Airport Hell

Oh Jesus Christ… Have I experienced airport hell. We exit our 492 flight from San Pedro Sula arriving in Miami. Before that flight I bought some lovely Guatemalan rum for my folks at the duty free store. Aged 23 years… won best alcohol of the year award, 50 bucks. Good stuff. As I entered the gate at San Pedro Sula a woman was waiting, with my rum. Lovely, carried that on. So we arrive in Miami around 730. Next flight at 915. I rush to customs, waited patiently, caught up with Dana and Catherine at baggage claim. It’s 830. We give our checked bags promptly to those guys, you know, who take care of that kind of thing, and rushed to concourse D. I was fairly calm up until this point. Rushed but calm.

I’m about to got through to check in my things again, rum in hand, and stopped. Because the TSA doesn’t allow alcohol on carry on bags. I am well aware of this, but Miami airport is a maze, rushing everywhere, my concern is only on making the flight. The girl told me to check this in. I wait in line, patiently, calmly, and got the unpleasant worn down airline woman who has no sympathy because she’s heard it all before and hates her job. Pretty much every airport worker. I ask if I can check in this bag in my carry on soon to be checked bag.

“The second checked bag is an extra 30 dollars.”
“Yeah, that’s fine.” She checks her computer and I start to make room in my bag making my camera bag my carry on because I believe this is going to happen. I notice she’s waiting. I pop up.
“You’re flight is already boarding, it won’t except any more checked bags.” This is where I start to stutter.
“S.. So, what am I to d-do?”
“Either you wait with it for tomorrow’s flight or you throw it out.” My composure drops, I now start to shake.
“Uh… ” I drop to the floor trying to quickly reorganize my bags. I tremble standing up, taking my time. I reach out for my boarding pass and passport, not making eye contact with this dreadfully unhappy woman.

I panic. And when I panic, I call my parents. I call my mum, composure only growing worse, now crying, she picks up.

“Hello?”
“Mum, I don’t know what to do. I bought you and dad his delicious Guatemalan rum for you… I can’t bring it on the plane with me… I can’t board.”
“Why isn’t it on your checked bag?”
“You don’t understand…”

It honestly didn’t occur to me that this would be a problem. Miami had Duty Free Stores where they did the same thing. My spine is shivering. Mum told me to throw out the rum and catch my flight. And I did. I threw it out. En la basura. My face is wet and I’m sweating acid. It sizzles my skin. I go through check out, inspection, whatever the fuck it is, trying to reconfigure and royally failing. It’s 9 and my flight is 915. I walk through the airport past gates… D20, D21… I need to get to D47. Turns out, I have to take the fucking sky train. I start to run. I need to catch this flight. Also, as a sidenote, one team member mentioned she’s staying in Miami for a few days. If my brain hadn’t been paralyzed by stress I would said, “Fuck, it I’ll stay in Miami.” But wait, I don’t have her number. I didn’t even think of the other guys, if I was hardly making my flight, how would they?

I run and catch the sky train. I try to catch my breath and start to search through my things for my boarding pass, passport… wait where’s my hat? Shit. I can’t find my boarding pass. Fuck, fuck, stop getting worse. Where’s my passport? I collapse to the ground ridden with stress. I threw out 50 dollar rum for me to miss my flight that has one of my checked bags on it. I breakdown on the train, crying collapsed on the ground over the things I do have.

I hop off the train only to realize I’m at the wrong stop, I dash back onto another car. I’m a sweaty missing hat mess. I must be making people feel so very awkward. I get off at the stop and sprint down to gate D47. I fumbled over to an available worker through shit and say, “This is my flight-t… I… I lost my boar-boarding pass… I need to get on this-s f-flight…”

“Okay, what’s you’re name?”
“Hale.”
“Kris?”
“Yes, Kristen Hale.” I watch her and out of thin air… my boarding pass appears, magic. I thank the lady magician, check my boarding pass, walk though.

Tussled sweaty hair, face wet like a mop, I shake onto the plane, and hit with a burst of warmth. Three stewards/ stewardesses are huddled at the entrance and immediately show some love. They treated me like I had just been dumped and they were my best girlfriends, sticking with me, comforting, soothing. I try to speak… they shush me down, gave me a glass of water. Showed me to my seat. I down the water like it was a substitute for breathing. I had grown gills in the past half hour of hell. Disoriented, I called Craig, panicked, shared the shitshow. He didn’t make his flight, he was spending the night with Miami girl. Shit, I would’ve done the same had I known. He asked where my rum was. That’s right. All is not lost. Told him it’s in the trash barrel left of check in, concourse D.

Oof… blood pressure is dropping to a somewhat regular rate. I’m on the plane, Craig might salvage my rum, okay relax. Yeah, okay, so I found Dana and Catherine on the plane after take off, shared the shitshow with them, went to the bathroom to clean up.

In any event, Craig found my rum, I only lost my hat and some unnessary plane paperwork, and I’m on the plane. And recording this story now, is almost making me sane. However, I’m freezing and my stomach is receding. I’m dealing with it. This is nothing compared to what people in Guatemala have to go through. I’m already over loosing my hat.

Moral of the story: I need to handle exhaustion and stress better. Keep calm and carry on. And I’m thankful that a hat was all I had lost on this trip.