Marooned

There's a monsoon in Atlanta. How do I know, you ask? Because its debris has washed up at gate H11 (and several others for that matter.) I finished dinner in the airport, trotted through the terminal, and... remember what I said about flashing lights? They're still bad news. When the flight that was scheduled to leave at 3 is still hanging around at 6, you know it's going to be a long night.

The unfortunate clerks behind the counter looked overly frazzled, so I left in search of those crack guava-filled pastries, and a seat to watch the flashing lights depress us all. First it was 40 minutes, then 55. They finally seem to have settled on an hour and a half.

Now I have extensive experience entertaining myself in airports. I have no problems unrolling a kanga and sleeping on the ground. But there are always a few stages one goes through before being at zen with the terminal.

Denial: Oh, there's no way we'll be that late. I'm sure the pilot can make up an hour's delay in the sky. The last one did so well with that 20 minute late start.

Anger: $&*%$^$ MIAMI!! I CAN'T EVEN WATCH THE OPENING CEREMONIES HERE! WHY DOES AMERICAN'S FLIGHT LEAVE ON TIME?!*

Bargaining: Maybe the nice stewardess at American likes guava pastries. No? How about a Toblerone? No? Ever wanted to learn about genetics? Yes ma'am, I'll go sit down.

Depression: I'm never going to get out of heeeeerree!! I won't make it to Boulder for my class, and they'll fire me and not let me finish my courses in Miami and I'll never go to Puerto Rico and life as I know it will... Yes ma'am, I'll go sit back down.

Acceptance: Angry Birds!! Netflix!! Namasté, MIA.


*American's flight wound up significantly delayed, too. I might have been just a little self-satisfied with that.