I recall thinking myself quite clever as a girl of about 16, whilst writing some journal entry full of existential angst; less girlish drama than soulful contemplation – as I penned the following thought:
'Neither too much, nor too little – all I know of time is that it passes.'
Last weekend, as I endured the most absurd 72 hours of botched travel – I was reminded of that sentiment. When I slipped the key into the lock and pulled open my front door late Sunday night, I had the strangest sense that I'd been gone for weeks. Once inside the door, I just stood there for a few moments in the silent darkness, breathing a grateful, exhausted exhale.
Even at the outset, the trip was ambitious. I'd agreed to travel to Monroe, Louisiana to film interviews with a bright young gal named Hallie Winters and her parents.
Had all gone as planned, I'd have departed Portland, OR (home) just after 1pm on Friday, the 21st. After connecting in Dallas, I was scheduled to land in Monroe shortly after 10pm, giving me plenty of time to check in at my hotel near the airport, get a good night's rest and make my way to The Winters' residence by 9:30am the following morning. Just 4 hours later, I'd have been en route back to the airport for my reverse trip home, landing me back in Portland at around 10pm on Saturday, the 22nd.
That's not quite how things unfolded...
I arrived at my gate a bit early, having breezed through security with plenty of time to spare.
Along with hoards of other travelers, I sat patiently in wait, passing the time by reviewing the shot list provided by the awesome folks who hired me (
Apparently, the weather in Dallas was awful, so air traffic control wasn't allowing incoming flights to leave their departure cities, throwing everything out-of-whack.
As the delay stretched itself well past hour number 3, I found myself in a bit of a pickle. My itinerary had very little wiggle room – I was looking at the high likelihood that I'd miss my connecting flight and be stuck in Dallas until the following afternoon.
Having discussed my predicament with the crew, it seemed the best option was to have them entirely rebook all 4 of my flights, pushing everything back by 24 hours. It took a minute to reach those who needed to be informed and I had a brief moment of panic, really not knowing how best to proceed.
Thankfully – literally as the last person was boarding – I got the thumbs up, letting me know The Winters were understanding and flexible and our shoot had been rescheduled for Sunday.
With new boarding passes in hand, I walked back across the length of PDX, ordered an Uber and made my way home.
The following day, I started over. Prepared for a full day of travel, I Uber'd back to PDX, endured another security pat down, found my way to the gate and awaited departure.
We were a few minutes delayed, but the first flight was generally uneventful. I navigated the Dallas Fort Worth airport rather easily, finding my connecting gate and settling in for a short layover.
After a lovely, long-overdue chat with my older sister – just 2 minutes before boarding was set to begin – as I was just about to text The Winters to let them know all was well – the marquee switched from leaving 15 minutes late, to more than 2 hours delayed. It was then that I realized...there was no aircraft to board.
I watched in disbelief as the marquee then flashed from departing at 10:55pm to 2:55am to 5:55am to 7am – in the space of about 30 seconds. It was almost as though I'd intuited this delay, as I was the very first person at the counter, already waiting to inquire as to where I might sleep that night, when they finally announced the absurd delay. All they would say was that a crew-member was ill.
Hotel voucher in hand, I sat on a bench in the muggy heat, awaiting a shuttle that took nearly an hour to arrive.
By the time I reached the hotel, it was nearing 11pm. Though I crawled into bed less than half an hour later, it took a while to fall asleep. I chuckled to myself – half amused, half bewildered – finding it rather bizarre that I'd wound up stuck in Dallas overnight, after rescheduling everything in order to avoid this very scenario.
Thankfully the bed was comfortable and the sheets were soft. Still, my 4am wake-up call came far too soon. Though I felt as though I'd only just fallen asleep, I dragged myself out of bed, showered, and was ready for my 5am shuttle back to DFW. Through security, I joked that the entire staff had shown up just for me as there was literally no one else there.
At the gate, there was a sweet camaraderie between passengers as we casually discussed our involuntary overnight stay. An hour passed and there was still no crew, then the marquee flashed, revealing a further delay – what was another hour and a half, right?
I was beginning to wonder if I'd ever make it out of Dallas.
Against all odds, I did finally make it to Monroe, just 10 minutes before we were scheduled to begin filming.
The Winters were incredibly generous, insisting on picking me up at the airport. Somehow, the fiasco that preceded my arrival served as a sort of bonding – they treated me like family from moment number one, asking me often if I needed water and feeding me fresh-baked cookies (which they also sent me home with.)
The interviews went well, as did the filming of b-roll around their home. Before I knew it, I was already packed up and ready to head home. But first – they treated me to lunch. Of course, while we were enjoying our meal, I got a notification that – surpriiiise! – my flight was delayed. Then again....and again.
The airline was giving me the option to reschedule my flight at no cost, and The Winters kept suggesting that I could simply stay the night with them, but I decided to stay the course.
I knew I'd have very little time to reach my connecting flight, but I was willing to risk it.
As we landed in Dallas, I was just one of a dozen in danger of missing a connection. We were allowed to gather at the front and de-plane first.
It was a mad dash – a blur of humans as we ran up the escalator to the tram – a nervous buzz of biting lips and crossed fingers as the tram carried us between terminals – a deep exhale as we reached our gates.
I was sweaty and out-of-breath as I handed over my boarding pass. I'd made it just as the final 'group' was boarding.
And so it was that I landed back in PDX Sunday night. Though I'm impressed by how alert I'd managed to be for most of the day, by the time I was buckled into my seat for my final flight, the exhaustion hit me like a ton of bricks.
I felt sluggish and delirious as I walked the full length of PDX, for the 4th time in 72 hours. And, once home – as I stood there in the darkness contemplating the strangeness of time – marveling at the distance I'd just traveled...I found it oddly difficult to wrap my head around the fact that I'd only left the day before.
I then slept for a solid 11 hours – my bed felt more heavenly than all those fluffy clouds I'd just flown through. I needed that – I think I'm still catching up.
Though it still feels a bit like the whole trip was some kind of ridiculous dream, I've got these sweet photos from Sandie Winters, proving I was really there...in Louisiana – for just a few, brilliant hours.
