But First, A Little Suffering

I’m the First Person in the World to enjoy long travel days. There’s nothing that I love more than the in between, the neither here nor there. For a frightened flyer, I love sitting in the airport. On a long bus ride, I’m in my element. A train? Sustainability puts my mind at even greater ease. When you’re in between, there are no expectations–nothing that you should be doing, or even could be doing, especially in my case, when reading a book or checking emails while in motion produces a wave of intense nausea. In these liminal spaces devoid of all expectations resides nothing but the present. 

Yet, I did not enjoy my travel day(s) to Quito. Despite writing out a detailed packing list that included what items to pack and in which order to pack them, I hurried off to the train station without my mandatory yellow fever vaccination card. The 5:32 A.M. train to New York City left without me. While waiting for the 5:46 A.M. train to arrive, I attempted to console myself with a vending machine treat, but the sorry piece of technology took my coins and produced nothing in return. I delivered one defeated kick to the side paneling before retreating to the train car, which had just arrived. Then, I was on my way to LaGuardia, with plenty of time left in the day for my luck to change.

It did not. The first leg of my flight would take me to Miami, a city to which I will never again attempt to visit during the rainy season. 20-minutes before our scheduled landing, the intercom buzzed. The pilot informed us that a storm system prevented a safe descent, and so our plane would circle above the clouds until either fuel ran low or conditions cleared up. So the fuel ran low, and we diverted to Orlando.  

Inevitably, so did every other plane in the vicinity. The dated airport was reminiscent of a 1980’s casino, with stinging, fluorescent lighting that elevated the horror that was hundreds of agitated sandal-clad tourists pounding their fists at the ticket counter. A physical altercation occurred between staff and a passenger. She was barred from re-entry. All seats were occupied; real estate was limited. I resigned myself to a faraway corner of the filthy, green carpet, slipping my backpack beneath my head and curling into the tightest, most unobtrusive ball possible. 

 At various times, the intercom chimed, and I perked up to hear the updated flight times. In 30-minutes. In an hour. In 30-minutes, really! So sorry, in two hours, actually. Still, with every update, I embraced moments of hope, imagining that I might somehow make my connecting flight to Quito. We must have been the last flight to arrive in Miami that night. My hope dissolved. A lengthy line of marooned customers grew at the ticket counter, which the staff begrudgingly dealt with by distributing hotel vouchers and $22 VISA gift cards meant for hot meals. While my peers settled into their new homes in Quito, I remained stranded in rainy, grey Miami for the next 20 or so hours. 

Instead of waking up in the glorious Andes, I woke up to Miami’s persistent summertime drizzle. I pulled up the hood of my rain jacket and trekked to the nearest First Watch to spend my $22 giftcard on an egg white omelette. I felt grateful for egg white omelettes and seeded toast with strawberry jam and for at least having made the decision to book my layover in Miami instead of Colombia, which had originally tempted me with cheaper ticket fares. I could not imagine having to navigate delays and cancellations in a country entirely unfamiliar to me. It’s good practice to count my blessings. While my peers began program orientation, I hopped on the airport shuttle for the last leg of my trip.

Although I had arrived at the airport three hours early, the check-in counter was swamped by other customers who had similarly endured the previous day’s diversions, cancellations and re-bookings. I waited patiently in the unmoving line for about an hour when an agent hurriedly picked her way through the line, collecting all passengers for my flight to Quito. She rushed us to some sort of newly created express line which seemed as equally stagnant as the first, albeit much shorter. Usually, I avoid flying whenever possible, which keeps me relatively ignorant about airport processes and timelines. But as I watched my fellow passengers exchange nervous glances and whisper in agitated tones, I knew that we were about to miss our flight. For the first time in two days of travel chaos, I became truly panicked. I watched my fellow passengers check their luggage and then book it towards the growing line at security. I watched as I stood still, the last Quito passenger stuck in line, anxiously waiting to be summoned to the ticket counter. After checking my luggage, I followed suit and ran towards security. Now, I prayed for a delay, for a message from the airline that would nullify my tardiness. No such message came. I sat with my panic through airport security. As soon as my possessions were liberated from the airport security X-rays, I ripped my backpack and shoes from the conveyor belt and ran for the gate in my socks. 

DELAYED. I blinked at the television screen above the gate desk. Simultaneously defeated and relieved, I slipped on my sneakers and went to snuff out a coffee spot. I returned to the gate with a black coffee in a paper cup with no lid, an apparent mandate to finish it off before boarding. For the next forty minutes or so, I sipped my coffee, recounting the past two days of chaos. I stared vacantly ahead at the children’s backpack that sat on the seat across from me. JESUS IS MY BFF. I wondered if I had suffered enough yet to be idolized on a backpack. 

All of this suffering could be remedied with a little change of perspective. It was my fault, I suppose, for assuming that the adventure of studying abroad would wait to meet me in Quito. Instead, the adventure began the moment that I forgot my yellow fever vaccination card at home. The adventure began the moment that I had a tiff with the vending machine on the train platform, and when I resigned myself to a nap on the dated, green Orlando carpets, and when I booked it to my gate in my white Hanes crew socks, Onitsuka Tigers in hand. I even found a little more in the bottom of my ritual in-flight Bloody Mary.  At some point, I made it to Quito. The flight was unremarkable.