There’s a reason I don’t fly early in the morning. If you’ve done it, you know why.
In the middle of the night, in every city, alarm clocks go off. Bleary-eyed zombies stagger out of bed and into their travel clothes. Toothbrushes and chargers get tossed into suitcases seconds before they’re zipped shut. Houses, hotels and Airbnbs empty into taxis, Ubers and shuttles, all arriving at the departures lane at roughly the same time.
Inside, ticket agents, baggage handlers and TSA agents brace for the onslaught. Families with small children and way too many accessories. The elderly with their canes, walkers and wheelchairs. Business travellers, chins out and chips on their shoulders, marching through like parts on an assembly line.
No one is happy.
I have the massive luxury of planning my own schedule. If I have to fly, I fly midday. Ghost town. Out of the car, through security, customs, and into the lounge in minutes.
Not today. Today I left Orlando on a 7am flight. Me and the entire population of the Magic Kingdom during the parade.
First stop, the digital kiosk to print my bag tags. Done in seconds. Then an Air Canada agent waves me into the priority line to drop my bag. And there I stand. Bag tag in hand. All I need to do is stick it on the bag, drop it on the belt, and head to security.
Except today. A family with five kids is camped at the counter. Seven suitcases the size of me, getting checked. Seven suitcases the size of carry-ons, getting checked. Seven duffle bags hanging off every shoulder in the family. One baggage agent. Working through seven passports, weighing fourteen bags, printing fourteen tags, heaving every one onto the belt.
What in the world are these people bringing home from Florida? Life-sized carvings of all seven dwarfs?
I get twitchy. I catch myself making faces, shaking my head, mumbling under my breath, staring at the agent like my stare can speed up his hands.
Thirty minutes go by. My turn. Sixty seconds later I’m on my way to security.
At least twenty lanes at this one terminal. I’m TSA pre-check, the FastPass of air travel. I’m a business traveller.
Except today, none of it matters. Why don’t people empty their water bottles and their pockets before it’s their turn? You’re in the fast lane. You’ve done this before.
I twitch. I shake my head. I mumble under my breath.
Worth mentioning: I have plenty of time before my flight. I’m in no danger of missing it. I just… don’t… like… waiting.
And the universe decided to mess with me today.
I get through security. No problem. No liquids in my bag, no spare change in my pockets. I’m good at this.
And then the crowds parted, a light poured down, and somewhere I heard bells ringing. I’d arrived. Starbucks. The best idea every bleary-eyed zombie in the terminal had right along with me.
Into the line I go. Shifting my feet, shaking my head, mumbling under my breath.
If you had to wait thirty minutes in line for coffee, wouldn’t you spend some of that time deciding what you wanted and figuring out how you were going to pay?
Yeah, me too.
We’re the exception.
Halfway through the line, I finally break like a stubborn horse. The will of the day beats my will to be pissy about it.
I give in. I pick up my phone and play Wordle. I’m at the cash before I solve the word of the day.
Grab my coffee. Make my flight. We board and leave right on time. Turns out the airport survived without my supervision.
Every line in that airport moved exactly as fast as it was going to move. The family wasn’t going to pack lighter because I rolled my eyes. Security wasn’t going to move faster because I sighed. Starbucks wasn’t going to hire more baristas because I shuffled my feet. The only thing making me miserable was me.
Chill the F out, Mary.
I’m at thirty thousand feet now. When I land, I get to practice the other side of travel. Standing in the aisle while half the plane fumbles for bags and jackets and kids’ shoes, without one eye roll. Walking to customs without giving myself shin splints or elbowing past anyone’s grandmother. Waiting at the carousel without shifting my feet, shaking my head, mumbling under my breath.
I used to look at older people in no particular rush and figure they had nowhere to be. Now I think they’ve just learned what I’m still practicing. All that bluster isn’t worth the trouble.
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