We face a lengthy wait for our turn with an Immigrations inspector. We are patient, but I now desperately wish I had used the plane's restroom facilities. I neurotically avoid tiny airplane toilet use, at all cost. Years ago, on a 9-hour flight to South America, I never once visited the facilities and paid for it, for days, with swollen ankles.
The Immigrations hoop is accomplished, and on our way to Customs, that needed body break seems of little consequence time-wise, so we stop. However, when I exit the facilities, the small delay is hugely detrimental as herds of international arrivers bypass us. Fortunately, we have plenty of time.
Customs has its long, slow lines. We're still certain to make our 4:25 flight, but now it will be close. We complete the Customs stop and pick up our checked baggage. A precious 15-oz. bottle of vanilla bought in Cancun must be quickly shifted to one of our checked bags, lest Security confiscates it. My husband performs the juggled switcheroo as we head to beloved Security.
Our checked luggage is handed to a thorough Delta baggage employee. He points to one bag's carry-on tag, and we realize that somehow our identical red suitcases are switched. We are grateful for his attention to detail and willingly trade.
Security lines seem endless. We inch our way through ♫The Long and Winding Road♫ (The Beatles) that surely will lead to... a Security agent. We check our trusty Delta app to confirm that Flight #5416 is "On Time." We obsessively re-check the helpful app numerous times hoping for a delay. ♫Time keeps on slipping, slipping, slipping♫ (Fly Like an Eagle, Steve Miller) into the future, and we begin to wonder whether we'll make our assigned flight.
Finally, it is shoe removal time with the "Security-Says" drill. Security says: Hands up; Security says: Hands down; Security says: Exit; Security says: X-ray that dangerous carry-on baggage.
We need to open your bag to search it. Is that alright?
Do I have a choice? Security immediately spots and pulls out the deadly vanilla bottle. Unbeknownst to us, during our earlier switcheroo, in error the vanilla ended up in my red carry-on bag rather than my husband's red checked bag. I am disheartened and aghast: How did that get there? We paid a steep $15 for that in Cancun, for baking. You can have it, but p l e a s e don't wastefully pitch it into a trash can!
The understanding Security agent says: You can go to the nearby Delta counter, and they will help you box the vanilla for shipping. When you pick up your luggage at your destination, the box will be there too.
We ask the cost [it's free], and how long the process will take [not long]. We decide to bravely enter the... Airport Twilight Zone: AMAZINgRACE.
What do we have to lose? We'll probably miss our flight anyway. Security points to the Delta counter. My husband runs, sock-footed and still carrying his shoes, and hits the bulls eye to box up the vanilla. I sit and reflect: Oh, that untimely bathroom stop, and that stupid vanilla.
Normally I snack on portable dark chocolates (which are currently screaming at me from my carry-on's outside pocket) but I vigilantly refuse them. Oy, I'm hungry!
Five minutes later, my husband returns and slips his shoes on. We are now running... The gRace. It's a good thing we are wearing gym shoes.
The escalators are the first leg of the obstacle course to Terminal C. I choose the right one, my husband chooses the left. Klunk, klunk, klunk the wheeled suitcase breezes with me, arriving to the bottom light years before my husband. A stationary person, who thinks he's on a standalator, slows my husband's progress, and he ain't budging. Rats! We just miss the tram and watch it pull away. Every second counts when running The gRace.
That vanilla and my untimely bathroom-break continue to invite a comedy of errors. We impatiently await the next tram heading to Terminal C. It pulls up, and we strategically head to the front, thinking it will be faster for us when we exit. That is what wise AMAZINgRACE players do.
The tram halts; the doors open; and we take a sharp right, bee-lining it to the people-movers. Woo hoo, we're flying! But, alas, flying doesn't mean progress. Unfortunately, after sprinting two triple-speed people-movers, no Terminal C sign is in sight. We should have turned left rather than right when we exited the tram. We retrace our sprint, this time without the help of people-movers (they're broken). Now we're clearly perspiring and it appears The gRace is lost.
We run, run, run, climb another escalator, and Terminal C gates are finally in sight. It is 4:30 as we hoof it past 37, 39, 40, 42, and then we see our prized Gate... 46. Huff, puff... we wonder: Is our raced-for 4:25 plane already departed?
My husband sees the Delta agent closing the jet-way door and pleads: Can we still get on the plane?
I follow, approaching a slouched-seated, agitated traveler who reads our noticeably winded body language: If you're here for the Springfield flight, don't worry. It's delayed.
Amazing! And we even have enough time to purchase and eat delicious 5 Guys burgers and fries for a very late lunch (or early dinner). We are famished, especially after our lengthy sprinting feat. That poor fellow-passenger's pain is, most amazingly, our gain.
I failed to mention what I did as I sat alone, during my husband's annoying trip to package that silly vanilla at the Delta counter. Twists and turns had faced us everywhere in the Atlanta airport, and I felt we were in an aggravating Twilight Zone that wasn't yet over. I steadied myself for a brief encounter with God, to enter His zone. I resigned and prayed: God, however and whenever You want us to fly to Springfield, it is fine. If we miss our flight, so be it. Your amazing grace is sufficient. But it certainly would be nice if we could make our flight. Why did we buy that stupid vanilla!?!
That short prayer and mindset sound simple. But for me, it isn't. I am learning, through life-threatening dips and turns, to surrender and ask God to be the ultimate boss, in both the large and small details. It has taken years to begin to reach that AMAZINgRACE mindset. In years past, my somewhat bossy prayer would have been: Help us to make Flight #5416... period.
God's grace may include breathless twists and turns, but His amazing perspective is... Tres Bon.
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