"I'm on the edge here. Don't do this to me." I was talking directly to the change machine who was refusing to eat my slightly crumpled dollar bill. It was turning out to be one of those ridiculous moments that make up the proverbial straw that brought the camel down. I'd arrived at the airport happy to be on my homeward journey only to discover my bags were going to cost $400 more than I had anticipated. Somehow I missed this nifty baggage chart and assumed all extra bags were merely $25. Being a frequent international flyer had left me paying more attention to weight than to number.
I thought briefly about the contents of my luggage- an entire year's worth of clothing and supplies for me and the boys- and deemed it all necessary. I laughed at the US Airways clerk and made some comment about only in America (I'd noticed these two things, the laugh and the "God loves America but no one else does" line popping forth more frequently. Sure signs that my departure was well overdue.) I handed her my debit card, quickly calculating how much might be left to get us through to the next payday. Declined. Oh boy. We had some conversation and ultimately I took my confusion off in search of an ATM. No luck there landed me on the phone with my bank, watching the minutes quickly turn to an hour at the risk of missing my flight. The discussion with the visa dept. led me to several other extensions and finally to a whole new bureau. It bordered on surreal, what was happening to me. Except of course, I truly was stuck in an airport 300 miles from my children and 6,000 miles from home with no way to access my own money that sat comfortably in a bank in upstate NY. Merde. Wild images of being homeless in Philadelphia ran across my mind as I tried to formulate a solution. Nothing came to me. I'd missed my flight and made my way back to reschedule. Step one appeared clear at least.
By the time I returned to the check-in desk, the clerk had moved my bags onto a push cart and called the police. God does love America. "You were gone so long," she explained, as if that explained anything. I gave her my smile and laugh. "I'll need a new flight," I told her and she booked me onto the next plane with ease, terrorist fears and abandoned bag issues now abated I suppose. I was then faced with the task of managing my luggage, which I hadn't quite figured out how to compile on the push cart. I was always left with one extra bag. The ingenious design of the push cart requires one to hold the handle down (or up, I could never quite be clear on which) in order to release the breaks. Impossible to do while holding another bag. In addition to that, it seemed the disease afflicting the Miami payphones had stretched out to Philly and the ones in closest reach just didn't work.
So it was I found myself talking to the change machine hoping for enough coins to call a friend to save me from disaster (again.) And my remaining dollar bill was just too crumpled to be accepted. I was completely on the edge of breaking down, despite my best attempts at deep breathing and calm self-talk. One angel was eyeing me from a nearby bench and soon offered up a crisp new bill, which the machine hungrily devoured. Coins in hand I began the unwieldy task of maneuvering my bags across the long hall to the other side of the airport where the payphones were working (hopefully.) Tears were no longer threatening to fall, they were sneaking down my face like defiant teenagers refusing to believe I had everything under control. People stared at me, watching me struggle, but no one offered to intervene. I had become an airport spectacle, a momentary diversion from their own travel dilemmas.
Until the angel appeared again. He pushed the cart to the phones and inquired several times about why I was crying. His tone indicated that every moment is a virtual gift and hence tears should ever be shed. I managed to pull out a smile, fix it into place and reassure him that I would be fine. In doing so, I managed to convince myself as well.
I spent several hours people watching and wondering about the stories filling other lives. Overhearing snatches of conversations reassured me that I was not the only one to be caught in the throes of mistakes from the past.
Fortunately, I had only one more stateside airport to get through before I would feel securely on my way. Landing in Miami was a welcome step closer to my final destination. I grabbed another luggage cart with renewed determination to make all of my things fit. While I was unable to achieve this on my own, a kindly Jamaican airport employee sized up the situation and quickly reversed the pieces to my puzzle. He sent me off towards the elevator with a stacked cart and some doubt about actually fitting inside. "No,no, you'll make it, " he assured me.
I did manage to lug my things up and out to the curbside where I flagged down a shuttle to a nearby hotel. Baggage problem put to bed for the night, I had a happy reunion with my boys.
The biggest problem was not my suitcases but a large bike box I had created to transport the latest exercise equipment needed to accommodate those long, sunny Kinshasa days. It wasn't heavy, just awkward and impossible to carry with anything else.
We made our final arrival at the airport five hours early, ready to check our bags (and box) one last time and settle down for an airport picnic. The shuttle driver dropped us off on the curb and I could see the AirFrance check-in counter from where I stood. Hope restored. We just had to get there, less than 100 feet away. The boys each took a few bags and I waited with the last two sacks and the box. As Nabih came back and grabbed one of the bags, it was the first time I realized my problem was uniquely American.
An African woman would have easily gathered that box up, placed it firmly on her head- leaving both hands free to grab an additional suitcase (or two!) and gracefully made her way over to the check- in line. Feeling woefully inadequate, I could only stare across at the distance wondering how I would ever make it. I resorted to sliding the box with my hands and pushing the bag with my feet in an unsuccessful attempt at covering ground. I was caught up in remembering the conversation I had had several nights before when packing up the bike.
We'd been debating the usefulness of a handle. I wanted to tie some string around the box to allow for a grabbing point. This idea was ultimately vetoed with the thought that there was always someone around to help when you're traveling. Wondering at this faulty logic, I continued my slow maneuvering towards where the boys had placed the rest of our things.
Two men began discussing between themselves whether or not I needed help. One seemed convinced I was fine and the other suspected a hand might be in order. While they carried on their strange debate a young Hispanic dad walked over, picked up my bag and dropped it by the boys without a word, leaving me free to now grab up the box and join my children. We had about half an hour to wait before the counter opened. This part did not pose a problem in the least. We know how to do airport waits.
I spent a few minutes feeling competent and accomplished. With the help of friends and traveling strangers, we'd made it. But our story was not quite over. Because one handle on the suitcase wouldn't retract and the box had been inspected by the Miami TSA on the way down from Philly. They'd neglected to return it to its beautifully wrapped state and the check in agent had some concerns about accepting it in its current half-wrapped condition........
Oh yeah, God does love America.
