Last week the kids and I flew from JFK to LA. (Jarv was flying the next day to meet us.) Our flight was at 2:15 and Jarv and I had several discussions about what time we needed to leave. He said 11:30. (He usually builds 15 minutes into his estimate to allow for the Michelle lateness factor.) Naturally, I voted for 11:45. We left at 11:54.
Jarv complained the whole way to the airport: I don't know if you're going to make it, he chastised annoyingly. You're really cutting it close. I was sure we would. If it took us an hour to get the the airport -- which was reasonable -- we'd still have 1 1/2 hours before our flight. I'm not one of those people who likes to arrive at the terminal 3 hours in advance. It takes long enough to fly across the country as it is, thank very much.
I ignored Jarv's kvetching during the drive and his dramatic sighs each time we came across a patch of traffic. There was nothing we could do about it now, anyway. but then we came to a dead stop crossing the Whitestone Bridge. We sat there for a good 10 minutes. Now I was actually starting to worry. I had two big suitcases and I remembered that baggage cutoff for Delta was 45 minutes before the flight. (I know that, because I missed it once, while traveling with the kids, and had to catch a later flight.)
But no worries, we were at curbside at 12:17, almost an hour ahead. Jarv dropped us and drove off, in a hurry to make a meeting, while I carted in our several bags, carry-ons, computer, DVD player, two backpacks and two kids. Slight problem, the check-in kiosk told me. We'd missed baggage check in cut off by two minutes!
I ran over to an agent to see if any cajolling or cute kids might help. No, not really, but she sent me to someone else. Taking that as encouraging sign, I ran over to Agent #2 at the other end of the counter, kids and bags in tow. No, there was nothing she could do, she told me. The computer locked out 60 minutes prior to the flight, even if the flight was delayed. I kinda got the feeling I wasn't the first person she'd ever dealt with who'd had this problem.
By this point the kids were looking at me, tears brewing. "Are we not going to get to go to LA, Mommy?" they asked in pitiful voices. The agent, checking the rest of the day's flights, told me that there were no other seats free that day, but maybe tomorrow. Or the next day. Of course there would be change fees involved and maybe a fare increase. But she couldn't even rebook me since I'd gone through Expedia. I'd have to call them to sort it out. This was bad.
What can I do?" I asked. Could I go buy some duffel bags small enough to carry on and transfer all of our things into them? "What will you do with your suitcases?" the agent asked. I could have cared less. I'd have thrown them out if it meant getting on that plane.
Are there any lockers I could put them in?" I asked. Yes, there was, in fact, baggage storage two floors down.
Lightbulb!
If I was going to get duffel bags, transfer our stuff, carry on the bags and lock up our suitcases, why not skip the duffel part, store the bags, contents and all, and let Jarv bring them with him when he flew the following day? Genius, if I do say so myself.
We ran through the terminal, the three of us, with our two suitcases and half dozen carry ons. Waited forever for the elevator. Ran off in all directions in search of this mysterious storage. I still didn't know if this crazy plan would work. Now we were T minus 40 till our flight and had yet to go through security.
Bags checked, I grabbed the kids and we ran back upstairs and through the terminal, Mopsy trailing a few paces behind. "Wait for me!" she called out to us. We grabbed our boarding passes and ran off to security. The line was short, but not moving, so I went to the front and pleaded with the Security big wigs to let us go ahead since we had a flight departing in 18 minutes, despite the evil looks from the guy behind us. If after all that, we'd gotten to the gate only to find the doors already shut, the kids would have gone ballistic.
Miraculously, we made our flight. But unfortunately, I had to admit my folly to my smug husband. "See," he said with a snicker. He loves to be right.
I admit, running through JFK with kids and suitcases and backpacks flying everywhere, sweat dripping down my back, pulse racing, is not the best way to travel. I swear I will not be late for our flight home. I promise.
Once again, I've got egg on my face. I think I'll just scramble up a big batch to have it on hand. I'm sure I'll need it again soon. I always do.
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