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The Waughs graciously offered to drive Rob and me to Orlando Airport after the dance. I'd be flying home and Rob would be picking up a rental car. While not technically out of their way, this is a good forty-minute trip, and probably $5 in tolls.
I handed Rob the spare microphone and audio cables, we hugged, and *poof* he was off on his two-week flight training adventure. I figured I'd have the easy part.
Ha.
Upon arrival in Dallas, we waited for nearly an hour while the airplane occupying "our" gate had mechanical trouble and a team of mechanics tried to fix it. Why no other gate was available I will never know.
Then the thunderstorm hit, and it was bad enough that they closed the ramp. The linemen took cover indoors, no trucks moved, and no airplanes moved. We waited perhaps another forty-five minutes to an hour here. While my connection time evaporated, I remembered in lavish detail the ribbing I had just gotten from Rob for not carrying a day's worth of food with me for flights.
I phoned Rob. He was snug in his hotel room at this point, with a nice bed, working air conditioning, no bugs, and wireless Internet access. He fired up that last and said this storm was bad. It was part of a line extending from mid-Texas up to the Great Lakes, tops were reported to flight level 450, and the radar map showed purple (a severity color I've never seen). At this point a kindhearted passenger who'd overheard my phone call handed me a South Beach granola bar, and she wouldn't even take a buck for it. People are sometimes simply wonderful. The flight attendants reassured us all that agents inside the terminal were "aware" of our dilemma and of our tight connections. (Of course the folks inside would be fools to do a damn thing to help us. That part, the flight attendants didn't bother to say.)
Needless to say, I missed my flight. My hopes of reaching San Jose that night dwindled. I got rebooked on a much later flight going to San Francisco, which at least gave me time for some dinner. I politely (but repeatedly) cited the mechanical issue that started the whole chain of delay, and got a manager to promise all eleven passengers in this fix ground transportation vouchers upon arrival. Several of these passengers had begun to recognize each other and start to look out for each other by this time. Two businessmen were rather rude: insulting the gate agents, trying to get everything they could for only themselves, and pointedly ignoring the rest of the group. But most folk were pretty decent.
The San Francisco flight was late, of course.
The weather gave us an absolutely spectacular light show for a good hour of the flight. The multilayered clouds were continually lit up in purplish white, shifting and flashing but never dark. I wished for a good video camera. I've seen T-storms from the air, but I have never before seen anything even remotely like that display.
The ground transportation in San Francisco was the slowest form of airport transportation in existence: a Super Shuttle. The rude, selfish pair of San Jose passengers were my only companions on the shuttle. (If I hadn't looked out for them a bit, they'd never have found the darn thing, but the instant they sat down they urged the driver to leave without "having to wait" for everyone else. I was glad I happened to know that there was no "everyone else" by this time. Most people either had friends to pick them up or chose an overnight in Dallas.) To make a long story short, instead of landing in San Jose at 10:15pm, I landed in San Francisco at 1:10am (4:10 by my body clock) and reached my house at something like half past two (5:30).
I was amused by the Bay Area traffic report at eight minutes past the hour. At 2:08am the report was "...traffic on the Bay Area roads: so far so good." Heh.
I happened to know which hotel the rude people needed to reach. I was pretty sure, since the shuttle driver didn't know how to get to I-280 from my house, that the driver did not know how to get to the hotel. I knew for sure that the rude people hadn't a clue. I was pretty sure that the driver did not know that the rude people hadn't a clue. Somehow I did not offer to pull up my wireless 'net (which I could have done, sitting there in the driveway of my house) to make sure the driver knew how to get there. He'd be fine; he's on shift either way, and American Airlines was paying him. I tipped the driver big and gave them all an airy wave. I am so going to hell... but somehow I don't mind.
I did have enough brain cells left to notify a) the cat sitter that I was back, and b) work that I'd probably be late.
Naturally my body clock woke me up at seven. Oh well.
I handed Rob the spare microphone and audio cables, we hugged, and *poof* he was off on his two-week flight training adventure. I figured I'd have the easy part.
Ha.
Upon arrival in Dallas, we waited for nearly an hour while the airplane occupying "our" gate had mechanical trouble and a team of mechanics tried to fix it. Why no other gate was available I will never know.
Then the thunderstorm hit, and it was bad enough that they closed the ramp. The linemen took cover indoors, no trucks moved, and no airplanes moved. We waited perhaps another forty-five minutes to an hour here. While my connection time evaporated, I remembered in lavish detail the ribbing I had just gotten from Rob for not carrying a day's worth of food with me for flights.
I phoned Rob. He was snug in his hotel room at this point, with a nice bed, working air conditioning, no bugs, and wireless Internet access. He fired up that last and said this storm was bad. It was part of a line extending from mid-Texas up to the Great Lakes, tops were reported to flight level 450, and the radar map showed purple (a severity color I've never seen). At this point a kindhearted passenger who'd overheard my phone call handed me a South Beach granola bar, and she wouldn't even take a buck for it. People are sometimes simply wonderful. The flight attendants reassured us all that agents inside the terminal were "aware" of our dilemma and of our tight connections. (Of course the folks inside would be fools to do a damn thing to help us. That part, the flight attendants didn't bother to say.)
Needless to say, I missed my flight. My hopes of reaching San Jose that night dwindled. I got rebooked on a much later flight going to San Francisco, which at least gave me time for some dinner. I politely (but repeatedly) cited the mechanical issue that started the whole chain of delay, and got a manager to promise all eleven passengers in this fix ground transportation vouchers upon arrival. Several of these passengers had begun to recognize each other and start to look out for each other by this time. Two businessmen were rather rude: insulting the gate agents, trying to get everything they could for only themselves, and pointedly ignoring the rest of the group. But most folk were pretty decent.
The San Francisco flight was late, of course.
The weather gave us an absolutely spectacular light show for a good hour of the flight. The multilayered clouds were continually lit up in purplish white, shifting and flashing but never dark. I wished for a good video camera. I've seen T-storms from the air, but I have never before seen anything even remotely like that display.
The ground transportation in San Francisco was the slowest form of airport transportation in existence: a Super Shuttle. The rude, selfish pair of San Jose passengers were my only companions on the shuttle. (If I hadn't looked out for them a bit, they'd never have found the darn thing, but the instant they sat down they urged the driver to leave without "having to wait" for everyone else. I was glad I happened to know that there was no "everyone else" by this time. Most people either had friends to pick them up or chose an overnight in Dallas.) To make a long story short, instead of landing in San Jose at 10:15pm, I landed in San Francisco at 1:10am (4:10 by my body clock) and reached my house at something like half past two (5:30).
I was amused by the Bay Area traffic report at eight minutes past the hour. At 2:08am the report was "...traffic on the Bay Area roads: so far so good." Heh.
I happened to know which hotel the rude people needed to reach. I was pretty sure, since the shuttle driver didn't know how to get to I-280 from my house, that the driver did not know how to get to the hotel. I knew for sure that the rude people hadn't a clue. I was pretty sure that the driver did not know that the rude people hadn't a clue. Somehow I did not offer to pull up my wireless 'net (which I could have done, sitting there in the driveway of my house) to make sure the driver knew how to get there. He'd be fine; he's on shift either way, and American Airlines was paying him. I tipped the driver big and gave them all an airy wave. I am so going to hell... but somehow I don't mind.
I did have enough brain cells left to notify a) the cat sitter that I was back, and b) work that I'd probably be late.
Naturally my body clock woke me up at seven. Oh well.
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