By Esther C. Baird
First published in the Tri Town Transcript Mar 27, 2019
I recently flew to San Francisco. It was going to be a long day of flying, but when my flight got delayed, one, two and ultimately four hours, I just laughed because I had been upgraded to business class.
I don’t know a single self-respecting mom of school-age children who would utter a single complaint over spending a day in an airport business class lounge. Comfy chairs, plenty of power outlets that I could use without fending off fifteen other devices, free food, free drinks, clean bathrooms… did I mention the part where I could eat and someone else cleared the plates?
Obviously the delay was more like a spa day and I took it as such.
But on the return trip, my upgrade status was no more. I went from “Mrs. Baird in Premier Class,” to “Group 3: don’t even think about boarding, ever.”
Also I was flying in a space time warp, because by flying east I would lose three hours on the very same morning the clocks sprang forward. Here’s a tip: don’t ever do that. I had to get up at 4:40 a.m. which was 3:40 a.m. only hours before. Whatever time it really was, I could care less. It was Don’t Talk To Me O’Clock.
It was in that mental space that I got to the San Francisco airport. A place where hopes and dreams and travel plans go to die. This time, when my flight was delayed by one, two and ultimately four hours, I almost ripped apart the rock hard seat I was perched upon with my bare hands.
It was the airport delay of my discontent.
Four hours was too long to feel that sort of simmering anger against all of modern society. So, on a whim I posted my frustrations on Facebook and suggested that people give me items to go find, a scavenger hunt of sorts, and I’d post pictures of them.
My friends complied, and I left my plastic seat of woe and ventured forth into the brave new world of Terminal B.
One friend threw me an easy starter item: Starbucks. Great! Coffee was a necessity in my fragile state anyway. But three quarters of a mile later, though my Google Maps said there were two Starbucks within a 10 minute walk, and listed photos of the actual airport storefronts to prove it, the Starbucks simply were not there.
This was disconcerting. What is reality if Google Maps say something exists and then it doesn’t? My existential coffee crisis was heightened by the fact that Peet’s Coffee stood in the spaces instead. Look, I’m all about coffee diversity and options… if my option always and forever includes a tall skinny double mocha, no whip. You know who makes that? Starbucks. You know who does not? (And trust me, I drank it by the gallon that day.) Peets.
Despite the minor setback, I continued on my scavenger hunt. I found cable car key chains and home decorating magazines per my Facebook requests. At the two mile mark, as noted on my fitness watch, I did not find the “I escaped from Alcatraz” T-shirt, but I did find a cute Alcatraz onesie.
But the item that was the hardest was offered by an old high school friend. He wanted me to find an airline pilot wearing both his formal hat and earpods.
Game on. I walked a full mile stalking pilots who wore hats. I took pictures and zoomed in studying the closeup of their ears. I walked casually behind ones who were wearing earpods, certain that at any minute they’d put on their hat.
But nothing.
Turns out my friend, who is himself a pilot, knew it would be impossible, as it was an airline dress code violation. Which, while technically a trick question, was ironic since I, myself, felt in dress code violation. My athleisure outfit had not been meant to be worn for quite so long, or for quite so many miles. Let’s be honest, it had been meant to be pajamas (I’ll refer you back to the 4:40 a.m. is the new 3:40 a.m. section). By the end of my scavenger hunt, I felt neither athletic nor leisurely.
But I did feel accomplished when, four hours and 3.5 miles later, my back-of-the-plane-group finally boarded. There was no one clearing my plates and just one outlet. Going to the bathroom meant climbing over half the plane. But none of it mattered.
The hunt to finally get home was over.