I’ve been packing for a week, planning every outfit, buying new clothes. The bag is finally shut, bulging, almost heavier than I can manage. I know this will be a problem on this trip but I can’t help it. I need every item. I think. (Except for the cat.)
A Lyft car arrives to take me to the airport two-and-a-half hours before departure. It is hot in Phoenix, as usual, but I am dressed warmly for the airplane and the subsequent deplaning in London. The ride to the airport is uneventful other than the driver detailing her many health ailments to me. She is young, younger than I am, and has had two heart attacks. I pause to feel gratitude for my perfect health at 62.
The Phoenix airport is calm and I am left with time on my hands to wander and people-watch, my favorite past time. But as we gather at the gate to begin boarding, all these travelers who must get from Phoenix to London for some odd reason, they announce that the flight is delayed by two hours. This is a catastrophe and all the follow-up ground transportation (car, train) I have arranged to reach Halifax are suddenly moot.
I am a lost traveler now.