Going Home…Eventually
August 10th, 2002 ~ Day 9
At 6:15, Kristina woke up and realized that we had in fact not received a wake up call, which was no real surprise. We got up and threw the last few things in our suitcases and headed out the door. Checking out was surprisingly hassle-free, and we waited with great anticipation for the van that was to take us back to the airport.
Upon arriving at the airport we got in line to go through the metal detectors and whatnot, and discovered that every single bag was being individually searched by security guards. We hauled our bags up onto a table in front of a couple of security guards, and tried to act as nonchalant as we could as they went through every single article of clothing and all our personal effects. They removed everything from our carry on bag that could be used as a weapon, including AA batteries, but not including the rechargeable lithium-ion battery from our camera, and put them in our bags that were to be checked, and we were on our way. We were hungry, but we were also tired of being ripped off, so we declined to purchase a $4 Snickers bar and decided to wait it out.
When our plane arrived and it was time to board, more security guards arrived and began checking bags again, this time at random. Fortunately we didn’t get picked and were able to board the plane to Dallas without further adieu, and were happy to discover that we were seated on an emergency exit row, which means “more leg room”. We stretched out, and were able to snooze off and on throughout the flight, once again interrupted at times by the flight attendants’ instructions regarding customs and immigration.
After a couple of hours we realized that rather than making our approach to DFW airport, we were flying in circles in the midst of dark storm clouds above Dallas, at which time the pilot’s voice came stumbling out of the cabin’s intercom speakers, explaining in broken English that our landing had been delayed by rain at DFW airport, but that we should be landing soon. However, “soon” never came, so “diversion to Houston” showed up instead. The plane leveled off and made a bee line for Houston, where we would refuel and wait for clearance to return to Dallas.
The plane landed in Houston, rolled to a stop at a respectable distance from the terminal, and we all watched through the double-layer plexiglas windows as fuel trucks and other utility vehicles pulled up and attached various hoses and clamps to the plane. The way the pilot had explained things, we were all sort of expecting something like a 20 minute wait, then a quick hop back to Dallas.
Two hours later we hadn’t moved. Not an inch. What’s more, since we were on a flight from a foreign country, we were not allowed to leave the plane due to immigration regulations, and so were stuck there with nothing to do. At one point there was this really cool blind lady that stood up and yelled, “I have a bag full of Vodka in the overhead storage compartment, anyone wanna party?” Everyone laughed, but, sadly, no vodka was poured, presumably because we were all expecting to take off at just any moment. Finally, the pilot announced that the storms in Dallas were clearing, and that we were ready to take off. In the meantime though, all possibility of catching our connecting flight to Lubbock had passed, so we had resigned ourselves to the fact that we would be getting home much later than we had expected.
About an hour later the plane rolled to a stop at the DFW Airport terminal, and we bolted for the baggage claim. However, due to inaccurate signs, we went to the wrong baggage carousel, and waited for about ten minutes before we discovered our mistake. This turned out not to matter, as our bags did not appear on the correct baggage carousel for another twenty minutes anyway. By the time we got our two bags, the line to immigration had stretched all the way into the baggage claim area, and in fact was curving around the furthest baggage carousel. We got in line and waited, shuffling back and forth to allow the occasional person to leap across the line on their way to the restroom or the water fountain or whatnot.
Eventually we made it through immigration and into the regular American airport area, and found that the next flight to Lubbock was at 5:45, which was a good hour away. We figured out where we needed to go, and hopped on one of those automated, driverless trams that travel along a rail that snakes in and out of the airport’s terminal buildings. After a short ride we disembarked at our terminal and headed for the check-in desk to catch the next flight.
After about 45 minutes in line, we were told that our flight was all booked up, and that we’d have to get on the next flight, which wasn’t until 7:15. We didn’t care. We just wanted to get home sometime before our thirtieth birthdays, so 7:15 was alright.
With a couple of hours to kill and with our stomachs grumbling from the day’s total lack of food, our first stop was the Terminal-A McDonald’s, where we enjoyed our first all-American, bee-free, “drink all the water you want” meal, consisting of Double Quarter Pounders™ with cheese, french fries, and, for me, true-blue American Diet Coke. No more Coca-Cola Light for me, ever.
