From Philadelphia to Kansas

This post is long, and it's still in the revision stage, but I wrote a little short story documenting my trip from Philadelphia to Kansas. Enjoy!

Johnny shipped out for Georgia yesterday, and I have a 7:05 AM flight from Philly to Kansas City this morning. I had it all figured out. I was going to get up around 4:45, leave for suburban station at 5, get on the 5:30 train to the airport and be there at 5:50. Golden. I set two alarms last night as usual. One on my phone and the other on the tick tock clock we have on our bedside table. I stayed up late last night because not only am I going to be gone from the apartment for a month and a half, but we have some friends coming to stay in it, so I couldn’t leave it messy. I leave a few dishes in the sink to take care of in the morning, talk to Johnny on the phone, and then fall asleep.

I wake up to my phone sounding the alarm. I roll out of bed, thinking to myself, “I can’t believe I used to get up at this time on a daily basis.” I quickly go through the motions of what I know needs to be done this morning. The tick tock clock catches my eye and makes me stop what I’m doing. This clock says that it is not 4:45, but it is in fact 2:30. I look at it again and realize that the batteries stopped working during the night. I breathe a sigh of relief that I always set two alarm clocks and continue on my merry way. I open the door of our bedroom and furtively look around because I had locked a fly out their last night, and I am hoping that he doesn’t charge at me in anger. No fly. I quickly clean up the few things that I left to finish, except quickly doesn’t happen as quickly as I would like it to. By the time I look at the time again, it’s five after five, and I’m already late. I struggle to get my four bags through the three doors, turn off all the lights, and take one final look around the apartment. I think I’m set.

After I’m out the doors and on the sidewalk, I take a look at Johnny’s J. Press watch that I decided to wear for the trip. It’s ten after, and I know I can’t get to Suburban Station quickly enough, especially with all my bags. I decide to briskly walk to 20^th street and hail a cab. I see one stopped and flag him down. My heart drops as out of the driver’s side door hops my arch nemesis, the Society Hill Cabbie. Sometimes when I babysit late at night, I will take a cab home from society hill. I have gotten the same cab driver at least two or three times, and he never ever takes me where I want to go. I always tell him 20^th and Locust, and without fail, he will always speed right through 20^th street while I’m screaming for him to just let me out anywhere. I’m serious about this. You can ask my husband.

Anyway, I think to myself, “I’m not going that far, it will be fine.” He throws my luggage in the trunk, and I slip into the back seat. He hops back in, and I say, “Suburban Station please.”

He responds, “Uh 30^th Street Station?”

“No,” I say. “Suburban Station.”

“Where is that?”

Dramatic pause. Now before I continue, for you non Philadelphians out there, Suburban Station is huge. All of the trains running in and out of Philadelphia go through there. Johnny goes there every morning to get to work. Any cab driver worth his salt should know where this train mecca is.

I take a deep gulp of air and say, “Well, I believe it’s around Market and 18^th.”

“Ok, so I’ll just continue here on 18^th?” (We’re on 20^th street.)

“No, um, just go up here to Market and turn right.”

“Turn right on the market?”

“Yeah, Market Street.”

I’m breathing deeply and praying that I get to the station in enough time to meet my train. I should have listened to Molly last night at Pilates when she told me to leave earlier than I was planning on.

I remind him to turn right on Market street, and I start looking for Suburban Station. I’m used to going in and out of the subway stations around City Hall, so I’m not as familiar with all the entrances to Suburban. We pass 18^th, and it’s not there. “Shoot,” I think to myself. I frantically call Johnny since I wasn’t sure of the intersection.

5:15 AM

Ring, pause pause, ring, pause, pause. Come on Johnny pick up.

“Hello?”

Johnny’s voice, heavy with sleep, gives me some comfort in what is becoming a frustrating morning.

“Hi. What’s the intersection of Suburban Station?”

Groggle groggle. “Umm.”

“Johnny! What’s the intersection?!”

Silence. “Umm.”

We get to 16^th and I see it out of the corner of my eye.

“Nevermind!” click.

I tell my buddy the cab driver to pull in by the lights. I pull out my six dollars, and he pulls out my bags. We make the exchange, and I start walking to the doors. Yes, you guessed it. Locked. There is a 5:30 train, and the doors are locked. I look at Johnny’s watch. 5:17.

I decide to walk around the building to see if any of the other doors are open. All of the doors say to use the entrance on 16^th and JFK which is where I was originally, so I start praying really hard. I follow a woman who also has a large bag, and we team up to try to get in the building. An older man sees us and apparently works in the building and says he can get us in. We follow him in, and he gets us on the elevator. We get to the bottom, step out of the elevator, and through a glass door, I can see that my train is loading. I grab for the door, and yes, it’s locked. We pound on it, and the people on the other side look at us like we’re crazy. It’s now 5:29. I get back on the elevator, mumbling about how I’ll just take a cab, and as the doors are closing, the lady gets the door open. I slam on the Door Open button and run through with her. Philadelphia transit is not known for their punctuality, but let me tell you, this morning, they were right on time. I missed it by a few seconds.

