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| No, those white flakes aren't snow, they're petals from fruit trees in full bloom in February!! |
My flight to California was to leave February 11th from Boston (Logan Airport) for San Francisco with a connecting flight to Santa Barbara. Reaching Logan required hiring a car for the two-plus-hour trip. But as February approached, I began to feel more than a little apprehensive since Boston (to say nothing of my town in Vermont) was being deluged with storm after storm, dumping unprecedented amounts of snow. Plainly, it was NOT a time to travel by road or air. Logan was experiencing many cancelled flights; Boston had already gotten six feet of snow in the past eighteen days. Roads were snow-clogged and icy. I looked at the weather report more hours each day than I care to mention and found that, yes, lucky me, there was a window of sun on February 11th. But, for a morning flight, I needed to leave the day before and spend the night in a hotel. Okay, except we (and Boston) had just experienced THREE DAYS OF ONE LONG STORM
and Boston's mayor had put a ban on all travel. So how was I to get to Logan?
In fact, my intrepid driver said we could make it by not going into Boston but skirting it Which is what we did. Once there, I began to relax. Until next morning when I looked out and that window of sun was nowhere to be found. It was snowing yet again!! Though I expected it could well be cancelled, my flight was still "On Schedule." A shuttle delivered me to the airport, I checked in, all seemed well. Being a full flight, we boarded early. I kept looking at my watch; we needed to be punctual if I was going to make my connecting flight from San Francisco to Santa Barbara within what was only a fifty-minute time-frame.
We pulled away from the terminal (that was a good sign) ... but then sat there. Any minute, I thought, the engines would rev up and we'd take off. But, no. After some time, the pilot advised us that we weren't going anywhere. First we had to join the de-icing queue. Then, he said, just to top everything off, the runway was closed. Plows were out even then getting all that new snow pushed to one side. We sat. We were de-iced. We sat some more. Then the runway opened ... but being the only runway in use, all the stacked arrivals were using it to land. We finally took off. But by then we were an hour and a half late. So much for making my connection to Santa Barbara.
But, I thought, at least I'm outta Boston and poor beleaguered New England. (A side note--I left my house with part of my ceiling on the floor ... and plastic sheeting, two buckets, and newspapers spread around. Before leaving, I'd also had to make a last minute call to my plow man to dig me out since the town plow had just filled in my front walk as it spread what was in the street off to the side.)
To conclude, I have a tale to tell on myself. The pilot, Mr. Zippy, even though going against the jet stream, mentioned us passengers needing to make connecting flights and said he was putting on the power. Well, other passengers might make their connections, I thought, but not me. The timing was too tight. For one thing, deplaning was always chaotic: people stuck in the aisle (and I was seated toward the back), luggage bumping everyone, people stalled for whatever reason. Then there was the matter of reaching the connecting flight's gate. To say nothing of getting checked luggage from one plane to the other.
When I mentioned all this to my seat mate, she said, "Maybe the gate will be right next door." I gave her a wan smile and wondered why always put a gooey spin on things. Why cover up reality. Why not say, "Hey, that's too bad you'll miss it." Or, "Yeah, that's tough."
Well, the gate wasn't right next door, but this is what happened: 1) We got to San Francisco with only minutes to spare. 2) Once we landed, the other passengers were told to stay seated until we connecting passengers had deplaned. 3) We were told the gate number where we needed to go. 4) I dashed as fast as I could. And 5) we Santa Barbara passengers--or most of us--MADE IT.
"What about our checked luggage?" I asked an airline employee.
"Oh, we knew all about you so we have that organized."
My admiration quotient for that airline zoomed sky-high. And I also realized I should not have pooh-poohed my seat mate's positive spin.
We were soon out over the Pacific heading south. It was 77 degrees when we landed. (It had been 17 that morning in Boston.) The air smelled fragrant. Fruit trees and roses were in full bloom. The sky was blue. There were no predicted snow storms! I felt as if I'd left the moon and entered Oz! And, yes, my checked luggage had arrived, too. (Thank you, United!)
