hand where she could see it beneath the dividing wall
between us.
“Omigod, yes! Thank
you!”
As I returned to Dave, I smiled at the thought of this little exchange. That good feeling was
to pass shortly.
A hint of electric crackle, a pause, and perhaps even a
sigh, heralded Kris’s announcement.
“Ladies and gentlemen.
Unfortunately, the pilot of flight 432 has reported a mechanical failure
that must be assessed. We are awaiting a
technician who will run some tests. We
apologize for any inconvenience.”
But for the roll of a few eyes, most people settled back into
their seats. Two, a snappy woman with flowing black hair and the portly guy
with the crewcut, grabbed their belongings and headed up to the counter to
begin negotiations. Another JetBlue
employee, Greta, a slender blond, had joined Matt and Kris. Was this a good sign or bad?
The microphone clicked on.
A brief silence of open air. And
Kris’s voice, slightly magnified, informed us, “The technician has
arrived. We will let you know as soon as
we have his report.”
Dave texted our friend Len whom we’d just visited in
Sarasota. I took a few notes, then called my mom for a chat.
Again the metallic click, a bit of static, and an audible
intake of breath before the one-armed rep, Matt, spoke. “I’m afraid we have some bad news. The plane did not pass the tests. Repairs require a part which must be
transported from Tampa. The flight has
not yet been cancelled, but this will be a significant delay. We deeply apologize, and Kris, Greta, and I
are here to do what we can to help you re-schedule if need be.”
You could almost hear the tap of fingers as discouraged
passenger-hopefuls texted friends and family and checked on alternative
plans. Dave decided to fall in with
those who had slumped dispiritedly into a straggly line at the counter. I stayed put.
“My son’s an aeronautics engineer,” said the bushy-haired woman two
seats down from me. With her glasses low
on her nose, she leaned in as if with confidential information. “I just texted him, and he said JetBlue has
good mechanics. He advised we wait it
out.”
Good. That’s what I
wanted to hear. The thought of shuffling
flights and finding a place to stay held no appeal. I wanted to hunker down at B5 and fly out whenever.
Bushy Hair and I chatted. Her
father had lived in Sarasota and passed away recently. She’d made this trip many times. I expressed my sympathies and showed her a
video of my chuckling grandson. What
could be more comforting?
I heard Dave laugh and glanced toward the line to see him
wide-eyed, hands gesturing, as he told a story to an appreciative, smiling
circle, among them the woman with the smoky-blue earrings and her balding
companion. The girl in the yellow sweater, too, nodded and rocked from foot to
foot, her brunette hair bobbing in a loose knot on top of her head.
Along the line, pockets had formed with small groups of
cheerful chatter. Periodically the squawk of a bike horn, the burble of
bubbles, the soft trill of a whistle, or a fifties ring tone erupted as cell
phones signaled calls from friends and family checking on our progress. The guy in the Tillamook tee-shirt had joined
the line, but never looked up from his book.
What the hell was he reading?
“Can you watch my bags?” I asked Bushy Hair. Heaven forbid I leave them unattended. I joined Dave and his group in their
discussion of open space and agriculture.
The “where are you from?” game had already been played, and Easton’s
abundance of natural resources was under discussion.
Filtering from the glass gates that led into the main
terminal, the swelling crescendo of an aria momentarily stilled the babble. Opera at the airport? “I’m going to check it out,” I said and fell
into step with the sparkly-eyed crewcut guy as we marched toward the glass
doors.
“So, you’re all set on a new flight?” I asked.
“Oh yeah. I’ve got 14
patients prepping for colonoscopies.
I’ve got to show up!”
“My god, yes! They’d
never forgive you!” I crowed as he
disappeared through the glass doors. By that time, the
opera singer had silenced, so I returned to the line at B5 and sparked
hoots of laughter in reporting the gastroenterologist’s mission.
Meanwhile, the cleaning crew had arrived pushing heavy carts
laden with buckets and squeegees. Garbed
in spotless white uniforms with American flags embossed on the sleeves, the workers
taped yellow strips that read “Restroom Closed” across the bathroom doors. I was not the only one to slip defiantly under
those strips.
