For weeks I’ve been looking forward to going home for Thanksgiving. That little nugget of joy has been keeping me going through the last ten or so exams. Late nights in the library, I would savor the thought that I would soon be home with my family, my dogs, and unchallenged sunshine. Today I nearly blew that thought to smithereens.
The day began like any other day in the life of a PA. After waking up at the crack of dawn , I did a little last minute studying, then ran out the door to the catch the metro to school, making it to class just in time for my microbiology exam. Once the last few dejected looking stragglers made it out alive, we all packed up and took a much needed lunch break together, ordering some much needed mimosas and bloody mary’s. I headed home after that to pack up for my flight. For the most part, my bag was empty, since my goal was to fill it with warm clothes to bring back from home. I left my apartment at 2pm with all the necessities. I had my tickets, ID, and study materials for the weekend (I know, I thought I was getting a vacation too… not so apparently) and headed down to the bus stop that would take me to the airport.
I know I should have expected it, but I’d walked by the stop earlier and there hadn’t been that many people, so I was somewhat surprised to find a huge line of at least 30 people waiting for the bus. The bus came, it filled, it went. I was now number eight. Bummer. Luckily, my flight wasn’t until five, and catching the next bus in half an hour wouldn’t be too bad. Turns out they called another bus in, so we only waited twenty minutes for the next bus. I settled into my seat and closed my eyes trying to ignore the gnawing feeling that always eats away at my composure when I have to rely on public transportation to catch a flight. In case you didn’t know, DC traffic is actually worse than LA. Add that to Thanksgiving weekend and you’ve got a hour bus ride that normally only takes 40 minutes. It was cool though, it was still only 3:30 when we got off the freeway. It was then that I in my excessive worrying decided to double check my ticket and make sure I had all the info right. I actually let the thought of accidentally getting the airport wrong dance across my mind for a millisecond (my masochistic brain likes to dream up awful scenarios sometimes just for fun). As I glanced at my ticket, everything looked fine of course: Washington to Phoenix to San Diego, departing 5:10pm. Then I flipped to the email conformation I’d printed out as well. I read it. I blinked a few times. I read it again. When I looked up my heart was beating twice its normal rate and I was gasping for air. Three letters that weren’t present on my ticket glared at me. “DCA”. That’s the airport code for Washington DC’s Regan Airport. Just then the bus pulled up the curb at its destination, “IAD” aka. Washington Dulles Airport.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I swallowed hard. Total panic set in. My heart began beating three times its normal speed. I was now approximately an hour (assuming traffic) away from home and another 15 metro ride from there to Regan. My heart now pounded forcefully in my chest as if maybe it could knock me unconscious so I wouldn’t have to deal with this sick feeling in forming in the pit of my stomach. So this is what it’s like to have a panic attack huh? How ironic that we were just learning about this disorder in class not long ago. Lucky me to get to experience it firsthand. I knew it was probably hopeless at this point, but I had to at least try to get to the right airport, otherwise Nana would kill me (she paid for my ticket). Once everyone was off the bus, I made my way up to the front to speak to the bus driver. I asked him if I should just ride it back or if I’d have a better chance with a cab. I’m not sure if he was secretly laughing at the idiocy of my situation or just didn’t care, but he recommended the cab, so I grabbed my bags and bolted out the door.
Standing outside the airport entrance, I looked around. Not a cab in sight. Naturally. However there was a string of blue super shuttles lined up outside, so I ran up the first one I saw and again explained my pathetic situation. I got another confusing look, but also I think a hint of sympathy. He said he offered rides to Regan International for $30, but how long it took to get there was all dependent on traffic. The price was honestly was much better than I was expecting, so I took it. I ran over to his van and hopped in, suddenly horrified to see six other people already seated inside. Was he going to take these people home first?! I jumped out and intercepted the driver as he was loading my bag, asking if he’d be going to Regan first. I got a non-committal yes. I was out of options anyway… I sulked back into the van, took my seat in the back and began the most anxiety filled, adrenaline pumping, and overall worst 35 minute car ride of my life.
35 minutes. It took an hour to get to Dulles, and by some spectacular stroke of luck, it only took 35 minutes to get back to Regan. Well, “only” isn’t quite the right word. I spent the entire 35 minutes shaking, teary eyed in the back of the van, cursing my stupidity, praying to the traffic gods, and hovering with my finger over the send button of my phone, wondering when I should call my dad with the bad news. When I finally saw the signs for Regan International, I was overjoyed and amazed that, pending security, I might actually make my flight! Maybe someone or something really did want me to see my family this Thanksgiving. Whatever it was that led to the total evaporation of returning traffic, I was utterly grateful towards it. I paid the driver, thanked him profusely, then flew into the airport so fast I’m surprised security didn’t apprehend me on mere suspicion of my erratic behavior. When I finally made it to my gate, I pulled out my ticket and checked and rechecked it, not really believing that I was actually going to make my plane. But I’d really made it, and with five whole minutes to spare before boarding!
Un-freakin’-believable.
I figured I’d use those five minutes to call my dad and tell him the good news.
.
.
.
This year I am thankful for the fact that I gave myself that extra hour of travel time.
I am thankful that I printed out my confirmation so I didn’t realize my mistake inside the airport.
I am thankful for the super shuttle guy who knew how to put the pedal to the metal.
I am thankful for the chance to see my grandparents, family, friends and dogs for Thanksgiving.
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