160. Flat

I sit on the plane, trying to ignore the growing pressure in my ears as we descend. I look at my watch. Our landing time is approaching. I should have exactly 70 minutes between when my plane sets down and when my husband's takes off. In the last week we've spent an hour together because of our various trips, and now we get one more hour before he leaves for another week. But we're on our way down. Looking at my watch won't make us land faster, so I go back to my book.

Two pages later we bump into the ground. I'm pleased. I'm not a huge fan of flying and this descent and landing has been exceptionally smooth. I look at my watch again. We've landed four minutes ahead of schedule. 74 minutes. The clock in my mind has begun to tick. I text my husband to let him know and he tells me he's waiting at my gate. I return to my book. It will still be a few minutes of taxiing and then readying ourselves to deplane. 

Far sooner than I expect, we stop. I assume it's just a small delay, but we keep waiting. The other passengers begin unbuckling themselves, getting ready to deplane, but the pilot comes over the speaker asking that we remain seated and belted. I look at my watch again. 69 minutes. I struggle to keep interested in the affairs of Elinor and Marianne. 

Again the pilot comes on the speaker. We are unable to make it to our gate just now. Sit tight and we should get there in 5-10 minutes. 63 minutes.

57 minutes and again the speaker is on. We have two flat tires, so we can't move. The repair crews will be here shortly to fix it. Don't worry, folks, we'll be at the gate in no time. The couple next to me laughs and pulls out a packet of strong-smelling cheese crackers with peanut butter filling. Another minute and my husband calls. I explain what we know and tell him we should get there soon. 54 minutes. I'm frustrated at the time that has been wasted, but I try to ignore the tears forming in my eyes. I brush them away and try to focus again on the words on my page. 

We hear what sounds like five giant saws cutting into the hill of the plane. They've begun to change the tires, we assume. The couple jokes about the size of a jack big enough to hoist a plane.

39 minutes. The pilot again. It seems they can't simply change the tire. They're going to order the stairs and buses and have them over soon. I call my husband to give him the latest update. He can see us from the gate window. The mechanics have left and we sit alone on the tarmac. He asks the gate agent where the buses will drop us off and goes to meet us. 

35 minutes and the buses have arrived. We all unbuckle but the pilot tells us that they're going to unload the wheelchair passengers first. I'm usually all for helping the elderly and infirm, but this is not a quick process. I am anxious about missing my husband at this point. How much more logical would it be to have the able-bodied unload and fill the first bus. Those of us with connecting flights, for instance, or a relative waiting to pick us up. But no, they decide for the politically correct answer and help the handicapped. Or at least, they try. 

We are down to 22 minutes and not a single person has left the plane. My husband cannot wait at my gate any longer. He leaves my terminal and heads for the tram and then on to his own terminal. We can only hope now that I am able to make it off the plane, through my terminal, onto the tram, through his terminal, and to his gate in time. He will wait until every other passenger has boarded before he gets on.

20 minutes and they change their mind. Wheelchair passengers will get off last. I know I am not the only person cheering inside. The passengers in the rows in front of me stand and gather their luggage. We are off in another minute and I make sure to find a spot in the very front of the bus. I am right next to the door. 

I can see the airplane tires. They are not simply flat. They are shredded.

18 minutes and the close. We lurch forward and I breathe a sigh of relief. But then we go no more than 50 yards before we stop. Our driver speaks to a man in an airport operations vehicle. I am checking my watch constantly. 16 minutes we lurch forward again. I watch out the front window as we go around the terminal and stop again in the middle of the painted roadway. Another operations vehicle parks in front of our bus. A second one drives up alongside us. They chat again. I suppose they do not know where to take us. 14. 13. 12. 11. 10. They pull apart two luggage carts between us and the building. One of the operations drivers steps walks toward the doors. They open. We are free. We follow the driver to the building where he slides his ID through the reader and the door clicks. Only two men are in front of me, the rest amble slowly behind, dragging rollerbags and clunky cartons. I have only a small backpack. The driver stays at the door but directs us up the stairs. 

The Australian man next to me hopes that his plane has not left without him. The man behind him needs the toilet. I say nothing. 

As soon as the Australian opens the door I am through it. I look at the gate sign above me. A20. Nearly two-thirds of the was down the terminal. My speed quickens. I have 8 minutes before my husband's plane is due to leave. I follow the signs for the tram. My husband calls and tells me his gate number, asks where I am. 

It was foolish of me to wear heels, but I had not forseen the need to run through the airport when I packed only one pair of shoes.

I race to the tram, climb the escalator, and run towards the little train but the doors close before I reach them. As it rolls away, the sign above the door reads "next train 110 seconds." I have less than  5 minutes. In tears, I pace the little space before the doors, constantly checking the flashing sign. 90 seconds. 75. 60. These seconds are precious. 15 seconds. Finally it arrives and I am on. We reach terminal B. My husband calls again. I am only one stop away. They have called the last boarding group but not announced final boarding. The tram slows and I am by the door. They open too slowly. I have 1 minute until his scheduled departure.  I ran, as much as I can toward his gate. C34, and the tram drops me off well before C1. 

The time has come and passed and yet I keep going. Finally the little sign appears. C34. And there is my husband. I fly into his arms and he hugs me tightly. The gate attendants are busy with another passenger. Another man comes running up behind me, and up to the gate. We are together for 3 minutes before the gate guard says they will close the door in 40 seconds. I watch as my husband hands his boarding pass to the attendant and then disappears through the gangway door, waving as he goes. 

I sit down and cry again, releasing the stress, anxiety, and apprehension about the coming week. Then I stand and head for the parking garage to find my car. Our children need me at home.