The Miracle Of Travel

The stories have been all over the television, the newspapers and, of course, social media. This summer’s travel debacles have reached epic proportions. As a society that has become somewhat inured to things going wrong (where should I start?), summer holidays typically provide a much needed therapeutic get away. But Covid has touched every corner of the planet, and every corner of our lives. Suffice to say that if you are looking forward to a much-needed summer break, things just might not go as planned. You can hope for the best but consider yourself duly forewarned that this summer’s vacation might offer a different kind of therapy.

Admittedly, as a tour guide, highlighting travel traumas is the antithesis of good marketing. However, in my bones, I am a storyteller, and some events are too good (bad?) not to share. Particularly, if they fall into the category of “Well, this has never happened before.” And frankly, after eighteen years of some noteworthy episodes, particularly the time the nine-seater Cessna nearly crashed over Boston, or when my luggage was delayed because the door to the plane’s luggage hold was stuck shut. And let’s not forget the time the pilot was locked in the bathroom, and they evacuated the entire plane so they could break the door down. I have had emergency landings because a fellow passenger fell ill, and emergency landings because we were about to fly into the eye of a lightening storm. I have “lost” my luggage in Namibia and to be clear, I didn’t lose it—the airline did, only to have it turn-up in New Jersey three months later.

Cancelled flights, lost luggage, along with waiting two-and-a-half-hours on the tarmac for take-off don’t really merit a footnote. Although, I am fond of the time they had to change planes because the windshield wiper was broken.

I now bring you flight #BA173 from Aberdeen to London, flying time 65 minutes.

For nearly seven weeks I have been leading tours between Scotland, the Faroes, and Iceland. It has been exciting, fascinating, and exhausting. But after two years of being confined to my own four walls, I have embraced every moment with extreme gratitude. I absolutely love what I do.

In the last hours of the last day with my bags packed and the need for COVID testing to enter the U.S. no longer required, I arrive at Scotland’s Aberdeen airport cautiously optimistic about my 4:40 p.m. flight to London, where I will then have nearly a two-and-a-half-hour layover at Heathrow before catching my flight to Boston. I would like to say that nothing is delayed or cancelled but that’s not true. My original flight at 11:10 a.m. was already cancelled a few weeks back and I am now on the only flight from Aberdeen to London that day, and I am on the last flight from London to Boston that night. I know you think you know where this story is going, but it’s not.

When I arrive at the British Air (BA) check-in counter with Gail, my friend and fellow Wild Fibers traveler, I am given a complimentary upgrade to Business Class. Back when I traveled constantly, I enjoyed some special tier status with BA which as near as I can tell entitled me to not much more than an extra free bag of nut mix. Hoping to woo me back into their travel fold, the gate agent hands me my boarding pass with seat 3A. I ask if Gail might also be upgraded as we are traveling together, but apparently BA likes me more than they like Gail. And because I am really not that good a friend when it comes to upgrades, I accept the pass leaving Gail to travel in the “back of the bus.” (We would have seven-and-a-half-hours together on the international flight. Our separation was only temporary.)

Even before I had old lady hearing, I often found it difficult to understand the announcements over the airport PA system and so when I distinctly hear “BA” in the announcement, I scurry over to the flight board and note the flight is running an hour late, now departing at 5:40 p.m.

Sigh.

Gail and I will still have just over an hour at Heathrow and if our luggage doesn’t make it, at least we’re heading home.

Aberdeen airport is so small it doesn’t even have any jetbridges. One can easily see flights take off and land, and thus when flight #BA173 taxis up to its parking place, I start telepathically sending messages to everyone deplaning, “Hurry up. Hurry up.” I urge, from my spot near the window. It matters not that they can’t hear me, I feel like I’m doing my job to move things along.

At 6:05 p.m., we are still in our parking space and the pilot offers his apology about the extended delay to the passengers. I doubt he’s truly sorry, but the gesture is appreciated. Conversely, I do wish he would stop talking, put the plane in reverse, and get going. Soon we take off and I calculate that upon landing, we will have about fifty minutes to make the flight. Except, that’s fifty minutes from take off, it’s actually forty minutes from “doors closed.”

