It was like the trip that opened up the can of crazy. Ever have one of those? Not bad. Not dangerous. Not even majorly delayed or overly disrupted. Flights eventually got where they were supposed to go, and there was never any loss of life or limb (or baggage.) Yet, nothing about it seemed particularly normal, and I spent the entire time wondering what would go wrong – or crazy! – next.
It was a trip to Washington D.C. for a college media conference. The college newspaper I advise at Flagler College was a finalist for a national award for online publications and I was taking a student editor to collect the plaque. Yippee!
But it all started with a canceled flight that wasn’t canceled. My phone blurted at me in the middle of the night to tell me the airline had scratched the early morning flight because of “severe weather” and re-booked us to late evening.
There are few things worse than a frantic, beleaguered and futile middle-of-the-night airline cancellation quandary. When you desperately want answers, solutions and some remedy to your carefully choreographed trip, but can’t muster much in a bleary-eyed, early-morning stupor. Exhausted and finally resigned to doom, I went back to sleep, planning to wake up late and mope around all day. Only, when I did wake up, I came to find that the flight was miraculously back on and I had better hustle if I was gonna’ make it. Thanks, phantom cancellation!
There were things I’ve never done before. Like mixing up personal credit cards with a fellow adviser one night. He texted me the next evening to say, “Hey Brian, I think we grabbed each other’s cards last night. Don’t worry … I’ll pay you back for the cruise I booked with yours.” That was a relief. I had ordered a new couch on his.
Or how I ended up on the wrong side of a World Series victory parade. Apparently I was the only human in the District of Columbia left unaware that the Nationals had been crowned world champs and that a massive victory parade would roll down Constitution Avenue with F-16s flying over and grown men wearing Baby Shark onesies. I violated the cardinal rule of parades when I went out for what I thought would be a relaxing stroll: Never cross to the other side. Because if you do, that will inevitably be when the cops shut down pedestrian traffic, and you’ll have to take a detour down the length of the route, through most of D.C. and then around North Carolina to get back to the conference.
Ever been in a cab on the way to the airport early in the morning when you get pulled over for speeding? What do you even do in a situation like that? Feel anxious? Wonder if the cabbie is wanted for something serious, like selling illegal Baby Shark costumes? Ask the State Trooper for a lift?
What about finally making it to the airport and then having your carry-on bag flagged by TSA for a search? It turned out the “suspect” object was the very award plaque we went to D.C. to get. I don’t know what the TSA agent expected to find, but by the look on his face, it certainly wasn’t a plaque. “You won this?” he asked. “Well, technically the students did,” I replied, thinking “and if there is ANYTHING wrong with it, it’s definitely theirs … NOT mine!” Then he proceeded to swab it for explosive residue, which I think is about the greatest compliment a journalism award could ever receive.
And just when I thought it was all over and had boarded the plane, the pilot came on the intercom to explain they were having computer issues. But not to worry! He was going to shut off the engines to see if that would reset it. Which is just about the same as saying, “Folks, anyone on board have some duct tape? We need to reattach the horizontal stabilizer before we get on our way.”
At that point, it was all I could do to get home and finally close the lid on this can-of-crazy.