But Tuesday it began to snow in earnest. I soon realized that tomorrow’s 8:15 a.m. flight might well be cancelled, or, worse, delayed. This was already an impressive dump, and much more lake-driven snow was predicted until very late Wednesday evening.
Uh-oh.
If I didn’t get out of TC exactly on time tomorrow morning I’d never be able to run fast enough to make my Chicago-to-London flight, which would depart at 9:30 a.m. I’d be stuck at O’Hare. Worse, there’d probably be no room on Thursday’s jet. (Fewer planes are flying these days, and survivors tend to be completely booked, especially near the Easter/spring break holiday.)
I’d try for that Chicago connection today.
I grabbed my backpack and carry-on (both had been packed since yesterday) and Les kindly drove me to the airport. American Airlines’ afternoon flight just might have a seat. It was a gamble, but Les was willing to drive me home again if it didn’t work out.
I’d have done my best.
I wondered if any plane could leave. It was difficult to see more than two car lengths ahead. We crept on; the wipers struggled to keep up.
Finally the terminal loomed; I yelled my thanks, rushed inside, dashed to the desk- nobody was there.
And why should they be? The 8:15 plane had managed to leave (late), and another wouldn’t try to take off till 2:30. I was the only soul around. Sighing, I hung in there, willing an agent to wander by. Forty-five minutes later, one did. I leaped up and waved. Puzzled, she asked, “May help you?”
Oh, boy!
I explained my situation, Might there be one. more. seat to Chicago this afternoon? She thought a minute, and set her mind to it. A million key pokes later she’d cleverly managed to switch tomorrow’s ticket to that afternoon, but provisionally. I was number one on standby, but tomorrow morning’s ticket would still work if this switcheroo failed. “The jet appears completely full,” she said, staring at the screen, “but with this awful weather someone might not show up…”
I whizzed through security, as there was hardly anyone there, and then haunted the gate for ages. When an agent appeared behind the boarding gate desk I popped over to let him know I was a hopeful standby flyer. He noted it, and shrugged, noncommittal.
“Well, it’s full, but you never know…”
I paced, but wasn’t anxious. That ticket agent had done her best. Things would happen as they were meant to. I was philosophical. But my heart beat faster.
They began boarding. Some minutes later almost everyone had gone through. The agent caught my eye- and winked. OH BOY! I’d made it.
I had the last seat.
I was so happy I nearly popped.
We sat on the taxiway while the de-icer folks, bundled into thick winter clothing that enveloped everything but their goggled eyes, hugged huge hoses high on elevated trucks. They carefully coated the entire plane in thick gobs of bright green glop, to prevent ice buildup. (Airborne planes are violently allergic to ice.) The viscous mixture slimed the windows, the wings, everything. Our kelly-green giant rolled onto the runway, which had all but vanished as the storm intensified.
We gathered speed and rocketed up, up through thick clouds and blinding snow, up, up to our assigned 24,000 feet, while the glop gradually dissipated. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the last of it sloughed off- and there was a sparkling clean wing, the sun- and blue sky!
Below us, a snowy whiteout, one day before spring.
The captain cheerfully announced that sunny Chicago registered 39 degrees.
That short plane ride was epic. I beamed all the way there. Three cheers for that tenacious ticket agent lady!
After deplaning I decided to trot to the Hilton, only just around the corner. We’d taxied right by it. Plus, it sat right next to a control tower. (Odd- but interesting.) But the price blew me away. $250 just to lie down. The lovely, elegantly clad receptionist was very helpful, though. “Here are some nice hotels a bit further out, and their phone numbers. There are courtesy buses you can catch, too, just outside.” She handed me a sheet.
I sat on the floor (no chairs were anywhere near), whipped out my phone, and perused the long list. Best Western rang a bell. (Joe and I had stayed at a wonderful one when we’d visited Zion National Park four years ago. It was gorgeous, but inexpensive.) I rang; they quoted a very reasonable price. I hopped a courtesy bus, and 20 minutes later, bingo!
The room was lovely. My grin got wider. The nail-biting part was over.
Wednesday morning I had a leisurely breakfast at 5 a.m., went through security four hours early, and waited, content. We lifted off on time, and 8 hours later, at ten fifty p.m.- London.
I’d awakened in Chicago; I’d sleep that evening in The United Kingdom. Is this not a miracle?
At that hour, though, Heathrow Airport folds up its tent. Only a few sleepy officials awaited us. My passport was banged; customs ignored me- after 48 years those guys knew me, by golly- and the courtesy bus waited just outside. Finally, just before one a.m. London time I tumbled into my Holiday Inn Express room. It was so nice! That huge shower- the classy sofa- brand new everything- for well under $100 - wasted.
“Wake me at 5:15” I croaked to reception, and fell back onto the bed. Lights out.
Four hours later –BBRRIING! The solicitous desk clerk had summoned a taxi to spirit me off to Paddington Station to catch the early morning fast train to Hereford. Six bleary minutes later I was out the door clutching a little bagged breakfast he’d prepared for me.
The taxi driver wove through miles of morning traffic; forty-five minutes later Paddington Station appeared. I bought a second-class ticket and coffee, sank into the cushioned seat, sipped, ate, and literally counted sheep dotting the countryside, for the entire three-hour trip. I love train rides too much to get lost in a book.
My dear friend Gaynor was waiting as I trundled my stuff out of Hereford’s little train station. It was 30 degrees! Brrr. She drove my sleepy self to the elderly Green Dragon Hotel, smack in the middle of this rainy, ancient town.
I booked in, and slept 10 hours. Woke to pounding rain. Then snow.
A snowstorm is expected, announced my computer.
What?? NOW? In England?
Yep.
Incredible. Here we go again.
And all I have is a light jacket.
Aw, who cares? Life is good!!