Dearest Rachel –
I’ve been told about numerous misadventures that various groups have had en route to and from Honduras – lost luggage, missed connections, and the like – but I’ve never experienced any of them myself thus far.
Well, there’s a first time for everything, I suppose.
Not that this was much of a misadventure, as they go. We weren’t doing anything; it’s the plane that was presumably dealing with one thing or another. Our flight was originally scheduled to be departing Miami at a quarter to one, giving us a couple of hours to hang out and grab an early lunch – which had already grown by at least half an hour by the time we arrived there. I talked a few others into checking out the family-owned Cuban place a gate or two shy of where we were supposed to be departing from (and just from that wording, you probably already know what was about to happen), and we enjoyed a leisurely time there before heading to our gate (with Mike and Kris making it especially leisurely; they ate so much, they decided to walk off at least some of the calories before showing up at the gate).
By the time we were done with lunch, however, our departure time had already been extended to about ten to one (and I know what you’re about to ask; no, I don’t know who’s winning. I don’t even know who’s playing, honey). No real harm done; all it did was allow me a little extra time to finish another letter to you and send it off. However, I barely got myself settled in at the gate when it was announced that we were now at the wrong gate. Rather than departing from D16, we needed to move to D8.
Again, no real problem; just the minor inconvenience of having to pick myself and my computer up and wander over to the new location. Which I did in short order, and watched as my fellow travelers slowly reassembled at our new location. Most of them were lagging from a lack of sleep – some of them had been at the airport back at home by three, while I hadn’t even left for the airport until nearly three-thirty – and were looking forward to catching a bit of rest before we were called up to get on board.
It was not to be, however; after a little while, I looked up at the check-in desk to note that the boarding information had been replaced with an advertisement for the airline (which seems ridiculous; you’re already at the airport, with a ticket in hand, what does the airline think they can sell you at this point, when you’re already flying with them?). Sure enough, when I got up to check, the departure gate had changed once again, this time to D12.
Again, it wasn’t that long of a walk to get there, and this particular gate was a bit more open and airy than the previous two. I could live with this as a point of departure…
Upon returning, I looked around, but couldn’t figure out where everyone was. There was a crowd of people there, but nobody whose face I recognized. When I inquired of the group chat as to where everyone was, I was informed that they were all waiting at gate D11; a location that, for all those we’d been assigned to at one point or another, we’d never been. I was confused, to say the least.
Then again, unlike our newly reassigned gate, there was plenty of room to spread out in, since it wasn’t being used for any flights – although the same could be said for either of the gates we’d previously been assigned to. The only unique advantage to this location was that our gate was visible from where the group was sitting; if we actually made it to a boarding call (without it being pushed back any further), we’d see the other passengers beginning to line up, and join them in good time. Since we were assigned seats in the back of the plane, we were to be among the last to board, so we weren’t in any hurry.
Which is more or less what happened – although there still was a further delay, but only of about another half hour or so.
Curiously enough, we still wound up waiting for a good ten or fifteen minutes before being called aboard. Still, the flight was pretty much uneventful after that; I may have even dozed off for half an hour or so, in fact. Either way, it’s kind of funny to have lifted off at four-thirty, and touched down at just after four. “The usual muddle about times, Pole,” as Eustace would have said.
Not that the trip was entirely without further mishap, though. It wasn’t until we were about to land in Comayagua that I learned of one of our party that had assumed that his suitcase could be taken aboard as a carry-on, only to be told otherwise in Chicago and having to check it in (and presumably, like myself, having to pay for the privilege, although I was prepared to do so). Which would have been fine, but he checked it with his passport in his bag, which proceeded blithely to Comayagua with the rest of us, while he was stopped in Miami from getting aboard the flight because (say it with me) he didn’t have his passport with him to present to those checking him onto the plane crossing international borders. They did try to locate his bag in Miami, but it had apparently already been loaded onto the plane he wasn’t allowed to, leaving us to arrange for it to be sent back to him on the next available flight back there, at which point, he will be taking the next available flight back to Honduras thereafter – leaving him to ‘enjoy’ a two-night stay in Miami at his own expense (although the airline did apparently comp him for the hotel, since they were unable to locate his bag at the time. It’s a nice gesture on their part).
I’ll bet you can guess that this was his first time traveling down with the group, and no doubt a memorable one. Sometimes, lessons have to be learned the hard way, it would seem. I’m not about to indulge in schadenfreude, but I confess to being glad it didn’t ever happen to me.
For now, despite being down a man, we’re here, and getting ready to start a new day, and a new week. So with that having been said, I’d ask for your eyes upon us, honey, and your best wishes, too. We’re going to need them.
Letters to Rachel 