From the second we entered the terminal, I knew it wasn't going to be as cheap or easy as I'd hoped. My flight was not until 7:45, and the airport was packed. The edginess and hostility of the crowd was explained somewhat when we learned that the majority of these people were waiting for the 3:00 p.m. flight.
"I coulda walked to Jersey in this time," someone grumbled in front of us, and I looked up to see it was my friend from LaGuardia, perhaps thinking he was on Piedmont this time.
As it happened, I grumbled a little myself when I found that high winds and the "holiday crunch" prevented me from leaving Norfolk until 9:45. By the time I finally got on the plane, I needed and was looking forward to a nice, restful ride home.
From the moment the pilot welcomed us aboard, however, I knew I was in for trouble. He apologized for the delay in takeoff, blaming it on "dangerously high winds." He did reassure us, though, that as long as we kept our seatbelts fastened and read our emergency cards, there wasn't that much to worry about.
I was just beginning to relax and enjoy my drink when the plane lurched violently up and to the right, causing the man next to me to dump his Bloody Mary in my lap. I did not have time to scream or react in any way before the plane jerked down to the left, causing a stewardess to fall across the row of seats in front of me.
As I sat there in dumb terror, trying ineffectually to wipe vodka and tomato juice off my pants with an airsickness bag, the plane executed a series of dives and rolls that would have been difficult in a fighter plane, let alone a DC-10. To my great displeasure, I found my sentiments echoed loudly by a two-year old in the seat behind me, who let loose a bloodcurdling screech with every undulation of the plane. Eventually, the head steward clawed his way to the intercom and coughed to get our attention. I halfway expected him to begin showing us how to flap our arms, but instead he shakily welcomed us to Newark.
Newark never looked so good as it did when I stepped off the plane onto good old terra firma. There was not time to offer a sacrifice to whatever God had delivered me, so I hurried to the Boston gate. Luck was mine again, and an hour later, I was at Logan Airport waiting for my luggage.
IN FACT, 90 minutes later, I was waiting for my luggage. At 12:49, I realized it wasn't coming, and that I had 11 minutes to get to the MBTA.
Through, speed, daring, and indescribable rudeness, I made it onto the platform just in time. Heaving a sigh of relief, I sat down on the train, beaming at the passengers around me.
Everyone else seemed happy, too. One elderly gentleman, in fact, was grinning at me for all his worth.
"Nice jacket," he smiled, pointing at my mother's latest unsolicited Christmas gift.
"Oh, thanks," I said, trying to be polite.
"Nice pants, too."
"Thanks again," I replied, wondering vaguely if there were empty seats at the far end of the car.
"I love you."
This was my cue to get off at the next station and take a cab home.
It was almost 2:00 a.m. when I stumbled into the mass of paper, dirty socks, and filth that is my room, and for the first time in my life, I was glad to be back.
Maybe that's what Thanksgiving is all about, I thought just as I was going to sleep. You throw your life to the winds twice in five days, and by the time the ordeal is over, you are infinitely thankful to be back where you were when you started, and not fighting your way through a mass of elbows, or bouncing around at 10,000 feet, confessing your sins to the Rastafarian in the seat next to you. It makes you glad to be alive.