airport story redux.

This one's for Freya.

Dulles International, April 2008.

Freya and I flew to Washington DC to visit our friend Kat one spring. Over the course of the four days we were away, Freya went from being a little bit pregnant to uber pregnant. It was kind of awesome. Kat and I, on the other hand, went from being a little bit drunk to super drunk. It was the least we could do.

Anyway, here's something that I always do when travelling in a group: depend on others to handle the details for me. I've been an independent lady for a long time, and I love it, but when the opportunity to let someone else do the heavy lifting comes along, I seize the day. That's why I let Freya carry all the paperwork, memorize Kat's address and phone number in DC, and generally take charge. I was also doing it as a courtesy to her--she likes to plan. It was the least I could do.

Sadly, though, this approach backfired spectacularly. Freya and I were on separate flights home, since we'd booked at different times. And around the time Freya was cruising back into Ottawa without incident, I was glued to the departures board at Dulles, watching my flight get delayed, and delayed, and delayed. In a fit of boredom, I called my parents collect and talked their ears off for approximately an hour. When I got back to the lounge, I discovered that my flight had been completely cancelled. I spent the next couple of hours in rebooking purgatory. My sketchy-ass cellphone didn't work, other than to make insanely overpriced collect calls. The charmers at Air Canada booked me onto a flight two days later, and I begged, borrowed, and stole to get on one that was only slightly earlier. I waited in line next to the ponciest professor from SUNY Binghamton in the universe and willed myself to hold it together just so I wouldn't look like as much of a dick as he did. They told me to just leave my bag overnight at the airport, and I quietly said goodbye to all the beautiful clothes I'd bought in Georgetown, convinced I would never see them again.

When I finally sorted out my flight, I made the sobering realization that I would have to get myself back to Downtown DC for the night. Subsequent to this was the even more sobering realization that not only did I not know Kat's address, I didn't even have her phone number. So much for leaving all your eggs in one basket. Over the course of approximately three collect calls to Freya, I pieced together the information I needed. The last time I called, she was in the shower, and her husband Greg made fun of me for about five minutes before he finally got her on the line.

I took an exorbitantly priced taxi back to Kat's place in Foggy Bottom. I didn't know her buzzer number. I was sweaty and nauseous and nearly crying, and one of the many handsome preppy types in her neighbourhood took pity on me and let me into the building. That night we went out for drinks and got caught in the rain, soaking through the only clothes I had to wear the next day. I spent the next little while looking like a very stylish refugee.

The next morning I got on another bus to Dulles and miraculously made it home. So did my beautiful, beautiful clothes. Freya came and picked me up at the airport. I've always been a social smoker at most, but I'd brought a half pack of Marlboros back with me, and as I waited outside the terminal, I sat down on my suitcase to light up--I figured I deserved it. Just as my seat made contact with the suitcase, it tipped, and I fell ass over teakettle to the sidewalk.

I still owe a lot of people a lot of money for all those collect calls.