Sweating, I start to hurriedly look for the elevator up to the street. I find one and step out into the smothering humidity. I assume the “taxi-hailing” position and grab a red one. I grew up thinking that all taxis are yellow, but I have yet to see a yellow taxi in Philly. My driver pops out. I look him over to make sure that he’s not the Society Hill Cabbie, and with my fears assuaged, I sink into the back seat. We head to the airport. My driver seems to think that he’s in the Indy 500 and proceeds to weave in and out of the few trucks and minivans that inhabit the highway on Tuesday mornings. I don’t mind, though, because I’ve got a plane to catch, darn it. I’m smiling to myself, thinking that I just might make it, when a breath-stopping smell enters the car. Call it what you will, barking spider, butt burp, passing gas, but my cab driver was invading my personal space with his personal gas. “Seriously?” I ask God.

After some completely unnecessary hairpins turns on the otherwise empty trek to the airport, we pull up to terminal E, I pay the man, and we’re in business. I situate my backpack and throw my LL Bean bag (of course) on top of my high school graduation present luggage and tally ho through the clear glass doors.

My heart stops.

In all the flights I’ve taken to Florida and California and Chicago and yes, Philadelphia, never in my life have I seen a check in line as long as this one. Time check. 6:05. I grumble to myself and pull my possessions into line. I make friends with the older woman behind me who is on her way to visit her grandchildren. She laments her decision to bring so many presents. “I could have carried on!” she laughs.

A younger man a few people in front of me tries a few times to flag down the Southwest representative who seems to be running this whole circus.

“Excuse me, I have a 6:35 flight. Could I move up?”

The woman ignores him. When he finally gets her attention she forcefully denies his request. “Poor guy,” I think to myself, envisioning myself in the same position thirty minutes from now. There’s no way I’ll still be in line.

6:30 AM

I finally get through to the ticket counter. I jam my finger at the screen, grab my boarding pass, and wrench my luggage up on the scale. An error sign appears on the touch screen. Deep breaths. Apparently the luggage tag printer thingamajigger is jammed. I wait a moment as Nazi lady from before comes over and helps my lady get the tags on the luggage. Nazi lady passes me my luggage tabs, and says without feeling, “I can’t guarantee that you’ll make your flight; you’re late.”

“Gee really?” I think to myself. My friend from the line yells her good lucks to me as I run for the escalator. Every second counts. Since the ticket counter was going to slow, I assure myself that the security check can’t be too backed up.

As the steps of the escalator glide into the catch at the top, my head, then my neck, then my shoulders rise over the horizon of the second floor. Before me, a devastating scene. Person upon person. Stroller upon stroller. Bag upon bag. All feeding into only three security checkpoints. I make friends with another woman who is on my flight. I guard her spot in line, and she runs up to see if we have any hope of cutting. No dice. We chit chat with some other women, calming our frustration by bashing Southwest, Philadelphia, airports, and pretty much anything else we can think of.

I get to the driver’s license and ticket check at 6:59. “There’s no way,” I say out loud to anyone who is listening. I rip off my shoes, grab my liquids, untangle my laptop, and force everything through the x ray machine. I turn to go through the metal detector only to be thrown into another bottleneck. The people running the searches have no sense of urgency and are casually calling people through, stopping them, patting them down. I bounce on the balls of my feet, waiting my turn impatiently. I finally get through, seize my bag and my backpack, throw my lose belongings anywhere where they will fit, and with shoes in hand, I run full speed for gate E15 at the very end of a long, long hallway.

At this point I am reminded of every other time that I have run for some form of transportation. My friends and I used to cut it really close when we were going from Chicago to Wheaton. There were numerous times that I had to run, full speed, through snowy Chicago to make it to the Metra on time. I’ve run down subways steps and stumbled through turnstiles; I’ve run to bus stops as the sound of the lumbering Septa bus passes me by. I’ve run behind our car as Johnny drives away without realizing I’m trying to get in. You really would think I’d be in better shape by now.

So, as I’m pulling a Home Alone, running to gate E15 for my 7:05 flight with my shoes in my hand, there is only one thing I can think of: don’t slip. I pass gate after gate, lamenting the fact that my flight just had to be at the furthest gate away. I lose sight of the friend I had made in line. She is really fast in those socks. I’ve always known that I’m not that fast, but I kind of always thought that in a situation like this or if someone was chasing me, adrenaline would kick in, and I go all track star. I pass E7 and think to myself, “I’m in big trouble if anyone ever decides to chase me.”

My eyes scan the horizon, and to my pleasant surprise, a friendly Southwest agent is standing at the gate with the door open. He smiles at me and says, “Take a moment, catch your breath, and put on your shoes.” I’m so thankful; I breathe deeply and do what he says. Slipping on my Keens, I hand over my ticket and hurry down the tunnel into the plane.

While rushing down the tight space I can’t help but think of the Lost episode that I watched recently. Morbidly, I remember the overweight character named Hurley, running late through the Sydney airport, doing everything in his power to get on his flight to L.A. He begs the flight attendant to let him on the plane, and he gives her a giant hug when she agrees. Little does he know that his plane is going to crash in a few hours, and he’ll be on a deserted island with forty very attractive and resourceful people for six seasons. Unfortunately if I crashed, I would be marooned not in Hawaii but in Missouri. And so it goes.

Once seated, the plane’s captain kindly comes on the intercom system and explains that security is really backed up, and since we happen to have some extra time built in, we’re going to wait ten minutes for the people who have yet to appear. What a nice person.

I did not crash in Hawaii like on Lost. I got into Kansas City in perfect timing. Now let's hope my 5:45 AM flight from Georgia to Kansas City in two weeks goes a little better.