Episode 12

THE TRIP HOME:

A short story about one short trip home that wasn’t so short.

Let me set the scene.

It was summer 2023 and I was traveling back from an east coast island on a Sunday. The air was thick and the temperature was hot. I had two plane rides ahead of me and, if everything went to schedule, it would be an eight-hour travel day.

Day One:

I woke up exceedingly hungover. Friends had visited me this week which meant eating, drinking, eating again, drinking again, and finally drinking more. Working out that week was a foreign concept that never entered our mind. I started the trip with a waistline of 32 inches and ended it at 34 inches.

We always promise ourselves that the diet starts Monday which always lasts until that Friday when it’s time to do it all over again. The old saying, “Calories don’t count on the weekend,” is the biggest lie ever told, or maybe me having a 34-inch waistline is.

That morning I had a 10:00 a.m. flight out to PHL, then an hour layover until my flight to SFO. Given my lack of hydration from the night prior my mouth was drier than the Sahara Desert. I did what any normal person would do. I went to the sink, turned on the water, and drank from it for about thirty seconds. Before getting back into bed I grabbed my phone and a notification popped up in big letters that read, “CANCELLED.”

I called the airline immediately. After about an hour’s wait, they put me on the flight tomorrow with the same schedule. 10:00 a.m. flight to PHL, then an hour layover until my flight to SFO.

I’m not a good traveler. Nothing ever goes right for me. My friends, parents, and siblings always fly with ease. I think it’s because I bash travel so much, it’s the spirit in the sky’s way of tormenting me. I thought the terrible dreams, body dysmorphia, and extreme anxiety were enough, but apparently not.

There was nothing I could do. I was stuck. I thought I’d make the best of the situation and continue to eat and drink like there was no tomorrow. The diet can always start a day later. However, eating didn’t stop me from obsessing over my flight schedule and the potentially bad weather coming in. If my family wasn’t prescribed Xanax, they were going to be after Day One.

Day Two:

7:15 a.m. to 8:15 a.m.: The Watch Began.

I sat in the kitchen with my mom, dad, and grandfather. No one seemed to worry but me.

My mom has severe ADHD and can’t focus on one objective at a time. She was talking to her friend without a worry in the world.

My dad was more concerned about telling me the current state of world affairs like he was Wolf Blitzer reporting his nightly news segment.

And finally, my grandfather was eating his cracker chips with tuna fish, at 7:30 in the morning…

I ignored them all and focused on the flight tracker. I watched my plane on the flight tracker move from 0mph to 4mph. You would have thought I was watching the bottom of the ninth inning bases loaded in the World Series.

The anxiety started to grow.

8:15 a.m. to 9:15 a.m.: Decisions Need to be Made.

The clock hit 8:15 a.m. and the plane made zero progress. I was having déjà vu from the day prior. If the plane doesn’t take off soon, I’m missing my connecting flight.

All the other stories of my travel experience flooded my mind; the man throwing up on me at the airport, the crying babies on my flights, the monkey throwing feces at my face, getting hit in the face with a baseball, and crashing my car leaving my girlfriend’s house. It’s clear to me now, I should never leave my house.

A backup plan was now crucial. The plan was to buy a ferry to the mainland. Drive to Rhode Island, stay overnight, and take a 6:00 a.m. JetBlue flight direct to SFO. In theory those of you reading this might think that it sounds like a great plan. A two-hour ferry, renting a car, driving three hours, and buying a hotel room didn’t sound great to me.

Thunderstorms were passing through the entire East Coast, so any major airport could feature cancellations. It was a big risk and economic burden to get to Rhode Island rather than gutting it out on the two flights I already paid for.

9:15 a.m. to 9:25 a.m.: Play it safe or risk it?

The clock hit 9:15 a.m. and there was still no movement. I bought the backup flight, pulled up the ferry tickets, filled out all the information, and hit purchase.

I had bought two tickets instead of one and hadn’t filled out the second person’s name. I clicked edit and it took me back to the beginning. As I’m fumbling the easiest and least stressful task of the day, Grandpa yells: “There’s movement!” We all crowded around his phone like we were watching the moon landing. This time it was true, the plane took off.

According to our calculations, if there were no delays and everything went to plan, I could make my original connection with twenty minutes to spare.

The group featured no mathematicians.

I was faced with a pivotal decision: Play it safe and take the ferry or risk it?

I don’t think any of them cared, they just wanted me out. They were sick of dealing with this. The house had turned into a war room with computers, phones, and iPads all out trying to look for new ferries, new flights, and track the weather.

Unfortunately, I went with the “Fuck It” philosophy. A philosophy that has been used by all and worked for none.

I rushed to the airport which is known for its ease.

Security was never an issue at this particular airport, the longest it’s taken me is ten minutes. Well, I arrived and security was forty minutes long. Once I made it through security my flight got delayed another thirty minutes. I went up to the counter and asked if they thought I’d make my connection. Their response, “It’s tight but doable.” Basically the same thing as someone giving you life-changing advice and ending it with “But, I don’t know.”

