Leaving America – Pt. III

I didn't take this, someone else did - but this is what it kinda looked like.

CONTINUED FROM PREVIOUS POST:

Ultimately, they locate another plane for us to try.

The sullen group boards the craft, praying in several languages that it can deliver our bodies, preferably alive, to Europe. However, because the seating arrangements are slightly different, some people are confused and yes, unhappy about where they are told to sit.

It comes down to one of the Italian men arguing with a very panicked stewardess. Sure, they have a seat for him but it is several aisles from his friend/brother/whatever and he simply cannot accept this.  There is much yelling and the stewardess keeps looking at her watch, pleading – no, begging – him to sit. The plane cannot take-off while he is standing, she says, checking her timepiece.

Then, quick as smoke, she stops speaking, turns around and marches off, her face burning with frustation. The Italian is left in the aisle with no one to scream at. He looks around at everyone and we throw woeful stares back at him. There is an erie silence. Once again, all the flight crew have disappeared and I’m reminded of The Langoliers, a short story by Stephen King where a handful of passengers awake to find themselves completely alone  – 30,000 feet above Earth. This is the only thought that makes me happily grounded.

Nearly an hour later, Mary apologizes over the intercom, her voice full of real dread. According to FAA regulations, she tenderly explains, a flight crew can only spend so many hours in the air and, although they were hoping to get off the ground before the deadline passed, it was now too late. We were asked to deplane – now an all-too-familar verb – and collect our hotel/meal vouchers at the Northwest counter.

Welcome to Minneapolis – again.

The airport is virtually empty save for the hideously long lines we are forced to stand in. I can’t even see the front and it’s nearly 3 a.m. The scene crackles with tension and the airport police are even called in to keep the peace. (Although one confides that after what we’ve been through – for we are quickly becoming the stuff of legend – he would gladly help organize the riot should we take that route.)

At this point, the faces of my fellow victims are becoming familiar. Conversations, started with bitter complaints, have begun. Everyone has a story, and because of our significant destination, not one of them is dull.

There’s Rob, for instance, who moved from his native Jerusalem in 1984 to Fargo, North Dakota (huh?) and is trying to meet up with his brother in Spain. Elizabeth, traveling with her engaged daughter, has planned a three-week shopping spree in Vienna, Paris and Milan in hopes of finding the perfect wedding dress. Anna, a tall, good-humored woman, was hoping to explore Berlin, the home of her ancestors while the talkative chap behind me was returning to his home in Switzerland. His jokes were weak but everyone laughed hard, grateful for a dose of silliness to cure the absurdity.

To our great delight, another counter opens and those of us standing pathetically at the end make a run for it. I quickly make friends with two sane-looking women and suggest we share a room …

TO BE CONTINUED …