Looking Out My Back Door: Up, up and away

My daughter made arrangements to fly me to Montana so I could attend a family funeral last week. The previous week Dee Dee had undergone total knee replacement (it seems to run in the family).

So blame the medications. Four airplanes? Count them. Mazatlan to Mexico City. Mexico City to Houston. Houston to Denver. Denver to Billings.

Under the best of circumstances modern air travel is no fun. A straitjacket might be more comfortable than the crowded airplane seats which effectively immobilize one, but I’ve yet to try one.

Nevertheless, I was fortunate to get any flight on such short notice. Within hours of my ticket confirmation and a 4 a.m. start, I was yawning at the sleepy little airport in Mazatlan. Up, up and away, over the mountains to the huge Mexico City airport.

Naturally, I landed and departed at terminals at the opposite ends of the Mexico City airport complex. I took a bus and a train, and went through security again, to make my connection.

At Houston I made it through customs, through baggage claim and through security (#3), onto a shuttle which deposited me at my departure gate. Oops — my next plane was an hour and a half late due to a mechanical problem.

That was not music to my ears. That meant I would miss my connection in Denver to Billings. None of this would have been a big deal had not my emotional state made it so. I was on my way to a family funeral. Let’s just say I was lightly strung together.

The nice man driving the shuttle cart stopped at a customer service booth to see if there was another flight I might take. He whipped me down the concourse to a gate, seemed a mile away, where a flight was in final stages of boarding. I went to the counter and asked if I might make this flight. With a negative shake of her head, the attendant told me there were nineteen people waiting on stand-by.

My heart sank. I knew I’d never make it. So I hobbled down to the nearest restroom, then back to another customer service area to ask for help back to my original gate while trying to console myself to reality of an overnight in Denver.

Over the speaker I heard “Ashton,” my name. Oh, I thought, someone here is an Ashton, and I scanned the crowd, recognized no familiar face. Lightly strung, remember.

My name was called a second time. The third time I realized she might mean me. I almost ran across to the ticket counter, breathless, “My name is Ashton.”

“Sondra Jean?” “Yes, that’s me.” “Do you want this flight?” “Yes.” “You’re the last one to board. Seat 38-B.” I had mis-understood. That nice shuttle driver had put my name on stand-by. Barely strung together.

38-B was the center seat in the last row; a row of seats crammed into a space in which no adult human should have to pretzle his body. The nicest gentleman in the world saw the look on my face (anguish) and gave me his aisle seat in row 34. Unstrung. Who says there are no angels?

In Denver I made my connection to Billings with no problem but with the knowledge that my luggage would be spending the night in Denver, without me. I figured getting me to Billings was more important than the luggage — which would probably follow. It did.

Today, my daughter bought my return ticket. In five minutes the pleasant customer service (out-sourced to India) woman arranged an easy flight from Billings to Seattle to Los Angeles to Mazatlan, all at civilized times of day. The arrangements went too smoothly.

“That was too easy.” “Aren’t they under contract to cause a trauma level of eight minimum on a one-to-ten scale?” “She’ll probably lose her job.” “There will be weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth.” “But then she’ll get a better job.” “After months of searching.” “Yes! Customer service at The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel.”

(Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Mazatlan, Sinaloa, Mexico. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com. Email [email protected].)