I nearly missed my flight back to Vancouver last Sunday. I should have. I made a mistake in reading my flight time, assuming I had booked the 7:20P flight out of LA back to Vancouver, but no, I booked the 5:20P flight, a fact I discovered whilst sitting blissfully on the Enterprise shuttle en route to the LAX terminals after dropping off my cobalt blue Nissan Sentra I enjoyed driving all over Los Angeles playing tourist over the long weekend home celebrating my Dad’s 80th birthday. My phone buzzed, and smile dropped when I saw the text that my Air Canada flight was boarding. I caught my breath, instantly confused and flooded with disbelief, lowly muttering, It must be a mistake? Next, I looked up my itinerary, and there it was, AC559 Departing 17:20P. Dagnabbit, my military time math was off!! It was currently 4:50P, how on earth was I going to make it to the gate on time?
The shuttle bus was still multiple stops away from Terminal 6, my stop for Air Canada, but when the bus did stop, closer to terminal 5 than terminal 6, I had to trudge up the escalator and back track more yards than desired to reach the ticket counter and inquire if I had any chance to make the flight to the bored Air Canada employees chatting among themselves. Assuming my fate was sealed, and that I would need to rebook on a later flight, one attendant looked at me with a combination of disgust and compassion, most likely because I wasn’t yelling or upset, I accepted fault in the situation but still wanted to try.
Recognizing my accountability, her demeanor shifted, and she locked in to tapping the keys on her computer and said I couldn’t check my bag (a stuffed heavy duffel bag that I had planned on checking), then waved over another attendant to guide me through security. Suddenly, my hope meter flipped back on as I followed the attendant through security. However, she disappeared once I was at the top of the stairs and played no role in aiding me through the passport ID check, bag check, both of which took too long as I spent precious seconds fumbling my passport and wallet out of my pockets. Naturally, my duffel bag was flagged because it had my ipad inside, removing it was not a step I considered because I was planning to check the bag, concurrently my name was echoing over the PA system multiple times, hollow panic and embarrassment raced between my heart and eardrums as I wrestled my feet back into my running shoes while waiting for my bag to be cleared, once handed my bag, I sprint-shuffled down the hallway toward gate 65A where the plane, passengers, and crew were idling, with or without me, for a prompt take-off. After running clumsily for fifty-plus yards, not that far, but far enough to look and feel like a lunatic, waving my arms yelling, “Wait, I’m here!” I slowed down approaching the gate, handed over my boarding pass and passport to the justifiably annoyed gate attendant, and was briskly waved onto the bridge.
I made it.
As I was walking down the aisle toward my seat, I saw a flight attendant close an overhead bin that miraculously had plenty of room for my unwieldy duffel bag, I asked her if I could open it and store my bag, she gave me the thumbs up, just as another flight attendant was saying my name over the walkie talkie as a missing passenger for the manifest, I interjected, “That’s me, I am here.” After gingerly placing my bag in the overhead compartment, I slithered past a father/son duo sitting in my row and plopped down on the window seat, amazed, slightly sweaty, and relieved that I had not held up the plane enough for a delayed take-off, aka, ruining my fellow traveler’s plans, and could allow myself an inner high-five that I would arrive in Vancouver hours earlier than expected.
But no matter how the flights shook out, I wouldn’t have changed the last couple of extra hours I spent with my family.
I was able to hug my nieces one more time, listen and learn from my Dad about his father, and parts of his family (my family) history that I had been blurry at best for most of my life. My grandfather died when my Dad was young, my Dad barely knew his father, so he rarely shared much about him, but for a few minutes last Sunday afternoon, my Dad shared new details about my grandfather, and his family, including that he grew up in Edmonton, Alberta, (an Easter egg for my next post) and is an indicator why I love, and have assimilated so well to Canada, I have Canadian roots!
As the plane lifted above the Pacific Ocean, and north along the coast, I felt a rush of pride for California; it is where I am from and where I will return, but for a few more months, home is Vancouver.
*Plus a few more spots in Canada that I can’t wait to explore. *