By this time, the mood in the line was buoyant. People were exchanging business cards and
saying, “It was so good to meet you,”
as if we’d be departing soon. Kris,
Greta, and one-armed Matt smiled vaguely when someone commented that we’d all
go to their homes and sleep on
pull-out couches.
The tall Tillamook guy was lying on his stomach on the floor, holding his place in line,
still reading the book, which he’d propped on his balled-up blazer. Suddenly he threw the book down and rose,
fuming. With his hands clasped behind
his back, eyes gazing toward the heavens, he stomped down to the next gate. Whoa.
What was he reading? I had to know, so I trailed him to ask. “West
of Eden,” he replied. “But it
crossed the line and I had to take a breather.”
At the shrill ring of the phone on the counter, all eyes
turned. Kris picked up the receiver, listened, nodded, hung up, and whispered urgently
to Greta and Matt. Didn’t look
good. Greta was particularly pale and
tight-lipped, and seemed to be bracing herself against the counter. Kris lifted her head and surveyed our
expectant faces before taking the microphone and flipping the switch. “Ladies and gentlemen. I’m sorry to tell you, but the flight has
been cancelled. Matt, Greta and I will do our best to get you re-scheduled and
situated.”
Yes, there were groans and more frenzied thumb calisthenics
as folks scrolled and texted and phoned, but no one seemed angry; no one
complained.
I was hungry, and the restaurants and snack bars around us
had closed. Luckily, Dave and I had brought
provisions: Wheat Thins, almonds,
and - bless the Lord – Thin Mints Girl
Scout cookies. I was Miss Popularity, Miss Gate B5, as I walked the line
offering those good-cheer-sustaining snacks.
Even those who initially turned me down weakened at the whiff of those
Thin Mints when I waved the box - too
tempting! - under their noses.
Up at the counter, Kris was calm, her face alight in the
glow of her screen as she took information from whomever was next in line. Greta and Matt whispered heatedly and then
turned to Kris. She took a deep breath,
smiled at Greta, and said, “Go.” What
was happening?
Matt led Greta to one of the green vinyl seats and told her
to sit. He disappeared briefly and
returned with a wheel chair. Her bearing
shaky, Greta maneuvered herself into the wheel chair with Matt’s help, and they
started toward the glass doors.
The eyes of a full roster of cancelled-plane’s-passengers
swiveled toward Kris who ran both hands through her hair and took a deep breath
before taking up the microphone. “Greta’s
not feeling well, and Matt’s computer’s not working. I’m on my own up here and I’ll do my best.”
There was quiet for a moment, then someone yelled, “You’ve
been great, Kris!” Another voice chimed in, “You too, Greta and Matt!” And we all burst into applause.
With Kris’s help, Dave and I arrived at a nearby Staybridge
Inn around 1:30 AM, took a one–hour cab to Tampa in the morning, and flew to
New York around 1:00 PM, all on JetBlue.
“What a terrible way to end your vacation,” some have said, but Dave and
I grin and say, “No. It was the best way
ever.”
7 comments:
Ahh, Lea - I love this piece. Partly because I was able to be in the airport - so vividly rendered - and then return home immediately!! You and Dave are a lesson to us all, that the adventure is in how you travel, not where....Just beautiful.
Ditto!
Sounds to me like you guys were the ring leaders of that jolly gang. Girl Scout cookies! And love the colonoscopy guy! Delightful! What wonderful travelers you are. xxx Tricia
It figures that you and Dave were at the heart of the group, keeping spirits up and making everyone feel like family.
If I'm ever stuck in an airport, I want to be satuck there with the positive lieks of you two!!!
It WAS a fun surprise to have a total drag turn into a good story and many fun encounters. As it turned out, pretty much everyone contributed to making it go that way...
Isn't it funny you can start off as strangers, but then everyone's humanity comes out? Sometimes these situations bring out the best in people. Love this so much and thank God for your Girl Scout's mint cookies!
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