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The Delay Perspective (part one)

June 3, 2011

This week I was involved in what some would consider “a miserable travel experience”  My plan was to fly non-stop, departing Boston at 8PM Eastern, arriving in San Francisco around 11PM Pacific.  However Al Gore and his fucking climate change crap unleashed a wave of  tornadoes in and around the Boston area.

I was mingling with my fellow flight #637 passengers – speculating on the chance of an on-time departure – when an abnormally urgent boarding message “Ladies and Gentlemen headed to San Francisco, We will be waiving our normal boarding procedures this evening in an attempt to take off before the next wave of storms move into the area, we will be now be boarding all passengers, all rows, RIGHT NOW!  PLEASE HURRY”

Apparently we weren’t quick enough because we after out sprint down the jetway the plane  sat on the tarmac for two hours.  Jet Blue seats are equipped with individual televisions, local stations began running ominous Emergency news tickers  Logan Airport ClosedState of Emergency issued in Massachusetts  

That Channel 5 is full of shit, I am sitting on the goddamn runway, engines idling.

I began to think of JetBlue’s history of brash renegade employees, and wondered if perhaps we had a cowboy pilot who believed that those fancy weather people don’t know shit, we can make it, everybody hold on tight.  I realize this sounds crazy now but at the time it didn’t appear far fetched -100 passengers were basically told to run to their seats for an expedited take-off.

After an intense strobe light and hail show we screamed down the runway without notice.   The roller coaster takeoff sent a gay (of course) male flight attendant into the wall as we headed due east…over the Atlantic Ocean on our way to San Francisco. After a couple hundred miles the plane turned north and finally west into Canada.  We were informed that due to the new flight plan our non-stop flight would now be making a stop in Utah for refueling.

We arrived in San Francisco about 3 hours late, which in the grand scheme of things is no big deal, but 3 hours late on this flight meant 2:30AM –  my commuter shuttle stopped running at midnight.

Fashioning myself a mid-level travel expert I was confident I would easily navigate this snafu.  Judging my accommodations as well as the total cost and time it took me to get from the airport in San Francisco to my home in Sonoma County  I no longer think so highly of myself – for example the hotel room at the Ramada smelled like it had been used to store some Iranian soccer teams t-shirts, the ones they wore to practice each day for a month, never bothering to wash  them – and the guy in charge of collecting the soiled clothing apparently must have been cooking curry.  I burped the other day and I swear I could taste the inside of that room.

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