Frazzled: Bratwurst, Beer, Baseball and More…(Part 1)

A couple of weeks ago I took a bike ride before my next day’s flight to California, already savoring what has become my annual baseball junket with brats, beer, historical venues, and melt-in-your-mouth Christopher Elbow chocolates.

It was late afternoon on a cloudless day when I cycled into the park ‘n ride where my exercise bliss was interrupted by an all too familiar scene.

Garbage, I thought, discarded food wrappers cast aside by some jerk, who couldn’t take the time to dispose of trash appropriately. My righteousness was palpable even at the end of an exhilarating bike ride. I approached the shimmering patch of color with increasing indignation that, in this informed time, people could be so thoughtless by disregarding the environment and others with whom they share space. In this case, me!

The source of my outrage–perpetrator beware, although no one was in sight—was not what I’d presumed it to be. Closer inspection revealed something beautiful—a kaleidoscope of yellow-winged butterflies, perched motionless on the grass, wings reaching to the sky. There were dozens of them, maybe hundreds, and they reminded me of becalmed sailboats aligned and ready for launch at the start of a regatta.

Though my one-hour ride had been both physically stimulating and psychologically calming, I remained restless as I thought of packing and my itinerary for the two-week work-pleasure trip I’d begin the following morning.

Hold on to this peaceful scene, I thought, it’s anticipation of flight, too.

My two week travel itinerary, one I’d locked in place several months before, began with a 6:30 a.m. United Airlines flight from Burlington to Chicago, a plane change at O’Hare, and arrival in Sacramento around noon California time.  A 24-hour visit with family would precede a week in LA to see clients and friends to be followed by a week in Kansas City and Chicago, where I’d be joined by my good friend Alan to immerse ourselves in baseball—two games at Kauffman Stadium, home to the Kansas City Royals (current World Series Champions), then four games at Wrigley Field in Chicago, where our shared “love affair” with the Cubs began while attending college.

My bags were packed, plane, train, and baseball tickets organized, and the Burlington TSA “Pre” boarding pass tucked in my wallet when I turned out the lights.

Like a kid anticipating Christmas morning, I mused before falling asleep.

I was awake before the alarm went off at 4:30 a.m., rushed to the kitchen for some coffee, and then cup in hand returned upstairs for a final e-mail check before leaving.

I don’t recall how many e-mails appeared on my computer screen because only one caught my attention, the one from United that had arrived four hours earlier informing me that my flight to Chicago had been cancelled due to FAA crew rest regulations. The airline had taken the “courtesy” step of rebooking me on the next available flight 36 hours later, a red-eye that eliminated plans for visiting family and shortened a visit with friends in Claremont, California.

In that moment, my reaction was a bit like the previous day’s encounter with the piece of trash. Indignant outrage.

I tried to access the bucolic vision of the yellow-winged butterflies—peace and hope—to no avail, and by the time I’d finished three additional cups of coffee, several hours of phone prompts and online efforts to rebook a timely flight, I was “fried.”

By the end of the day I had notified family and friends of the unavoidable changes in plans, and successfully booked next day flights from Burlington to Long Beach, California with a brief layover at JFK in New York.

I went for another bike ride intending to excise my frustration and anger by traveling through pastures and cornfields in the Champlain Valley, and then finish up where I’d seen the butterflies at the park ‘n ride. The ride was an arduous one in which no demons were excised, and the beautiful creatures I’d hoped to see were long gone.

The next morning at 11:00, with renewed faith, I boarded my flight in Burlington and arrived at T-5, JetBlue’s state-of-the-art terminal at JFK. After a short wait and quick walk to my gate I boarded the cross-country flight on schedule, found my window seat, readied my headset for straight-ahead jazz once in the air, and opened the New York Times. I leaned back and thought of Miles Davis’ statement regarding jazz: “There are no mistakes, only improvisations.”

Amen!

“Ladies and gentlemen we are experiencing some difficulty with our onboard air conditioner. We hope the engineer will find the problem, fix it, and enable us to depart shortly, and get you to Long Beach.”

I folded the newspaper on my lap and stared out onto the tarmac. I wondered if, like the butterflies, we’d been grounded.

Twenty minutes later the captain spoke again: “Ladies and gentleman the cabin temperature is warming up so I’m asking everyone to deplane until we have this problem resolved. You may leave your belongings where they are or take them with you, but please remain in the gate area because we’re anticipating a quick resolution. The gate attendant will announce boarding plans once the air conditioning is back on.”

The crew, along with the full-flight of passengers filled the seats in the waiting area by Gate 16. While standing next to my carry-on bags I realized that I’d forgotten to repack the zip-lock bag crammed with liquid toiletry items once I’d passed through security. Easily replaced, I thought, if and when I get to California! It also occurred to me that I am accustomed to seamless travel plans, and a life without many “wrinkles,” other than the ones I create.

After several hours of milling around the gate with other anxious but surprisingly polite and kind passengers, the gate attendant finally announced that we would once again board the plane. This attempt failed as well because the resolved A/C problem recurred.

Do I want to fly on this plane?

At 5:30 p.m., five and a half hours after our scheduled departure, a newly arrived gate attendant announced that passengers who’d left personal items on the plane would need to retrieve them and proceed to Gate 24 where a different plane was being prepared for a 6:30 departure for Long Beach.

This flight departed on time, and though I saw no butterflies while waiting in the terminal, I did see well-fed sparrows, and experienced faith-restoring passenger behavior in a variety of venues. More about the brats, beer, baseball, and the rest of the trip in Part II.

by