That’s a little tight for my comfort. Heathrow’s Terminal 5 is divided into A, B, and C gates which are accessible by train. I know we will arrive at A gate, and I am certainly we will depart from either gates B or C. Factoring in the distance to get to the train and the subsequent marathon to reach the boarding gate, the forty-minute connection is starting to affect my blood pressure. However, I am in seat 3A, I am practically the first to deplane. Gail, however, is back in row 16. I may be shallow enough to fly in Business Class without her, but not when it comes to missing a flight. I ask the flight attendant (who is already apprised of the tight connection) if Gail might be moved to the seat next to mine which is empty. She obliges, and ten minutes before landing, Gail is escorted up to Business Class undoubtedly evoking a chorus of evil stares from everyone sitting in Economy.

I barely have enough time to enjoy my second free bag of nuts when we touch down at 7:15 p.m. My blood pressure is manageable . . . barely.

The pilot announces we will arrive at Gate A7, “A short distance for those of you with connecting flights.” As we prepare to turn into our gate, the engines throttle into neutral.

I am staring at Gate A7. I can see it written above the jetbridge in neon yellow letters. But we are not moving. Another plane is in our spot. Five minutes pass. Five very long minutes. Once again, the pilot, “We are almost at the gate ladies and gentlemen, but we need to wait for the plane that is currently there to push-back. I apologize for the delay.”

Five more minutes pass and I can see the jetbridge is still attached to said plane at Gate A7, and they are still loading luggage. It will surely be another five minutes or more, and I don’t have five more minutes to spare.

Gail and l look at one another. I am looking anxious while she is repressing a grin. “I wouldn’t mind if we missed our flight,” she confesses. “I could happily spend a few days in London.” If I was not at the end of a seven-week travel stint, I would equally share her hopes. But I am not, so I don’t.

Again with the pilot. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, it looks as if that plane isn’t going to move for awhile so they have found us another gate.” He no longer offers an apology no one will believe him. The engines throttle up again as we slowly traverse to the opposite end of Terminal A.

It is now 7:45 pm, just ten minutes before the doors close to our flight home. Clearly, there is no way we will make it. The jetbridge hasn’t even docked with our plane. In fact, I can’t even see the little person who stands inside and steers the “elephant trunk.” But Gail and I are standing in Olympic runner position waiting to charge the moment the door opens.

Mentally, I am trying to prepare myself for the inevitability that not only will I be overnighting in London, but the enormous hassle of rebooking that will come along with it. But because I am a lifelong optimist, I refuse to give up. I crouch down to look out the window again at the jetbridge and it’s still not moving. And still, no one is standing at the “wheel” either.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH THESE PEOPLE???

But I know the answer. It’s not that there’s a shortage of pilots, or flight attendants, or gate agents . . . There is shortage of ground staff and that means the nice people who unload the baggage, who drive the tugs that push planes back from the gate, and those extra wonderful people who drive the jetbridge are not to be found. Outwardly, I continue to be polite, but I sense Gail is scrolling through her phone dreamily looking at hotels.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen.” The pilot begins, his voice now completely void enthusiasm. “As you can see, we are at the gate, but this is an international gate and so you can’t deplane through the jetbridge. They are sending a bus and you will be taken to the domestic area.”

A bus? They’re putting us on a bus??? I am closer to the terminal than I am to the potty back in Economy. I don’t dare look at Gail because I know she is now gushing with excitement. I try taking several of those long relaxing breaths my yoga teacher raves about, but it’s a crock. I’m not sure a tranquilizer dart would quell my nerves.

By this time, everyone is now standing in the aisle. They have removed their luggage from the overhead compartment, and whether they have another flight to catch or not, they are ready to go. Even in a moment of utter defeat, some primal urge in me likes being near the head of a 224-person line.

And then something starts to shift. Everyone who is facing forward gradually starts to turn round. I arch-up on my tip toes and look to the back where to my aghast I see that 70% of the passengers are now facing the rear. Apparently, the bus is coming to the back door, not the front. I have gone from being the “lead dog” to a lowly caboose. And to really add insult to injury, by the time Gail and I finally get off the plane, we are standing in the back of the bus. Literally.

Now, when I say that travel is a bit crazy this summer and perhaps not terribly therapeutic, perhaps it makes a bit more sense. But that’s not the point. Travel is about adventure. Travel is definitely about exploring the unknown. And it’s about packing your patience. Five minutes after the scheduled departure time, Gail and I board our flight to Boston. And even though we ran like Olympians to catch-it, we could have walked. It was a full hour before the plane eventually took off.

As was said to me countless years ago, "Don’t give up before the miracle happens." And so it did. It's true about travel, and in every day life as well.