Let me start off by saying the title sums it all up. Buckle up, because this isn’t just a story, it’s a saga. Not just mine, either. My brother Charles (aka Uncle Charlie) was the mastermind behind this “brilliant” travel plan.
The day started harmlessly enough. It was the Sunday after dropping Zoe at sleepaway camp, so my mother-heart was already fragile. I’d been at Uncle Charlie’s that morning for a Zoom call, when he casually suggested:
“Why don’t you just take the train to JFK? It’s so much cheaper than an Uber, and it takes the same amount of time.”
Cheaper, same amount of time, what’s not to love? Except, you know, everything.
Now, I wasn’t exactly thrilled at the thought of going underground alone, but Charlie ever the gallant older brother offered to escort me. Sweet, right? So, I packed up, schlepped my suitcase the five blocks back to his place (because my hotel choice was already a mistake but let’s not even open the can of worms that was the damp-and-dingy Kimpton “experience”), and off we went.
Clue #1: It’s Not That Kind of Train
We arrive at 57th and 8th, and that’s when I realize: wait, this isn’t a train-train. This is the subway. Because when Charlie said “train,” my naïve brain pictured, oh I don’t know, an actual train. Instead, we’re headed for the subway. But fine. I told myself, “Go with the flow.”
Clue #2: Thirty-Three Stops to Nowhere
We wait for the A Express. Charlie promises it’ll come quickly. Spoiler: it didn’t. Fifteen minutes later, we’re still standing there. And then he decides casually that we’ll just hop on the local to JFK. Thirty-three stops. Yes, 33. My second clue that this was not going to end well.
Somewhere around 23rd Street, an announcement comes over the loudspeaker. There’s been an accident. Someone was hit by a train at High Street in Brooklyn. Tragic. Heartbreaking, really. And logistically? A disaster. Everyone had to get off.
The station agent tells us to take the E Express, which basically means undoing the last 40 minutes of effort and starting over. At this point, Charlie is still chipper, a little bewildered because in 25years of living in NYC this has never happened to him. I, meanwhile, can’t stop laughing. I dare not tell him about my issues flying up to NYC when my boarding pass, poof, disappeared as I scanned it at TSA security. Let’s keep silent about that. Because traveling with me? It’s never normal. It’s always some sort of energetic mishap happening or about to happen. Charlie just didn’t realize he’d signed up for the Christina Travel Experience.
Fast forward: 90 minutes in, we’re still underground, bonding like we’re kids again. But it’s 1:30pm, and my 2:30pm flight? Yeah, not happening. I had waitlisted myself at midnight on three other flights (because my intuition was screaming “cancelation!”), but this one was slipping through my fingers.
The Screech Heard ‘Round JFK
And then, finally we screeched into JFK. And when I say screeched, I mean the conductor slammed those brakes so hard I thought we’d all lurch forward into the next borough. The problem? The doors refused to open. So now we’re all just standing there, suitcases in hand, trapped in the car like hostages waiting for Liam Neeson to save us. Ten minutes tick by before the conductor calmly suggests that we all shuffle to the middle cars because those are the only ones they can manually open.
Picture this: me dragging my suitcase from car to car with the rest of the herd, while Charlie, natural-born New Yorker leads us like he’s conducting a tour of the city’s underground tunnels. Truly, thank G_d for him.
At last, freedom. But the time? 2:06pm. My flight was basically gone. TSA was shockingly quick (suspiciously quick, it felt like I was being punked). But sure enough, by the time I got to the gate, the doors were closed. Flight missed.
Plan B: head to the American Airlines lounge. When in doubt, snacks and nicer agents. Except the lounge agent looked me dead in the eye and said: “We can’t help you here. You’ll need to check in at the gate.” So much for my theory.
I woofed down a sad little salad, filled my water bottle, shoved some nuts and an apple into my bag, and headed for my next gate. My phone was down to 20%, and of course when in need of a charging station none are working.
Finally, my luck turned. I was #3 on the waitlist and scored a spot on the next flight. Not only that, but an exit row. Blessed legroom for my tired legs.
We boarded. I let out a sigh of relief. The nightmare was ending. Except, it wasn’t. We then sat on the runway for 90 minutes because of wind delays. But hey, I still landed home earlier than my original flight.
Premonition, Proved
And here’s where the universe gives me the ultimate mic drop while I’m midair, I get the alert. My original flight? Canceled. Every single Miami flight after it? Canceled. And the cherry on top? A software meltdown at American Airlines grounded flights in NYC, Miami, and North Carolina. If I had stuck with my original, I’d have been sleeping at JFK or back at the dingy Kimpton.
So yes. My intuition was right. Again.
The takeaway? I had a lot of laughs with my brother, and we made some very “remember when” memories. But next time? I’m getting an Uber. Charlie can do his subway field trip solo. And I’m never ignoring my gut again.
