Inappropriate Flight Attendants, Tuberculosis, and First Class

I found myself in a place last Friday night that I didn't expect to be.

Curled up in a ball on an O'Hare terminal bench, I tried catching some sleep alongside 25 other Washington-bound stranded passengers. I had arrived late from Cedar Rapids due to tornadoes and thunderstorms and discovered the customer service line for rescheduling and hotel assistance numbered well over 500. Chaos and rumors flew about. Sleeping in the airport seemed a lot more rational. I had Internet, food, a bathroom, a bench, and ample people-watching. I was set.

I knew my trip was not going to go well on the drive up to the Cedar Rapids airport. Iowa City had had tornado sirens ringing all afternoon, and the skies were dark. Sure enough, I was delayed one, two, and then three hours. Planes from Memphis and Denver bound for Chicago landed in CR because of air traffic delays in O'Hare, adding to the confusion and wait time for food. The gate agent told me that if I didn't get to Chicago that night, the earliest they would be able to put me through to DC would be 5:00 p.m. Saturday, missing well over half of my AMSA meeting. I decided to make it to O'Hare, if at all possible, and preemptively booked a 6:00 a.m. ticket eastward for the next morning.

We had less than five minutes to board our craft in CR when it finally arrived. I scurried down the jet bridge, found my seat, and got to work preparing for my meeting. After the two gentlemen flight attendants finished their safety demonstration, #1 walked by and told me to quit working so hard. We took off. Not long after #2 served me ice water, he came back and tapped me on the shoulder. "Are you going to be staying in a hotel tonight, or is Chicago your final destination?" he asked.

"I'll most likely be staying in airport," I said.

"Well, here, this will save you $4," he said and gave me a liter bottle of water.

"Thank you," I replied and got back to reading.

A few seconds later, #2 tapped me on the shoulder again and whispered in my ear, "If I were twenty years younger, I would have a better suggestion for a place for you to stay."

It didn't click at first, and I almost asked him where ... and then it hit me. How wholly inappropriate. I was perturbed.

#2 stopped by again to offer me "pleasure reading" he found in the bathroom --- the latest copies of OK and People. I didn't want anything to do with whatever he found or was doing in the bathroom. I politely refused. I didn't even look up when he stopped by near the end of the flight to offer me a hot towel. Needless to say, I was happy to disembark in Chicago.

I soon discovered that my original Chicago - DC connection had yet to leave, but the gate was swarming with people. After waiting in line for twenty minutes, I learned that the standby list was closed, and my best bet was to confirm my 6:00 a.m. flight. I wandered off in search of food.

I found a little deli stand that was about to close and picked up a sandwich and a cup of fruit and set them down near the register. As soon as she rang up both items, I noticed the fruit looked rather brown and asked her if she wouldn't mind canceling it on my order.

Without a word, she threw up her hands and started flapping them, yelling, "I don't want to be here! It's time to close, and I want to go home!"

"All right ..." I broke in.

"I can't take cash! I can only take credit card! I've already rung them up and can't take it off!"

"Is your manager here?" I asked.

"No! I'm the only one here! And I want to go home! I don't want to be here! The kitchen is closed!"

I just stood there and stared at her, not bothering to mention that I didn't really want to be there either. I had half a mind to walk away and not pay, but I resignedly handed over my credit card. This, I decided, was one of those battles in life not worth fighting.

I found a bench near the gate where my original DC flight was supposed to leave and settled back to enjoy dinner. The fruit tasted about as appetizing as it looked, and the sandwich was dry. I was rather grateful for the free liter of water. As I watched the people boarding the Dulles flight, a rather peculiar man caught my eye. Wearing a government ID, a floppy comb-over, and suit pants 4" too short, he pushed his suitcase cart around in very neat, tiny figure eight motions, cocking his head from side-to-side to take in the action. Every so often, he would pause, lean against a pole, and tuck his right leg behind his left knee for a minutes, and then would resume his figure eights. I decided to call him Stork Man.

Without a warning, Stork Man wheeled his cart next to the trash can eight feet in front of me and noisily hawked a saliva ball from his very feet and hurled it in to the waste receptacle ... just as I put my sandwich in my mouth. I nearly gagged, started to shake, and began to cry from laughter and broke down in tears a few more times over the next twenty minutes because I couldn't stop laughing. Utterly unbelievable. I was so tired that anything was funny. I just hoped I hadn't been sprayed with tuberculosis.

I confirmed my seat, spent $6.95 on wireless Internet, and settled down for a short nap throughout the rest of the night. The next morning, I waited patiently for my seating group to be called so I could board the plane. When I didn't hear it called, I glanced at my ticket and realized that it wasn't even listed. I asked the gate attendant to clarify.

"3E? Ma'am, that's first class. You could have boarded ten minutes ago!" she told me.

Having never flown first class, the fact that I wouldn't have a seating pecking order had never occurred to me. I never have had so much leg room, and my seat companion, a great guy who works for the State Department and had spent four days trying to get home from Prague, had to show me how to work all the buttons and tray table. He shared his breakfast with me, and we visited the entire way to DC about traveling, politics, medicine, photography, and the Stork Man, a terrific way to end yet another airport adventure!