Airport Drama 6 May 2010

Okay, it wasn’t quite as bad as the time I mixed up the flight number and the departure time and spent 8 hours sitting with the luggage in the Miami airport, but it was close. Maybe worse, actually.

First off, I was exhausted by the time I got to the airport. It’s been months of intense research and arrangements to organize this trip. I’m swapping apartments with a man from London, so I not only had to get my flights and trains and classes set up, I also had to make sure my apartment was ready for a stranger to come live there for 2 months. 

On the day before I left, Ken arrived from London. I picked him up from the BART station, showed him around the house, helped him adjust my bicycle, and spent a couple of hours asking him questions about his neighborhood, and answering his questions about mine. I spent the night at Barbara’s house, and got my usual minimal sleep when in a different bed than my own. I was so out of it, that when I went to lunch with Barbara and Horizon, I totally forgot that Barbara had come in my car, and I drove off, leaving her to walk all the way back home on her own (so sorry, Barb!) By the time I got to the airport, I already felt jet-lagged; my brain was on slow mode.

I got to the airport in plenty of time, thanx to Horizon insisting we pick up his friend Don to keep him company on the way home. Because we had three people we used the carpool lane and zoomed into SFO without traffic. They helped me in with my bags, and even sat for a few minutes to chat. But then they were off. My two 50-lb bags were safely checked, and I had only my very heavy backpack and Fatah’s guitar to deal with. (For those who don’t know, my dear friend Fatah was robbed, and his gorgeous guitar was stolen. His wife Pascale, sweetheart that she is, arranged for me to buy him a new one for his upcoming 50^th birthday and bring it to London with me. She also gave him a ticket to come to London from Paris to London to pick it up.)

I dragged the backpack and guitar into bathrooms and news stands, and then finally went through security. They surprised me by telling me that they’d removed my laptop from the sleeve (I’d read you no longer have to take it out) and were checking it with their chemical swipes. I couldn’t see them, or it, so I hurried to get my shoes back on, etc. When they were finally done, I retrieved my laptop and had to fit it into my laptop again. I finally managed all that , and walked with all the weight on my back to the gate. I sat down to read for a bit. About 25 minutes before the flight was due to leave, just as they were beginning to board the wheelchair folks, I realized I didn’t have the guitar! (Take a deep breath, Pascale, it all ends well.) A brand-new, $2000 guitar that Pascale and I had worked so hard at getting, and that I had spent hours reading and talking to airline people about to see if I could carry it with me on the plane. The whole surprise for Fatah, and his ticket to London. I knew Pascale would never forgive me, even if I bought another guitar with my own money. She’d worked so hard to make this surprise birthday gift happen, and I’d left it at security! Someone might have claimed it for their own. What questions would be asked to ensure that it was indeed theirs? Oh my God, please, please let me find that guitar!

Panicked, I took off running, as fast as I could in new clogs, back up all those escalators and through all those corridors, to the information desk. I frantically told them I’d left my guitar at security, and could they call to find out if it was still there. They suggested I go back to the airline counter to see if it had been returned. I hadn’t put a baggage tag on it, as I was supposed to be carrying it with me. Of course they had no clue, but one of the security guards heard my breathless pleas and said he’d seen the police take away an abandoned guitar case. I didn’t abandon it! I thought, and I found out where the police station was. You can guess, I’m sure, that it was all the way at the other end of the next terminal over. There were no drivers with passenger carts around, so I RAN. 40 lbs on my back and I ran. It seemed to take forever, and my prayers had turned from gratitude that the guitar was safe to pleas that I’d make my flight.

The police were nice, but not in a hurry, and seeing an overweight, red, sweating woman come running in with a huge pack bouncing on her back only made them all the slower. But finally I got the guitar away from them. There was no way to call a passenger cart, so I ran again, this time with a 25-lb guitar in my hand, all the way back. As I neared the gate I heard them announce that passenger Renee Bornstein needed to come to the gate immediately as the plane was ready to leave. I yelled down the escalator that Renee was on her way, and I just made it into the plane. Everyone I passed seemed either peeved or interested to see me, sweating profusely, red in the face, huffing and puffing, limping on my now sore feet, with a guitar in front of me. And of course I couldn’t find an overhead bin it would fit in without the help of a flight attendant (also somewhat miffed at me being late).

Finally, when I went to sit down at my window seat, the woman I had to climb over suggested that I take the aisle seat down a row or two, as there was another empty seat next to it. She obviously didn’t want to sit next to a heaving, sweating woman who was so lame as to make the entire plane wait for her. And she wanted my window seat. I felt so repentant that I gladly took her suggestion and moved. Even the captain of the plane thanked everyone for their timely arrival and said we would indeed be leaving as scheduled.

I have never been the last one on a plane (especially after getting to the airport a good 3 hours in advance), and I have never left a brand-new, $2000 item (or any item, for that matter) at security. I guess I just needed one more bit of drama to start out my adventure. We’re coming into London in a couple of hours, I think. After all this, a good hot bath and a cup of tea are going to be most welcome. Whew!