THORNBERRIES BOSTON TEA PARTY--Part VI

Jennifer bids a fond farewell to Boston at the Bunker Hill Memorial

Tuesday, May 15, 2007—Age, Die, Rot on a Plane

I awoke the next morning to find Jennifer bumping lightly against the ceiling like a balloon, filled as she was with the hot air of the Milner Hotel. I tethered her to a doorknob and lobbed ice at her until she cooled enough to gently descend back down to the floor.

This bloated statue from the MFA collection (artist unknown), captures how Jennifer felt after our last night in the sweltering Milner.

No excitement afterward. We packed, grabbed a meal at City Place food court, rode the “T” to the airport and prepared to depart this prominent New England city.

Butt-Punched by Zeus

Our trip home would be fraught with frustration and peril. In a nutshell, our first flight was delayed just in getting everyone aboard the plane, then once we were seated, the captain told us over the loudspeaker that bad weather was hovering around Chicago’s O’Hare Airport. That’s where we had our layover. Apparently, it was bad enough that many flights there had been cancelled or redirected to other airports. We shuddered at the idea of being shunted to another city, there to either try to get home on our own, or be consigned to wait until another flight to our destination could be found. Well, we were finally able to take off, but then we hit said bad patch of weather. The plane bucked and jumped a little in the high winds, and occasionally, we would see a flash of lightning through one of the windows. Then...

BOOM!!

For a moment, I thought the Olympian god, Zeus, had blown us out of his kingdom in the heavens. But no, the captain hurriedly came back on the loudspeaker, reassuring us that it was just a bit of electrical energy from the storm outside that had accumulated on the plane’s metal fuselage and then discharged. It was akin to being struck by lightning, but probably in reverse order…the plane threw it back at the clouds. Hubris! At any rate, after that little scare, I’m sure there were probably several seats that the flight attendants had to clean later.

Battle Royal at the O’Hare Airport

The situation didn’t get any better when we got to O’Hare. Everything was pandemonium because so many flights had been cancelled or rescheduled. Our own flight initially appeared unaffected; when we found our gate, the monitor still showed the same take-off time. However, after we waited our expected three hours or so, it quickly became obvious that they weren’t boarding anyone, and we knew some kind of delay was inevitable. The problem was that the poor beleaguered employee at the desk wasn’t saying anything at all; he was just making phone calls and talking to harried-looking passengers.

Finally, one loudmouthed guy shouted out, “Hey, why don’t you change the board!?” He continued to call out harassing comments for several more minutes, basically trying to beat an answer out of the guy on why nothing was moving and no new information was forthcoming. Other passengers began to rumble as well. The employee finally announced that the plane we were supposed to be boarding wasn’t coming; the incoming flight to O’Hare was among those canceled because of the bad weather. Eventually, another employee, this one a large African-American woman, joined the other guy in fielding some of the passengers ringing the desk. She was much more no-nonsense and showed none of the other’s passive detachment. When Mr. Loudmouth justified his nickname again, she quietly but sternly told him, “Right now, you don’t know anything because we don’t know anything.” She made it clear that they were waiting on instructions from “dispatch” on what to do. What they did was move us to another gate. And yes, then to yet another. Finally, we clambered aboard the next aircraft before they could shift us again.

Thus began the single worst flight of our entire lives.

Yes, we ran headlong into stormy weather again, but this time, the plane spasmed, twisted, barrel-rolled and plunged. I tried to rest calmly, but inside I was screaming. Finally, the captain, who first thanked us for our patience as he and his crew entered their twelfth hour on-duty, told us that there was an impenetrable wall of raging storms around our destination. The news was bad enough, but we could both have done without knowing that he was wrestling with the elements while dog-tired. He had us in a holding pattern, essentially hoping the weather would clear enough to let us land. The guy was good at keeping up the information flow, but again, he gave a teensy bit too much information when he told us, “We’ve got an hour of fuel left.” Despite myself, I immediately began counting the minutes in my head.

My fast-food Asian dinner from O’Hare had soured into kimchi in my guts, and the rest of our insides were whipped into viscous glop by the time we finally landed. We were shaky and disheveled and probably born-again as the flying coffin finally came to a stop. The time was about 11:30 p.m, or about two hours behind schedule.

*Whew!*

How do you feel now, dear readers? Exhausted? Gritty-eyed? Ready for the end? If so, then you truly have shared our experiences. Like you, we were ready to move on to other things. We got into our car, headed home and we’ve been writing this narrative ever since. [Whew!] It was a good trip, for all its misfortunes.

And for your attention, we must say, gratia tibi and gracias!

Finis

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