Saturday sucked.
Our airport is to travelers what tar pits were to wooly mammoths.
Everything is Jim Dandy until you unsuspectingly enter it and find yourself condemned to spend eternity held in place in its “your-flight-has-been-canceled; please-see-the-attendant” inextricable goo.
I was to conduct a communication workshop for a Seattle agency on Monday, having reserved a flight for the previous Saturday, allowing me to attend a concert when I arrived. Sunday’s itinerary would consist of roaming the Emerald City and I would return home Monday evening, after leading the seminar.
It was going to be a good trip.
The operative word is “was.”
Two hours before take-off, a text message informed me that my flight was canceled due to our oft-times, unrelenting fog. Rebooked for a later flight, I was ominously primed,
“There’s no guarantee it will go either. Hope for the best.”
I am not a travel agent but I bet they agree that’s never a wise travel strategy.
After doing my part — hoping — and impatiently waiting through three more hours of delays, only to be canceled again, re-booked again was I for an evening flight, with arrival in the wee hours of the next morning. I’d obviously miss the concert but could still salvage my Sunday; this of course contingent on this latest itinerary actually falling into place, unlikely since the obstinate grey murkiness that blanketed the runway seemed fused to the blacktop.
It ebbs and flows.