My bus eventually rolled in to Tucson at 3:30 in the morning. I got to the airport and found out right off the bat that my flight was delayed. Then delayed again, and again. I was supposed to have a three-hour layover in San Francisco, but it was now looking as if I wouldn’t have time to make my connection at all.
The flight eventually took off and I tried to get some sleep. There was a lady behind me with a 3 year-old and a 1 year-old—rather serendipitously I suppose. I couldn’t sleep for some reason and eventually gave up. That’s when the flight attendant snuck this note onto my tray. I thought it was a rather nice gesture—something I haven’t experienced a lot of on flights these days. She thought it was the kids who were keeping me from sleep and wanted to let me know I could move, but didn’t want to make the mother behind me feel bad.
Our flight landed fifteen minutes before my flight to Portland was scheduled to take off. Full on O.J. style I raced through SFO, and to the sounds of “Last call,” I slipped between the closing doors. Had I not made it I was looking at a six-hour wait.
I arrived in Portland 22 hours after leaving the boat. I’m not entirely sure the savings was worth it. It probably took me about twelve hours longer to go this route than if I had flown out of Hermosillo. Twelve hours, to save about $350, comes out to roughly thirty bucks an hour. Fair enough I guess, considering I was alone, but I sure wouldn’t be making that run with the kids.
I’d like to say the kids were over the moon to see their papa stroll through the door, but the truth is that their Aunt Katy and Aunt Toni were there already, as was Grammy, and the dog, and new toys, and books, and what? who? “Oh, hi Papa.”
Ali’s sisters flew out from Minnesota for a visit with the kids. And did I mention it’s ninety-seven degrees here? The hell? It was only ninety-five in San Carlos. It’s still only something like forty-five in Minnesota though I think, so they’re happy to be here.