The flight that almost wasn't.

My goal was to get finished with all of the holiday blogging before the end of January...February 6th is close enough, right? Right.

After the Boswell Family Plague, we began our journey back to Boston. We only had two flights: one from GSP to ATL, and one from ATL to BOS. We were going to have a two-hour layover in ATL. I love two hour layovers. They're long enough to give you some cushion but not so long that you are waiting FOREVER. 

Well, we lost our cushion before we even reached our gate at GSP. We happened to be traveling during that horrid week where everybody was getting rerouted and canceled and general chaos wreaked havoc with all air travelers. We, along with a Canadian cast of a touring production of The Wizard of Oz (and a few other folks) were just hoping for the best upon arriving at ATL a little over two hours later.

We ran. This happens to me a lot. Running through airports. It's maybe one of my very least favorite things to do. We landed in concourse E and had to get to A. Of course.

To make a sweaty, panty story short: we missed our flight by 3 minutes. We know because we asked. Just to torture ourselves. 

We proceeded to join approximate 837 other people who were also trying to get rebooked. When Brad finally got to the front of the line (I was trying to keep a non-napping Claire calm and happy in the food court), he was told there were no more availabilities that day or the next. Thankfully, Brad thought to ask about being put on standby. I feel like an unlucky gambler when it comes to flying standby, but what else can you do?

After arriving at our gate, we saw on the monitor that we were standby positions 9 and 10. My heart sank a little. How were we going to get on a flight when we were that far down on the list? For the next 45 minutes, we were glued to that screen (while discussing contingency plans). We got down to positions 1 and 2...only to get bumped back to 2 and 3. With about 10 minutes left. People were boarding. There was just no way.

When the last of the passengers had boarded, we had pretty much lost all hope. Just as Claire had fallen asleep in the Baby Bjorn (at 5:00 pm...for the first time all day...), the gate agent says, "Boswell...if you're here, let me know right now!"

Both of us yelled (from about 10 feet away), "That's us!!" We're frantically grabbing up our bags, and she said, "Um, I need you to hurry up- we're about to close the door." Y'all, we were hustling. We couldn't have been moving any faster at warp speed. But seriously, as soon as we stepped onto the jetway, they closed that door behind us. We didn't get to sit together, but we were the last folks to get to Boston for a while. 

Side note: I got fairly frustrated with the passenger in front of Claire and me. I very obviously had a baby in my lap, and Mr. Doesn't Care reclined his seat for the full two hours. He didn't even raise it when the flight attendant came by and asked him to. I felt much affirmation for that frustration when I read this article. 

Also, on a very somber note, when we arrived in Boston, the pilot asked that we all stay in our seats for a few minutes; there was a military escort on our flight, accompanying home the remains of a soldier. Out the window, we saw an honor guard waiting to escort the body. It was very sobering and humbling. It reminded me that in the midst of my frustrations and feelings of harassment, I have so much to be grateful for. 

In that spirit of gratitude, Brad and I were beyond grateful that our friend came to pick us up (rather than having to take the train or pay through the nose for a taxi) and that our luggage came with us. Despite the long day of travel and the frustrations associated therein, there were so many blessings. 

(I still hate the process. Grateful though I may be. Just being honest.)