That girl

You know. That girl I was that girl throughout my journey from Costa Rica to RDU. Here’s why

1. Frantically repacking parts of my checked luggage in line in the San Jose Airport after my host dad told me he was SURE it was over 70 pounds. (He stood in the driveway, lifting my luggage up and down, over his head and standing and pondering.) Bonus included: Put together and fashionable Asian woman staring at me all the while I do it, breaking a sweat, and giving me the disapproving, “You are a disgrace to our kind” look. (P.S. My two checked bags weighed 35 and 37 pounds. Thanks host Pop.)
2. Being that girl who has WAY too much luggage. I had my backpacking backpack, my school backpack, my little wheely carry on and my duffel body bag (which looked like it was holding a petite person). When I came to Costa Rica, the duffle bag was folded up and empty. Walking through the airport, I silently thought, What? It’s just the shape of the duffel bag, I swear. // I’ve been in Costa Rica for 5 months… that’s a lot of time to accumulate stuff…. Y QUE?!”
3. Getting on the plane and looking forward to watching mindless movies to make me not feel sad about leaving Costa Rica only to discover to mine is one of the screens that isn’t working. Woo! So I sat without a book, paper, music, laptop or a little screen for five hours, periodically spastically pressing all the buttons around the screen and sometimes watching the screen of my neighbor.)
4. Our plane was delayed because the plane was heavier than it could handle (Dear Pilot: Is this your first or second time flying a plane?) : they had to stop in Miami to get more gas. Soo, that means I had approximately 50 minutes to run to baggage claim, pick up my checked bags, drop off my checked bags, go through the “passport check,” go through customs, go through security (again) and find my gate. (I got to customs with 15 minutes until my flight departure.) The Hartfield airport in Atlanta, is pretty huge. It’s got a bunch of “concourses” which necessitate a tram to get around. I full out ran for much of this 50 minutes, sprinting through the airport in a frantic stupor. I call this period of my life, Home Alone on Crack. Nothing to make you feel out of shape like running through an airport with lots of stairs, with luggage.
5. After a woman who works in the airport (Airport Lady #1), told me the gate was E28, I sprinted to E 28 with about 7 minutes (“I’m going to make it!! Ha-ha!! I’m actually gonna make it!!!) to my flight take off only to find that the gate was not in fact, E28, but B27. HUEPUTAAAA!!!!! AHH. At this point, I had 4 minutes to get to my gate. Looking back, this was probably pretty funny. Sample dialogue..:

Airport Lady #2 (Supposedly reading my ticket) “So you’re going to Richmond.”

Me: “No, Raleigh.”

Airport Lady #2: “Okay, Richmond.”

Me: “No, Raleigh.”

Airport Guy #1: Where is she going?

Airport Lady #2: Richmond.

Me: No, I’m going to Raleigh!

Airport Guy #1: What’s the flight number? Is it 1416?

Me: It’s 1416

Airport Lady #2: No, it’s not.

Me: ….

Airport Guy #1: What is the flight number?

Airport Lady #2: (Looks at my ticket): It’s 1416.

Airport Guy #1: That’s at B 27.

Me: SHIT!

Airport Lady #2: You betta run!

Thank you airport lady #1. Thank you for telling me the WRONG GATE. Thank you Airport Lady #2 for your great advice of You betta run! (Really, she is THE next Confucious) I guess she couldn’t tell from the beads of sweat rolling down my forehead that I had been running for the last 45 minutes.

6. After learning that I had to haul my ass to Concourse B from Concourse E (Apparently about a mile according to the signs) in 4 minutes, I halfway lost hope that I would make my 9:21 flight, but ran anyway. Here is my moment of shining pride. The lace holders on my hiking boots got hooked together while I was running and I fell front forward splayed out on the floor with my luggage sliding down the way. Greeeeeeat. Some sweet old people who were coming back from a mission trip to Costa Rica asked if I was okay. I said, yeah thanks, resituated my backpack and started sprinting down to the tram with my handy dandy rolly suitcase in tow.
7. When I got to Concourse B and got one of those little beepy trucks to drive me to my gate: B freaking 27. 27? Seriously? Yes. Anyway, apparently no one replies to beeps anymore. Because the meek “Beep… Beep …. Beep” seemed to attract people to the path in front of the little mobile.
8. I run to the flight attendants, who say the plane has already left (It’s 9: 23) I really don’t think it had left, because I saw a plane sitting outside of the gate, and I don’t think 2 minutes is enough for one plane to get out and another to get in) They had probably shut everything already and didn’t want to deal with a pissed off customer saying, JUST OPEN THE DOOR AND LET ME IN DAMMIT!!
9. “What? It’s gone…?” At this point, I was emotional from saying goodbye to everyone, tired, cranky and hungry for some din din. All I wanted to do was get home home, instead of being in limbo between home home and what became a second one. Delta gave me a few meal vouchers and sent me off to Holiday Inn to leave on the morning flight.

Plus sides of missing my flight:

1. Delta gave me a little toiletries “We’re sorry that we suck real bad” bag with an XL white t-shirt, a sweet folding comb (really top notch), some deodorant, Q-tips, a travel toothbrush (sweet!!) and a little generic note professing how sorry the Delta company is for any inconvenience I may have felt. So bitter I was that I truly wished I had a Sharpie so that I could write DELTA SUCKS on my white t-shirt and wear it to the airport the next day.

2. An unwaveringly hot shower

3. Big fluffy bed

Next morning, I awoke at 5:30 and made it back to the airport for my morning flight.
While I was boarding my flight, I saw a little boy tugging on his Grandmother’s skirt. “It’s okay,” she said. “Honey, are you worried? These people are going to a different place. Our flight doesn’t leave for another hour, we won’t miss it.” I wanted to go over and say, “Be ready, kid. It's a cruel world out there.”

When we were about to take off, who but the captain should come onto the PA system to tell us that there are electrical problems. At this point, I am thinking that the Gods of Delta ® would prefer that I never ever make it home. But I did indeed make it home in about 24 hours. Getting back from Costa Rica took about the same time as getting back from Tanzania.

But I am home.