Stuck in the Portland Airport

My roommate is married.

It was a beautiful Christmas wedding that split a wine-red artery. Cost-efficient, backed by love. I hit it off with one of the groomsmen, as a matter of fact.

On the morning after the wedding, my flight was scheduled to leave at 7:45AM, Oregon time. Since the wedding was in a picturesque little town about an hour away, we left around 5:00AM and arrived at the airport on time.

I immediately discovered that my flight had been postponed to 9:03AM. Would I still make my connecting flight in Chicago? Barely. So I bided my time, reminding myself that now I wouldn't have to layover in Chicago and I could check out Brookstone and Powell's, a cute little bookshop that Portland is well-known for.

Around 9AM, we board the plane and get situated. I climb over two women to get to my window seat and arrange my iPod and copy of Wicked in the pocket in front of me. Somehow, my head fits perfectly between the edge of my seat and the plastic window shade.

Next thing I know, the captain announces that there is a delay because one of the navigation components was malfunctioning. It took him over an hour to announce the flight would be delayed until 11:00, and then we were taking off after all, and finally he declared it canceled once and for all.

We shuffled off the plane and were instructed to go out of security and pick up our baggage. I called my dad to ask him to find another flight to Oklahoma. At least he could find a more direct route since Portland-Chicago-Tulsa was not the most practical - albeit cost effective- route.

It took about thirty minutes for our luggage to get there. I felt bad for the people who tried to go directly to the ticket counter. We called an 800 number to get new flights, and I would be taken to Houston on a different airline in about an hour. My only problem was an hour-long line of angry bees who just wanted to get home.

"At least you don't have children," some old woman told me. I gave her a little polite laugh that communicated do I look old enough to have CHILDREN!?

Almost thirty minutes later, I could see the end of the line, but my flight left in twenty minutes, and if the line length was proportional to the amount of time I had spent already, I was not going to make it. Panic.

"Go up there and tell them!" the same old lady insisted. Three people in front of me turned around and gave me a nasty look, as if some keen sense had been alerted that I was going to be given some special treatment they were not entitled to.

I squeezed through the line, dragging my two suitcases behind me.

The attendant allowed me to jump the line, but I would have to wait behind the current customers. Finally, it was my turn.

"This is not one of our itinerary numbers. Ours don't have 1's in them."
"It's a Continental number. I was told I had to come here to get my new ticket."
"Um...right."
Smart-aleck.

She wrote something here and stapled something there and told me to hurry to the Continental counter to check in. I took her advice and ran, pausing only to apologize to the people whose toes were crushed by my rolling suitcases.

The Continental guy looked at me, flustered, and said, "I don't know if you'll make it. You're late."

"Excuse me, sir," I said, trying to laugh it off. "I have been here for SIX HOURS. I am not late."

He checked me, sent me to wait in the luggage line, and I was finally free of those suitcases to wait (again) in the super long security line. I took my shoes off, almost gagged, and then put them back on. Everything else was ready.

The lady glanced at my boarding pass and ID and then took out the pink highlighter of doom.

"My flight leaves in ten minutes," I laughed before she could utter the dreaded words.

"You've been randomly selected for a security screening."

I was deferred to a smaller line where my bags and shoes were taken from me. I reminded the old man that my flight left in ten minutes so, if it was at all possible, could those men who are just standing around check my bags while you do the pat search? He shook his head but told me I'd be fine.

He put me in this machine that looked like a souped up version of the airport metal detector. It blew puffs of air at me, and I'm not quite sure what it did, but I squeezed my eyes closed and two dwarf women pointed and laughed at me.

I barely made that flight, and the woman next to me spilled her water on both me and her daughter. I was just happy to get out of Portland, even if they were closing the gates when I ran through. Everyone around me listened to my story, even if it abused every polite instinct they had to offer.

One two-hour layover in Houston, a short flight to Tulsa, and I was home-free. Even better, the second I stepped out of the tunnel, I saw a Starbucks and a Subway right next to each other.