So, seriously what happened to the flight and what is the relevancy of Bob?
Continuing from part one of my post, “Working Mama Becomes Ultimate Business Traveler Mama – (and Who is Bob)”, I had now sat through two flight delays, and, ultimately, cancellations, while trying to get out to White Plains, NY on a business trip to Darien, CT.
The reasons for the delays came from the Chicago weather and the winds making take-off and landing for our small crafts dangerously impossible. I watched passengers become increasingly irritated and frustrated at the delays and cancellations, ultimately, blowing up and letting off steam at the gate agents, their secretaries or travel agents, or, as I was doing, sucking it up and accepting it by plopping down on the floor – in my case half on carpet and half on tile propped up against a post. Truly, there was nothing that any of us could have done but to kick back and relax.
My Bob, because he is MY Bob, the reason that I quit arranging corporate travel, would have been on the phone with me, from the airport, very much disgruntled at my inability to speak some weather incantation to make the winds cease, the planes magically appear, and have them ready for take off as soon as he settled into is aisle seat – with the placard,
“THIS FIRST CLASS AISLE SEAT IS RESERVED FOR BOB. TAKE IT AND SUFFER THE CONSEQUENCES.”
The delays, if you will, gave me ample opportunity to people watch, a pastime I quite enjoy. I saw business travelers, leisure travelers, those bolting to meet connections – foolishly wearing high heels…silly, those trying to appease their impatient and completely bored children, and plenty of military.
As I followed up with my grumbling tummy, waiting for rebooked flight #3, I had the pleasure of sitting next to Warren, a soldier on his way home to Traverse City, MI for a 2 week leave from Afghanistan. He had already been traveling for 22hours on multiple planes through too many cities. The final leg of his flight had also been delayed.
Warren had been overseas for 8months or so, away from his wife and 4 children; three girls, one boy, and another girl set to arrive on or around February 6. We talked about what he does in the infantry, about our children, the weather in Afghanistan compared to the weather in Chicago, airports, more about our kids, and his remaining 2 months of his tour. It was an absolutely exhilarating conversation. There was no political talk, no talk of views on the war, just two parents trying to get somewhere and talking about being separated from their children.
He finished his lunch and wished ME luck on MY travels (boy was THAT backwards?). I wished him luck with his flight and his new daughter. I suppose he was probably more anxious than I to get on his flight. Me, well, I was heading out for work, he was heading home to a family and his kiddos that he hadn’t seen for the better part of a year. Godspeed, Warren!
By 3:00, when I should have already been on the ground from my originally scheduled flight, gotten my rental car, retrieved my luggage, gotten lost and then found my way to our CT office, I remained seated waiting for the 4:10 flight, which was then scheduled to 5:30.
I couldn’t do any more sudoku, something I thought impossible, because my brain was fried that even the super easy levels were too challenging. I had been at O’Hare airport for almost a complete workday, had seen two different parts of the United Terminal, watched the weather change from balmy and 50 to rainy, windy, and yuck. My eyes were confused and didn’t know if they should be complaining that it was too early to be open or screaming because my contacts were dry and wanted out.
At 5:45, our flight was cancelled. We were all sent back to the customer service counter to get rebooked on the next available flight (seeing a pattern yet?). Flights to multiple cities were also cancelled. By the time I reached the customer service counter, it was flooded with every, now, “resident,” of Concourse E/F trying to change their flights, get their money back, or, at the least, get lodging for the night. I called home.
“Honey, I’m getting no where tonight. Can you please come and get me? I have no idea how long this is going to take, I’m about ¾ of a mile into this line.”
At long last, I got to talk to the customer service agent because I screwed up using the automated system and had to get back into the now 2mile long line at the end. Ok, so it wasn’t 2miles, maybe only a mile and a half. It was now just about 7:15pm, 90 minutes after my flight had gotten cancelled.
“Ma’am,” (cringe), “when your flight is cancelled you’re automatically…”
“…rebooked on the next available flight,” I finished her sentence from the memory of my previous encounters.
“Listen, there’s no way I’m getting out tonight and, since I live in Chicago, I’m going home. Please, if you will, rebook me on a flight tomorrow morning and cancel the one I’ve been automatically rebooked on.”
“But ma’am, you’re automatically…”
“Yes, I know. That flight, I’m sure, will also be cancelled. I’m going to bed. Just tell me what I need to do about my luggage.”
“Well, ma’am, your luggage will be put through on the next available flight and will be in White Plains when you arrive.”
“Great. Can you please confirm me on a morning flight?”
She set me up, put me in seat 1D, printed me up a new boarding pass, and I headed out from Concourse E/F, waved a fond farewell and bid adieu to the travelers with whom I’d spent my entire day, and, would likely see the next day, and got in line for the tarmac shuttle back to Concourse C, to wait for my hubby.
On my stroll back, I had time to reminisce about some of the things I’d seen and done that day: I’d gone and sat at a “bar” by myself and talked to total strangers. I had a gate agent who looked, sounded like, and I SWORE was Chris Rock, especially since he’s supposed to be in town at the Allstate Arena soon. I saw a man walking through the concourse who could easily have been Lex Luthor – the “Smallville” version, not the Gene Hackman version. I saw another man from my town walk by (though, by the time it dawned on me WHY he looked familiar, he was long gone). I also saw people doing the full on O.J., sprinting for their connections.
I also got my shoes shined. THAT was cool. I’d seen the men up there all day, on my many walks up and down, back and forth on the concourses, and toyed with the idea of having my salty and dirty shoes shined. Finally, I hopped up next to a young gentleman, probably 30 years old, who was – wait for it – stuck at O’Hare waiting for his connection to take off. At this point, it was 3 or 4:00. He was supposed to be in Oklahoma City for a 6:00 interview. Hmmmm…..not happening. Fortunately for him, the company he was interviewing with was very up to date on the weather in Chicago and scheduled him for the next day.
It was really a neat feeling to be up in that shoe shine chair. I watched the little girls walk past with their families and look up at me like I was a princess sitting up on my throne, having my servant shine my shoes. I could almost picture the scene in my head by watching their faces. On the flipside, I watched the befuddled faces of the men walking by, shocked that their man-turf had been invaded by a woman.
One man and his wife were walking by while I was up there and remarking on the words out of most mouths that day:
“Stuck at O’Hare. The three most common words heard. Stuck at O’Hare. Might as well have it tattooed on your (fill in expletive of choice) forehead.”
Bob. What about Bob? I laughed. Bob would have probably rented had me rent a car a car and driven himself by this point.
I met my husband back up at departures, climbed in and kissed him hello, just as quickly as I had kissed him goodbye since we were, once again, being glared at by the TSA for picking up on the upper level (sorry boys). On the way home, my dear sweet husband stopped at Gene & Judes Red Hots for some delicious Vienna beef topped with the best darn home fries EVER!
Home. My own bed. Ready to go back the next morning.
Wanna know what happened? I still haven’t told you if I made it to Connecticut or not, nor anything else about Bob. Stick around. I’ll finish the story next time.
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