Now I Know Why They Call It a Terminal

After a wonderful romantic vacation with my boyfriend (we'll call him Michael) in Venice, Italy last week, I spent three days in four different airports trying to get a flight back home on standby.

Flight after flight, I was too low on priority to get on board. After not making the first two flights, we flew from Venice (on day two) to JFK in New York. JFK was slammed. We took a cab ride to La Guardia (30 minutes and $32 later) to find it was worse than JFK. Well over a hundred people were waiting for standby slots on planes with maybe 12 seats open. So, we flew to DC for the 6 am flight to Atlanta, spending the night in a cold airport with nowhere to lay down. (For the record, I think armrests in airports should be outlawed.) We didn't get on the 6:00. Or the 7:00. Or the 8:00. Or the 9:00. Or the 10:00. Or the 11:00. Keep in mind, this is now day three. We are in our fourth airport in two days. We have not slept for 36 hours. We are dirty, wearing yesterday's clothes, sleepy beyond belief, and have no idea when we will get home.

The really frustrating thing was that Michael was pretty high priority, so he could have gotten on any of these planes and jetted home. In fact, I told him he should just go without me. I would eventually make priority, somewhere.

He chose not to. Wouldn't even consider it. Each time they called his name, he said he wouldn't go without me, so he gave up his seat to the next one on the list.

Some of the people waiting got irritated and mouthed off to the gate attendants. Many were filled with righteous indignation. "How DARE they not let me on that plane?" "I've been waiting since 6:30!" "This is ridiculous!"

We never complained. And we had been waiting for days, not hours, at this point.

Sure, the whole situation sucked. And yes, we hated it as much as the rest of these people. But it was just a freak thing that all these standby folks showed up like this in droves. They had obviously been missing out on flights and rolled over to the next, snowballing along the way, since the flights were unusually full already. Very few people were getting absorbed. And complaining wasn't going to open up any seats or make them ignore the rules for who gets on in what order.

But then...a miracle happened. The computer went down.

Unable to post the list, the gate attendant made an announcement: "Anyone traveling ALONE to Atlanta on standby please come over to Gate 17. I'm going to be calling the names out."

"Go!" Michael said. "Just go!" We both shot over there, and I positioned myself so I could read the list over her shoulder. I was eight down from where she was. As she hollered out names, people either raised their hands or were off getting a Big Mac and missed their opportunity. Each name she called felt like the last. I was three down now. She called out a couple names. Waited a few seconds. No answer. Then, the heavens opened up, and a choir of angels sang my name through her lips.

"Yes! I'm here!" I shouted, maybe two feet behind her. I kissed Michael and ran over to the gate, taking my ticket for seat 20B. "Go, baby! I love you," Michael said to me, and I knew he would be on the very next plane, one hour behind me. (He was.)

Now, I don't share this story to garner pity for my trials and tribulations. I went to freaking Venice for a week, for God's sake. I have nothing to complain about. Our trip was magical: strolling, shopping, eating, drinking, laughing, and sightseeing. We got lost only to find the same shop we just left again. Circling our way though the alleys and over bridges, we fell in love with the sinking city. So please...do NOT feel sorry for me.

I share this ordeal to prove a point. We knew that we would eventually get home, and we didn't fight the moment. We sat there and played games and passed the time as best we could. Like I have shared before, Deepak says, "This moment is exactly as it should be." If we had spent that time complaining, it would have been much more insufferable. And I really do think it happened the way it was supposed to. Here's why:

I now know a few things about Michael that I would still not know had we jetted home Saturday without a hitch.

1. He is patient and kind under pressure.

2. He is polite to those who have the power to make decisions that affect him. This means that he is shrewd and clever, holding that Italian temper when it is in his best interest. He is a born diplomat.

3. He takes very, very good care of me. He put me first throughout the entire trip, especially during this ordeal.

4. Even after two days without sleep, a shower, or a shave...he is still adorably cute.

5. And best of all, I know that the two of us make a great team in a crisis.

So, I hope you take two things from this post. One, every second of our lives we are making choices. The last choice that cannot be taken away from us is the ability to choose our attitude in any given situation (says good old Victor Frankl). And second, don't fight the moment. No matter how bad it may seem, it's happening for a reason. Life isn't all strolling with a bottle of Proseco and kisses on bridges. Sometimes it's airport coffee in a Styrofoam cup and being 68th on the list for a full flight.

But in the end, it's all good. So, whatever and wherever you're drinking, raise your glass and toast to life. As they would say in Italy...E una dolce vita.*

(*It's a sweet life.)