Before I had kids, I got around. Not that way. I mean really traveled. Some strange places, too. Hitchiking across the Sahara. Rattletrap planes in Madagascar. Long, long third-class train rides in China. Big trips on small money. Which meant a lot of discomfort. That’s the trade-off when you’re young. You usually have more time than cash. So if a flight is canceled (or it takes 9 days for a truck to come through Agadez, heading for Tamanrasset), you just wait. At 54, with a lot of college tuition yet to pay, I can’t say I have much of either. But I do value time with the family more than anything. So when I was asked to test out US Airways and see what it’s like to trust your body and bags to the airline before Thanksgiving, I hesitated.
The last time I flew US Airways was during the disastrous icy rainstorm in March. My family was stranded, along with tens of thousands of other unhappy campers. Communication was awful. There wasn’t anyone to translate for foreign visitors. You couldn't even get water once you were told to leave the secure area and reschedule your flight. We did come across a couple of wonderful, helpful, ingenious staffers eventually, who went out of their way to help us get to where we were going. The hard working employees of US Airways take the hit when their colleagues (and bosses) don't do their jobs well.
True, you can’t control the weather. And you can’t control the fact that on Thanksgiving, masses of humans take plane trips. But you can plan for it. I don’t know how anyone, given the challenges airlines face these days, keeps these companies going. (Trust me, having a disorganized mind like mine at the helm would crash and burn the business faster than a flock of seagulls in the jet intake.)
But we have come to depend on these services. And this week, especially, US Airways, Philadelphia's major player, has a big responsibility.
I have 20 people – people I love – coming to my house for dinner on Thursday. Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. It was my father’s favorite holiday. He died 20 years ago and, not to get too creepy about this, he makes his presence known this time of year. If only because I inherited my love of pureed rutabagas from him, and no one else in the family except me and the dog will eat it. My kids help me cook (everything but the rutabagas) the day before. The night before. The morning of. It’s major in our house. And the people who are coming are people we don’t see very often. In fact, only once a year. The third Thursday in November.
But flying across the country and back in 26 hours, hoping to get back in one piece, with my luggage, in time to brine the bird, was too good an invitation to turn down. Given the shameless sentimentality of the moment, I am going to visit my best friend from high school. I haven’t seen her since 1981 at our 10th year reunion. It took some research to find her. Carin and her husband Mike live on Bainbridge Island near Seattle.
If all goes well, I’ll be meeting her on Tuesday afternoon. I’ll be flying back home Tuesday night. Along the way, I’ll stop in US Airways' hubs. My husband is the kind of guy who bets against the Eagles and comes home with sad, but honestly-won $20 bills all the time. Guess what he’s betting on this week?