In last week’s column, I recounted the two days Steve and I spent stranded in the Denver International Airport with thousands of other passengers. Taking our cue from a fellow traveler, we now refer to this experience as the “Denver Disaster.” We endured three canceled flights, a night spent on the airport floor, and chaos and confusion at every turn. But — as is often the case with really trying experiences — it wasn’t all bad; there were bits and pieces of good sprinkled throughout, and that’s what kept us going.
I have to start with a general shout-out to our fellow travelers. There’s a saying that “misery loves company,” and a lot of us were miserable, so we had a lot of company. And you know what? It made a difference. I’m not sure why it helps so much to commiserate with others who are going through what you’re going through, but it does. I guess that for all the bad feelings you’re experiencing — frustration, fatigue, uncertainty — at least “loneliness” isn’t one of them.
Plus, some of the people we met were just really cool. Take, Jenny, the elite cyclist from Oregon, for example. I can’t remember her exact age, but I do recall that it’s close to mine (61). I’d love to follow her example and become elite at something, though I have no idea what. Cycling’s definitely out. (As I listened to Jenny talk about how she trains for high-altitude rides, it made me think about how every muscle in my body automatically recoils when I’m on my bike and I encounter even the slightest incline.) And because I am without talent, skill or endurance my choices are limited. The only thing I can think of that I’m really good at is eating astounding amounts of pizza at one sitting. But “elite pizza eater”? Obviously, I need to give this some more thought.
And then there was Bertrand. He and I started talking while seated on the floor next to one another, he waiting for his flight to Nashville, me waiting for mine to Raleigh. (Side note: His flight did eventually depart; mine, of course, was canceled.) It turns out that we had an immediate connection, as I write for the Tribune and he is with an organization called Reporters Without Borders. One of the first questions strangers tend to exchange when getting to know each other is “Where are you from?” When I posed this question to Bertrand, he answered, “Pahree.” I had never before heard of Pahree, but he said it with such certainty — the way one might say New York or Dallas — that it was obvious I should know exactly where it was. I was hesitant to show my ignorance, but sometimes it’s necessary, so three times, I asked him to repeat the name. He finally got through to me, saying “Pahree, Frahnce.” Oh—Paris, France! Gotcha. Do not be surprised if you find yourself sitting next to me at lunch, when the following exchange occurs: Someone from across the table says, “Could you please pass the mustard?”, and then I say, “You know, my friend Bertrand, from…” — at which point I’ll pause for effect — “Paris…” — another pause for effect — and then, “Paris, France,” just to drive the point home — “well, he likes mustard, too.” I don’t really know if this is true (the subject of mustard did not come up during our 30-minute conversation), but that’s ok. I just like mentioning “my friend” who lives in Pahree. It makes me feel very cosmopolitan.
It wasn’t all just chitchat with our fellow travelers, though. We also looked out for one another, as was the case around 4:30 Wednesday morning, when I was lying, sleepless, on the makeshift bed Steve and I had fashioned from outdoor cushions, and I felt a gentle tap on my foot. Thirty minutes earlier, when I was up roaming around, I had walked past Terry and Joe, a wife and husband whose path Steve and I kept crossing, as we all kept ending up at the same gates, hoping for the same flights. Terry and I had talked about how nice it would be to have something to drink, and when she came across bottles of water being distributed for free, she made it a point to grab one for me and was now delivering it.
The folks we interacted with in the airport made what would have been an unbearable situation bearable. And the folks back home did their part, too. I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the degree to which our family and friends played a significant role in keeping us hopeful and sane. Steve and I both spent a fair amount of time calling and receiving calls, texting and receiving texts. Those diversions were invaluable. And a word of warning to our faithful support system: we’ll be doing more traveling in the months to come, so y’all keep your phones handy.
Next week: the Los Angeles report
