To New Jersey, of all places!

We enjoyed seeing our families in Georgia.  My father-in-law really was surprised.  I saw his reaction as he first saw us, and then it registered that we weren't supposed to be there--very funny!  We enjoyed seeing my sister-in-law's new house, playing badminton with family members aged 9 to 70, eating dinner with my sister and her family, watching local birds, and swimming at my parents'.  

But first we had to get there...

At 9 a.m. on Friday morning, Bob had just come back from a run and we were enjoying a leisurely breakfast.  C.Z. and I were almost completely ready, even though we weren't leaving for LaGuardia until 11 a.m. Bob hadn't even started packing yet. 

Suddenly both our cell phones rang at once--playing different cello tunes that blended into one baroque mess.  Bob and I looked at each other curiously and then I realized what was happening. "Uh, oh.  Both cell phones at once can only mean one thing--cancelled flight!"  

That's exactly what it turned out to be.  According to their proud tradition, Delta had cancelled our 12:45 flight to Atlanta and replaced it with a 4:30 flight, with a stopover in...Cincinnati?  The  surprise party was supposed to be that evening, and we'd miss it.  Bob got on the phone, and after about 30 minutes of hold time and negotiating, the upshot was that we could get a direct flight, if we showed up thirty minutes earlier than our original flight (at 12:14), and at Newark airport.  

We got to work fast.  I called a car service, since it doesn't make sense to take a cab to New Jersey.  Bob got clean and completely packed within thirty minutes. We were in the car and heading down Broadway by 10:05 a.m.  

Unfortunately, Manhattan traffic at the end of morning rush hour isn't exactly conducive to speed, and our driver didn't speak enough English to discuss alternate routes.  At 10:30, we were inhaling exhaust in our un-airconditioned black sedan, which was sitting in full August sun, packed into an inside lane, and surrounded by trucks.  We were trying to enter the Lincoln Tunnel and were moving inches at a time.  Somehow this didn't bother me, because I figured it was out of my hands.  I have to admit I didn't relish the possibility of having to take another hired car back home and trying the whole thing again the next day, but I didn't worry about it.

Traffic cleared up once we were in New Jersey, however, and we were at Newark at about 11:10.  Bob got the bags into the check-in line at Delta at Terminal B, while I questioned some airline employees outside to see if there might be a quicker way to get our paperwork before moving on to the next terminal.  Our new flight was a code share on Continental, so we'd have to stand in line at Delta for paperwork, and then at Continental for check in.  Happily, the skycap hopped over the counter and came back with the necessary paperwork before the line had even moved (not to say that no time had elapsed, but this was definitely much quicker than the alternative).  

Off we dashed to look for the sky train and we progressed to Terminal A, which we'd pinpointed on a map as the Continental terminal for Atlanta flights.  Luckily, the line wasn't terribly long, but when we got to the attendant, there was a long, uncomfortable silence, furrowed brows, a "hmmmm" followed by keyboard tapping, more "hmmms," and a call to a supervisor.  

"To begin with," said the supervisor, after some more tapping and puzzled looks, "you're in the wrong terminal..."  Our hearts sank.  This is not what you want to hear at 11:20 when you have a flight out at 12:15 and haven't even checked bags yet.  Then she got gloomier.  "Delta did the paperwork wrong.  These aren't tickets.  We don't even have Robert in the system.  You're not going to make this flight."  At this point, Bob pulled out his dad's 70th birthday surprise story.  She said it wouldn't make any difference.  Our hopes were dashed.  More tapping, furrowed brows, and "hmmms."  She got on the phone.  Another supervisor appeared.  More tapping to silence, and muttering.  This went on for about ten minutes.  And then suddenly the machine spat out tickets!  

Off we ran to Terminal C.  Since we were already checked in, we were supposed to use a bag drop one flight down from the usual check in.  But the elevator buttons were confusing, and we somehow went down two floors instead of one.  It took us a few minutes to figure out our mistake, and haul our bags up the escalator.  Another line, and we made a mad dash to security.  

It was minutes before noon, but the security line looked short and we felt hopeful.  Then, as we went through the metal detector, we heard the employees call out, "Male number (bunch of numbers)....Female number (bunch of numbers)...Female number (bunch of numbers)."  And then, "You've been selected for extra screening."

At this point, I realized I was past the point of feeling any observable stress and was instead finding our experience to be funny.  As Bob held out his arms for the wand, he was shouting over to me (in the next booth), "I'll run to the gate and tell them you're coming."  The minute he was finished, he was off.  The attendant tried to flag down a cart, which was not moving because it was surrounded by people.  "That gate is a long way off, " she admitted, "but this guy will get you there.  You'll pick up your husband on the way."

"He's a six-minute miler," I replied, rounding up because it depends on how many miles he's running.

"Then you won't be picking him up,"  she said dryly.  I like the local service employee sense of humor.  Many people don't even recognize it as humor, but it is.

The cart driver finally broke through the crowd and muttered something about saying "Excuse me."  I thought he was telling me how to flag down a cart more efficiently, but I saw my mistake within seconds.  He proceeded to barrel down three extremely long corridors to Gate 90, narrowly missing toddlers, people in wheelchairs, and other unsuspecting victims, yelling, "Excuse me!  Coming through!  Excuse me!  Coming through!  Excuse me!  Coming through!" without remission until we were all the way to the gate.  

"You need a cart that goes beep,"  I told him.  C.Z. and I were laughing outright by now, and holding onto the sides of the cart so we wouldn't fall out, which was a real possibility.  

We pulled up to Gate 90 at some time after 12:10.  There were no passengers in sight.  I explained to the clerk that we were the two people my husband had said were coming.  "He's already on the plane?"  I gestured towards the walkway.  "No.  He went to the restroom.  I told him he had four minutes."

"It's a long way away,"  he added.

So onto the plane we went, shoved C.Z.'s violin into the only empty overhead bin we could find, and took our seats.  Bob appeared about 30 seconds later.  The door closed, and off we went!  Don't you just love a story that ends well?  Our luggage made it, too!

There's a tradition in Manhattan that you always add "of all places" after any mention of New Jersey.  Now you see why.  We got diverted to New Jersey, of all places, but we made the flight!