Airport Time

I am not known to be early.

In fact, I have been known to dash through an airport carrying my shoes, outrunning any sense of dignity as I attempt to fill my seat on the plane.

More than once.

This causes my daughter, Abby, a lot of anxiety.

So when we strolled toward our gate in the Atlanta airport with plenty of time to buy a snack and watch people, I patted myself on the back.

Our trip to visit universities in the South had gone smoothly. Abby gained a sense of the overall philosophy of several programs and some insight into their application processes that she could not have realized without actually being there.

We both feel more secure about what her university life might be like when she starts next year.

We also enjoyed connecting with people from Houston to Athens, Georgia.

A hot and exhausted man in Houston borrowed my phone to call customer service after he left his phone in a Lyft car.

A construction foreman in the French Quarter of New Orleans gave me tips about how to repair a flat roof just like one of mine.

My cousins in Lafayette, Louisiana, set up appointments for us to learn about athletic training and sports medicine at one of the most successful NCAA facilities in the nation.

Abby translated for a young woman who was flying to Philadelphia without speaking English.

Abby had plenty of time to help that brave person because thunderstorms had delayed flights. We were standing in Denver’s United Airlines customer service line when the young woman asked for help.

We were not alone. Somewhere between 500 and 1000 people joined us, creating a line that extended the entire length of the B concourse.

Most people in line were resigned and polite, although we all had stories about those who yelled obscenities and demanded the impossible.

One woman had been trying to get to Oklahoma City for three days. It would be at least one more before she hugged her family.

About midnight, I finally connected with a customer service person online.

She said she had worked that same in-person line until 5 a.m. the day before.

She said I had two choices.

I could wait 24 hours and fly to Great Falls, my original destination and where my truck was parked.

Or I could leave the next morning and fly to Kalispell, 220 miles from Great Falls.

The weather forecast predicted more severe thunderstorms the next afternoon.

We were likely to get caught in the same predicament 24 hours from now.

I wondered whether my customer service person could survive this extended bout of storms.

She helped me reroute our flight.

I hoped she was paid well.

Then Abby and I found a quiet nook near a maintenance station that I had used when my flight was delayed 25 years ago and my 1-year-old son needed a rest. We slipped on our sweatshirts to mitigate the air conditioning, laid our heads on our carry-on bags and tried to sleep.

At 6 the next morning, people were still standing in the customer service line.

They looked like zombies.

I was glad we were leaving before we looked like them.

My mom said she would meet us in Kalispell.

By the time I drove my truck into my driveway late that afternoon, the extra miles and time expended because we missed our connection by 7 minutes would have taken us half way to Denver.

We were exhausted, impatient and looked a lot like zombies.

At least we didn’t have to run through the airport.