“Are there any other flights out today I can get on?” I said.

“There’s a 5:30 p.m. or 9:15 p.m.” the agent said back to me.

“5:30 p.m.” I said. Obviously, I wasn’t going to wait until 9:15 p.m. to fly across the country.

We get on the plane and the captain comes on the speaker, “We should be pushing off in thirty minutes, we’re just refueling.” I sat in relief. Thank goodness I changed my flight to 5:30 p.m. because there was no way I was making my original flight.

The flight was only an hour to PHL. About 40 minutes a message popped up on my phone that read, “CANCELLED.”

Of course. The 5:30 p.m. got cancelled due to thunderstorms.

I pulled open my computer and started searching for flights. There was one seat remaining on the 9:15 p.m. for $3,900 in first class. I decided to get off the plane, talk to the agent and see what I can do before spending that type of money.

It would have been wise to use “Fuck It” philosophy then and there. A mistake that would cost me days.

My anxiety had gone from bad to worse. The plane landed and other passengers ran off to make connections, a feeling I wish I had. I got stuck behind a slow guy in flip flops, whose hips were wider than a football field. He was one of those walkers who took up the entire walkway like the leader in a NASCAR race not letting anyone pass.

I went to the gate agent who said I needed to go to customer service. After a 15-minute walk to customer service, I saw a line so long you would have thought the Beatles were holding a press conference at the American Airlines customer service desk. There were only two agents trying to help what I figured was over 300 people.

I pulled up the 9:15 p.m. flight and it was completely sold out. I couldn’t find any flights from Philadelphia, New York, Boston, Rhode Island, or Washington D.C. that were taking off that day. The new plan was to take a train to NYC, stay with my brother, and take a flight out of JFK on Tuesday. The only flights under $3,000 were in the afternoon which meant there was another chance the plane would get cancelled.

The next train was in an hour. I bought a ticket, left the airport, and headed to the train station.

I made it to the train station ten minutes before boarding, which is fine as trains always board at the last minute.

“The train has been delayed due to a prior train falling off the tracks.”

Yes, another delay. For an insane reason.

I’ve never heard of a train falling off the tracks. That only happens in Mission Impossible movies. I think my mission to get home to the West Coast was impossible. Tom Cruise would have backed out of this mission.

Luckily, it was only delayed fifteen minutes.

Well, that delay of fifteen minutes happened six more times.

I arrived at my brother’s apartment and it was not Buckingham Palace. Think of the smallest apartment you’ve ever been in. His was twice as small. Not only did it take me over eight hours to get to him in New York City, but I flew over New York City to Philadelphia on my first flight.

Day Three:

I slept on the couch with one blanket and one pillow if you can even call it that. I was woken up to him and his wife at 6:00 a.m. making breakfast. A football stadium on Super Bowl Sunday was quieter than these two making breakfast. There is a slow torture of hearing silverware hit a plate first thing in the morning. He seemed to think he was Anthony Bourdain because I’ve never seen someone take so long to make two eggs. I could have flown from Los Angeles to London faster than their breakfast routine. At one point I thought the neighbors would come over to make sure there wasn’t a legit war going on in this apartment.

By the way, he didn’t make any food for me. So, day three was off to a terrible start.

My plane was supposed to take off at 5:00 p.m. I showered and got on my computer to check my emails and start work.

Bing!

“Your flight has been delayed to 6:45 p.m.”

I could have driven across the country faster.

Not only that, but I checked the JetBlue flight out of Rhode Island, which did in fact depart at 6:00 a.m.

My mental state was getting worse. My thought process was day one; it happens I’ll get out tomorrow, day two; this sucks, and on day three; I’m never leave my house again.

I may have no choice because I’ll have no money left after all the spending on planes, trains, automobiles.

After battling New York City traffic, I finally made my way to the gate. The gate looked like the set of the hit show The Biggest Loser. I was hoping none of the contestants would sit next to me. I sat next to a young man who was in peak health. Neither of us took up too much room and most importantly we shared the armrest.

Sharing the armrest is one of the most respectable acts of kindness flyers can do. Most flyers nowadays take the entire armrest and recline their chair as far back as it goes. Flying is like the wild west these days and overhead bin space is harder to come by than finding a four-leaf clover. In typical fashion, I never get any overhead bin space because I’m always boarding group 1,000 and apparently on every flight I take everyone is either premium status or boarding group 1.

After landing I had about an hour’s drive to my apartment. Unfortunately, I missed my turn and added another thirty minutes to the trip.

At this point I wouldn’t have been surprised if a UFO came over me and sucked me up into the air.

The clock hit 3:00 a.m., and I had made it to the promised land.

I walked into my apartment and the first thing I saw lying on the floor was a massive dead cockroach on top of a white and red text letter from the city.

I had been summoned for jury duty…

Nobody Asked. Now you know anyway.