My “day off” at O’Hare began as a regular day, just with a longer commute to work. My husband and I dropped the kids off at school and followed the usual morning routine, slowing down only to wave a fond hello to my office as we drove past.
My flight to White Plains, NY, ultimately ending at our Connecticut office, was scheduled to leave at 10:47am Monday morning. I was more than a little hesitant bout flying on a 12 ½ row plane, but had come to terms with it and was relatively ok.
The weather on this late January morn was partly sunny and a balmy 48 compared to the sub-zero temps of only a few days ago (can you believe there are still people who don’t believe there’s global warming?). I kissed my husband a quick goodbye at the curb to stave off the always suspicious glares of the TSA who only allow for a rolling drop off of passengers, checked my bag and entered the terminal.
I’ve become quite familiar with the United Airlines terminal at O’Hare, and navigated my way through my usual entrance and usual security booth only to find that I was at the opposite end of the world of O’Hare from where I needed to be. No problem, though, since I had adhered to the, now, standard guidelines and arrived 2hrs prior to my flight.
As I walked down concourse E/F, I encountered the first of many surprises and changes for the day – the arrow pointing down the stairwell, to the tarmac, where my gate was located. This really should not have thrown me, since I knew I was traveling on a small plane, but it did. I quickly came around, though, and became comfortable with it as I looked around at tall of the other people, all ages, and from all walks of life, also waiting for their walk down the tarmac, probably regulars on these routes.
The morning seemed to be flying, pardon the pun, as one flight after the next boarded and departed. Finally it was boarding time for the flight just prior to mine when the announcement came in letting those passengers know that their flight had been oversold and asking for volunteers to give up their seats. As a former corporate travel consultant, I expected a lot of grumbles and under-the-breath cursing. None was heard. I attributed this to my theory of repeat travelers who have become extremely familiar with these kinds of minor obstacles, if you will.
I phoned my husband to chat, check in, express my boredom and get in one last “I love you,” before my tarmac walk to the itty bitty metal bucket scheduled to transport me safely to my destination. No sooner had I hung up and packed my cell phone snugly into my purse did my itinerary change on me. With one little announcement, I officially became a REAL business traveler.
“Passengers scheduled to White Plains: the flight has been cancelled. Please proceed to the customer service counter.”
In an instant, I flashed back to Bob – the reason I ended my career in corporate travel. Bob would call me, irate that his flight had been cancelled, demanding that I find him a new flight - NOW – that would not disrupt anything on his arrival end – oh yes, and that I make sure he had his aisle seat as well.
Once I snapped out of it and returned to the present, I made myself a promise that I would not become Bob., a promise I needed to make several times. I proceeded to customer service and accepted my fate. As long as my luggage and I ultimately ended up in the same place, and as long as I would be asleep in a snuggly bed, then not much else could throw me. I was re-booked on a flight scheduled to leave 2 ½ hrs after my original flight, with the departure gate back near the other end of the World of O’Hare where I first entered. Fortunately, there was a great little shuttle that cruised the tarmac from Concourse F to Concourse C.
I called home to let my husband know of my change and called my Connecticut office to let them know that I probably wouldn’t get to the office since my flight wasn’t scheduled to arrive until about 4:45pm. I then called my office here to let them know about the change, and to sweetly ask my fabulous assistant, EB, to contact our corporate travel department to let them know so that they could make the necessary modifications to the my delayed arrival; working with Bob all those years taught me many things, including how to make sure those small, yet amazingly important details are attended to.
I shuttled over to my next gate and snuggled up doing sudoku to pass the two or three hours until my next scheduled attempt at boarding. I had begun to memorize the constant flow of announcements that trickle into the airport subconscious:
“For the health and safety of our passengers, smoking is not permitted in the airport or on the roadway in the departures area. Smoking is permitted on the lower level at arrivals.”
“Airport transportation can be found at the transportation kiosks or at the arrivals level of the airport. It is illegal for transportation providers to solicit on the upper level.”
Blah blah blah. Once I recognized that the deep guttural grumblings that were interrupting into these announcements were actually my stomach trying to send me a message, I went in search of sustenance. I passed a flight info screen on the way to satisfy my hunger. It said my flight had been cancelled and to proceed to the customer service counter. As I stood in line, I watched passenger after passenger become more and more irritated, and I reflected further on Bob and how he would have handled this same situation.
They told us that the reason for the delay stemmed from the Chicago weather – NOT snow this time, but wind gusts on the balmy spring-like day that were topping 35mph. Those gusts were causing major delays in arrivals and departures. The airport had to close all but two of the small craft runways, one for arrivals and one for departures. Those closures, in turn, backed up the incoming flights which then backed up the outgoing flights.
After the cancellation of flight number two, which had been scheduled to leave at 1:30, I waited on a flight set for a 4:10 departure. At 3:30, that flight still had not left from its origin, a 30 minute flight away due to the weather in Chicago.
Want to know what happened? Did I get out? Am I back home in my bed? And what the heck happens with this whole Bob thing? Stay tuned for the further adventures of this working mom who would much rather be a SAHM.
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