I fly a lot. Not enough to have my own personal jet like Taylor Swift or a flock of carrier pigeons, but more than your average Joe who thinks “jet lag” is a new energy drink.
This past weekend, my brothers and I decided to visit family we hadn’t seen since the days when people thought “Y2K” was going to make their toaster launch nuclear warheads. We planned a heartwarming reunion in Belpre, Ohio, just across the Ohio River from Parkersburg, West Virginia, where my 92-year-old Aunt Helen and a few of our cousins were waiting to remind us how much better we looked before gravity took over.
Phase One went fine. I landed in Columbus, Ohio, without incident—unless you count the guy in 14B who treated his armrest like it was the Berlin Wall. My brothers flew in from Austin, and we rented a car that smelled vaguely of regret and drove to Parkersburg. The weekend was great: we laughed, swapped stories, and hiked in the Appalachian Mountains, which are basically nature’s way of saying, “Here’s a hill. Suffer.” Aunt Helen, who’s sharper than most TikTok influencers, regaled us with tales of yore. It was all very Norman Rockwell, minus the pipe-smoking grandpa.
Then came Phase Two: the return to reality. My brothers headed back to Austin, but I, in a moment of what I can only describe as temporary insanity, decided to detour to Pensacola, Florida, to visit Aunt #2. I’d been mouthing off all weekend about being a Zen traveler: “Delays? Pfft. Roll with it. They’ll get you there.”
The Travel Gods, who apparently have a vendetta against cocky middle-age-ish men, took this as a personal challenge.
It started with a storm in Columbus that looked like Mother Nature was auditioning for a Michael Bay movie. My flight was delayed, threatening my razor-tight connection in Atlanta. When we finally landed, I sprinted through the airport like a caffeinated gazelle, channeling a 1980s O.J. Simpson Hertz commercial (ask your grandpa). I arrived at the gate seconds after the door slammed shut. The plane was still there, taunting me through the window, its jet bridge umbilical cord practically waving.
I pleaded with a Delta attendant who had the warmth and charm of a DMV sloth. “Sorry, buddy,” she said, or maybe her eyes just said it while her mouth muttered something about “policy.” She pointed me to the Delta help desk, which was apparently located in a different time zone.
By the time I limped there—blisters forming faster than a bad Yelp review—I got a text from Delta: “Congrats, you’re rebooked for tomorrow morning!” Gee, thanks.
I called my Girl Friday (a saint who deserves a Nobel Prize for Dealing With My Nonsense), and she found me a motel near the airport. One Uber ride later, I stepped into a room that was clean in the same way a gas station bathroom is “hygienic.” Exhausted, I collapsed for 4.5 hours of sleep, dreaming of a world where motels don’t smell like despair and Lysol had a baby.
Morning came, and my flight to Pensacola actually took off on time—a miracle rivaling the invention of sliced bread. But the Travel Gods weren’t done.
Budget Rental Car hit me with a fee for “missing” my pickup the day before, because apparently, I was supposed to teleport to their counter while stranded. After finally reaching the hotel, the clerk swore I had no reservation. I briefly fantasized about going full Homer Simpson on Bart, but I calmly corrected him, and—poof!—he found my booking.
I worked a few hours (no nap, because naps are for people who don’t anger the Travel Gods) and headed to Aunt #2’s where more cousins joined in the “Do you remember?” game, fueled by Texas Roadhouse (not a sponsor, but they should be).
The next day, after a glorious sleep on a full belly of steak from Texas Roadhouse and at a Best Western that didn’t feel like a crime scene (not sponsors), I returned the rental car (which cost more per day than my first car). Security was a breeze, though I narrowly escaped a TSA pat-down for “smiling suspiciously.” (I was just happy to be going home, okay?)
I settled at my gate with three hours to kill, feeling like a seasoned survivor. Then, the loudspeaker crackled: “Your flight is delayed due to a mechanical issue.”
Mechanical issue?! Fix it, people! I’m not flying on a plane held together with duct tape and Jethro Bodine’s optimism from The Beverly Hillbillies.
We waited. And waited. Finally, Southwest delivered the knockout punch: another four-hour delay, rerouted through Houston, with another tight connection to Denver, arriving home by midnight. Swell.
I drowned my sorrows in overpriced airport pretzels and beer, half-expecting some shower curtain ring salesman to sit down and pitch a cross-country train adventure.
Epilogue
I got home as promised, with nothing worse than a hangover and a renewed hatred for airport pretzels. The Travel Gods had their fun, but I survived. Next time, I’m keeping my “Zen traveler” nonsense to myself.
