Of Planes and Sleep Dep

Once upon a time, twenty-four hours ago, Chelsea and I arrived at Cleveland Hopkins International Airport. We got there two hours early. Our plane arrived forty-five minutes late.

Upon realizing the imminent problem of this situation, Chelsea pointed out to the lovely flight attendant that we would miss our flight to London and that this would be infinitely sad. And so the attendant, as a back up, reserved seats for us on a different flight, this one to Amsterdam. Amsterdam and London, close enough, right? At least we would get across the Atlantic on the right day.

However Detroit had other ideas. As we descended into that city, we realized that our flight to London should already have left and even the plane to Amsterdam might be tricky to get to on time.

For those of you unfamiliar with the Detroit airport, it is divided into two terminals: concourse A and concourses B and C. International flights leave from A. Domestic ones come in to B or C. The only way across from one to another is a tunnel. Now this is a lovely tunnel, its walls glow with rainbows, a soft soothing music emanates from its shimmering ambiance. It is an attractive, if strange and out of place, bit of architecture. It is less appealing when you have run all of concourse B and are preparing to do the same with as much of concourse A as is necessary.

Chelsea, bless her heart, but slowed momentarily. I worried that I had allowed myself to get horribly out of shape and would now have to catch up to her athleticism. I was soothed to discover that she was merely more stubborn with better hunting instincts and visualization. We collapsed together with mutual panting, shortness of breath and winded pain on a plane bound for Amsterdam.

Now one thing about planes, particularly those that cross oceans: If you have watched any of the series LOST, you try desperately not to think of it as you fly. It can be a quiet inner struggle, something put aside as you snooze and half-watch Avatar, but when a monstrous burst of turbulence hits, that image of Jack Sheppard opening his eyes on an island to the sound of screaming comes back with a gut wrenching jolt.

We had some of the worst turbulence I have ever felt, bouncing us around inside our flying metal canister for a little over half an hour. The plane did not break in half, which is awesome. That however, combined with a boisterous family of loud blonde Dutch children, apparently of the mistaken opinion that rest is for the weak, lead to very little sleep.

Our connecting flight left us briefly in the land of orange, clogs and tulips before dumping us into

London which welcomed us with grey skies and drizzle. Highly appropriate.

The long and the short is that we made it here, and I am certain it will be funnier in the morning. Sleep well all.