United We Wait

We were about four hours into the delay of United Flight 498 when I remembered the hard-boiled egg and half sandwich in my purse.

Food, or, more specifically, my worry about my next meal, was one thing I thought I could control about travel. I do distinctly remember that travel used to be fun, but now it feels like a series of circumstances over which we are powerless—when we might leave or arrive. The heat or cold we might suffer. Where we sit and next to whom and who gets the armrest and who might choose to use their electronic devices without headphones and how your bag might (surprise!) cost more than your ticket.

And yet, my warm hardboiled egg and half sandwich—from Joe’s Famous Deli in Vail—offered no succor as I stood with nearly two hundred other people at Gate B22 waiting to hear any hint about when we might leave Denver Airport, if ever, or if we should just get jobs there because this was where we would live for the rest of our lives. The minutes turned to hours. Early on it became clear that the solitary United employee working at the kiosk—who lacked both the easy personality and the English language skills necessary to cope with scores of increasingly frustrated people—had no information to share. The pilot, whose appearance had cheered us all briefly, got on the mic to try to help her out, but he didn’t know what was going on either. Eventually the issue was revealed: We lacked one of four flight attendants needed to fly. And then tick-tock-tick-tock ding! Our pilot’s and co-pilot’s clocks ran out, and now we didn’t have anyone to fly the plane either.

I’d come to think of the Denver International Airport as purgatory long before this moment.

I’m so accustomed to getting stranded there that my girlfriends and I alert each other when we’re passing through in hopes that when we get stuck, one of our group will be there too and can meet up to pass the time. This has happened not infrequently.

But now, it seemed more than just inconvenient. The Denver Airport had begun to feel like an allegory for the world we’re living in. There are too many people, going too many directions, and always in a huge hurry or waiting for hours. The stores run short on food, there’s an eternal line in the women’s bathroom, and the custodians are constantly cleaning the facilities and restocking supplies amid throngs of people. We are all too many, too much. Why don’t we just stay home and give ourselves and each other a break? Well, because we all have stuff we want to do. I’d just seen several beloved relatives and did a super fun gig for work. I was glad to go even though I know I’m part of the problem.

I watched the United agent clicking away at her computer, a line of angry people in front of her all requesting to be rebooked when they could probably do it easier and faster on their phones. It was like they thought making her work harder was some kind of justice. She looked scared and I felt sorry for her. People were sweating and grumbling, some stomping off or griping to loved ones on the phone. Others had started to talk to one another.

My husband appeared and said he wanted to show me something.

As we walked away from Gate B22, the crowds thinned and the air cooled. I saw open chairs and empty gates that left enough room for little kids to run around. The light seemed softer, and the barking of the overhead announcements receded. He led me through a set of doors and the fresh air hit me like a big hug. About fifty people were gathered on benches and large plastic Adirondak chairs on an observation deck. Others leaned against the wall looking out at the runway. A hint of jet fuel fumes blew in from the planes lining up to take off. Over the Rocky Mountains, the sun was dropping down through a low bank of clouds and throwing golden fingers of light into the shadowed peaks. People were laughing and chatting with each other—families and friends and strangers. Everything felt lighter and better. My husband and I squeezed into one big chair and sat, not talking, just watching the sunset throw down one gorgeous trick after another. Later, a four-year-old requested a song from my husband, and he pulled out his guitar and played for her and everyone clapped.

We didn’t have anywhere we needed to be and we were together. Unlike some others, we didn’t have little kids or babies that we were trying to pacify. We were not old, or sick. Not yet, not now.

Eventually, we went back inside and confirmed our further delay.

I threw away my hardboiled egg and sandwich realizing my efforts to protect myself would lead most likely to food poisoning rather than comfort. We wandered down to a brewery to try to spend our food vouchers and found it crammed with people. Here, even at a place nobody really wanted to be, there was a wait. Miraculously, a bartender waved us over, and we took the only available seats—so low the counter hit me in the sternum. I could smell the bleach water of the cleaning rags and spent lime rinds and we were hemmed in on all sides by roller bags. The bartenders circulated within the horseshoe of the bar—working quickly but nobody hurrying, everyone smiling and easy. The customers were talking with one another, and the mood was almost festive. The guy next to me and I got our bags so tangled up trying to make room for each other that I fell apart with hilarity of it.

“This is pretty great, isn’t it?” my husband said sipping his beer, and I laughed because somehow it was—uncomfortable, crowded, unplanned, sticky, and inconvenient. But yes, pretty great.

Back at Gate B22 hours later, magic happened.

New pilots were secured and flight attendants too. We boarded quickly and everyone seemed a bit kinder—helping each other with overhead bags, commenting on how well the little kids were doing, switching seats so couples could sit together. The plane took off at midnight and we made it home at 3:30 a.m. I crawled into bed next to the kitty and swore I’d never leave home again—I promise I’ll break next week.

This is travel now. This is life now or how we live it some days. It’s too much and we are too many and things don’t track like we once expected them too. Our pre-planned eggs and sandwiches don’t keep us safe from disruption or uncertainty or discomfort or pain. But if we’re lucky, we’ll look around and be grateful for the glimpses of humanity and kindness and beauty that are all around us if we only stop and look.