(A tale proving that true travelers aren’t just determined—they’re one cancelled flight away from full-blown heroic desperation.)
Sing, O Muse, of Pat and Gabrielle—two travelers so committed to embarking on their Hellenic adventure that even Zeus himself seemed to toss weather systems at them just for sport.
For more than a week, Pat monitored the airlines with the obsessive intensity of a caffeinated air-traffic controller. Will the government regain sanity and end the shut down? Will they fly? Will the universe ever let us leave? Every day was a cliffhanger; every weather report a plot twist.
Finally—finally!—the West Coast cleared.
And right on cue, Duluth said:
“Hold my snowblower.”
A storm barreled in, dumping inches of snow with the promise of much more, as if Olympus itself was in on the joke.
The next blow: Gabrielle’s flight to ORD—Chicago, the city that should be prepared—was itself buried under more than a foot of snow. Chicago shrugged. “Winter happens.”
Our hero slept. A restorative, fragile sleep. Pat awoke to hope: the Duluth flight had landed the night before. A plane—Gabrielle’s plane—physically present. This, in airline terms, was a win.
At 5-something in the morning, Gabrielle’s name lit up the phone. Nothing good ever comes from pre-6 a.m. calls.
The Duluth flight: cancelled!
Pat, invoking the sacred powers of her 1K status, called United Airline. Kevin, the chosen representative, answered. After ten minutes of heroic keystrokes and whispered promises, disaster struck: the call dropped. Pat had a plane to catch, and now Kevin was lost to the technological abyss.
No matter. Onward.
Shoes—right. Those would be needed. Shoes acquired, Pat embarked.
The drive to the airport was blessed by a gorgeous sunrise and the merciful absence of deer, skunks, or other woodland creatures with a flair for dramatic entrances.
Twenty miles from home, Pat had a sudden flash of existential dread.
Did I close my garage door?
She could picture it: wide open, inviting in raccoons, drifters, and perhaps an opportunistic grifter.
A frantic message was sent to the neighbors:
“Could someone check if I’ve left my home vulnerable to all?”
Another call to United. Susan was helping to reroute Gabrielle from MSP to ORD. Shortly, that call too was dropped into the netherworld of cell signals.
And so, as the airline chaos reached a fresh crescendo, Pat—still recovering from the dropped call with Kevin—told Gabrielle the fateful words every traveler dreads:
“You’re on your own. Get on the phone.”
Thus Gabrielle, armed with nothing but her wits, her phone, and the eternal optimism of someone who really wants to get to Greece, began her own battle with the labyrinth of customer service. She tapped “call,” knowing she was about to enter the hold-music underworld, where time has no meaning and representatives appear only after one has surrendered most all hope.
Meanwhile, Pat sped on, confident that surely Gabrielle was negotiating her fate on the other line.
But then—tragedy. The trickster gods have more.
Pat entered The Void.
A several-mile stretch of landscape so stubbornly unmodernized that even the gods themselves had long since given up on trying to get cell reception there. This was a dead zone, a cursed land, a place where texts vanished, calls evaporated, and travelers were stripped of digital contact with the outside world.
Pat drove on, knowing nothing.
No calls.
No messages.
No Gabrielle updates.
No “I’m rebooked!”
No “We’re doomed!”
Only silence.
It was like wandering through a canyon carved specifically for the purpose of withholding flight status information.
Pat emerged from The Void, her phone springing back to life in a frenzy of delayed notifications—each ping a reminder of the chaos she’d missed, and the chaos that still awaited.
The drama seemed to intensify.
Part II: In Which the Journey Becomes Ridiculous Even by Odyssey Standards
Point of Order: Pat was flying from California, Gabrielle from Duluth. Zeus, apparently, had been briefed.
Pat arrived at the airport, proud of her strategic brilliance in using the new, cheaper parking lot across the street. She admired her own efficiency… right up until she checked the app inside the terminal and realized that perhaps things were not as straightforward as they seemed.
But then—good news! A neighbor confirmed the garage door was closed after all. One crisis down.
Bless the small, quiet, local airport: Pat glided through TSA in minutes, unbothered, unsearched, untraumatized. This alone felt like divine favor.
Meanwhile, Gabrielle’s plans mutated hourly. She got a schedule change! Her trusting parents—bless their snowy Minnesota souls—were driving her this minute to Minneapolis. And Pat tried to extend her parking reservation, even as the system insisted on a series of dramatic back-and-forths worthy of ancient Greek tragedies. Eventually she paid for two days. Maybe legit. Who could say?
Onto the plane, continue in attempts to extend the parking further days. No, no, no. Left the gate, a delay appeared due to “clearance issues at SFO.” Pat shrugged: “I have time. I have so much time. And, I have a signal.” Success! Parking permit extended. A true receipt arrived. Surely no worries about being towed now.
(The universe chuckled quietly.)
Takeoff, a few bumps, orange juice, landing, sitting on SFO’s runway. Finally – release and a dash for the lounge and strong coffee. Take a deep breath, exhale.
Pat began calculating connection times like a NASA mission controller. Gabrielle would have minutes—minutes—to descend into ORD, cross a terminal, and meet her next flight for Frankfurt.
Confidence: low. Anxiety: high.
But thank the gods for the wisdom of carry-on.
Chaos ensued, again! Pat called 1K—again. Carol, blessed angel of the phone tree, pulled off a miracle: she rerouted Gabrielle through London, then to Athens, arriving 10:20 p.m. the next day. Just seven hours later than originally planned. Olympus is finally showing her some favor.
A housesitter confirmed arrival at Pat’s home.
It began to feel like the gears of fate were moving.
Then Pat tried to board her flight to Frankfurt. What? A big, bold Red ❌ . The mark of shame.
“Go to the desk,” they said.
There, in a Karma+ plot twist, she was upgraded to business. Perhaps the gods were even smiling.
Upstairs wasn’t her favorite seat, but she gladly accepted her fate—until a young man arrived to claim his seat. And thus Pat descended once more, like a traveler cast from Mount Olympus back to mortal soil – to seat 4A bulkhead. Honestly? Terrific!
The plane departed on time.
Pat ordered a Riesling. She didn’t have to descend those steep stairs with baggage when landed. She deserved two.
Meanwhile, arriving at ORD, Gabrielle received one more philosophical question from the universe: did she need a transit visa in London?
Conflicting messages ensued. Expectations of surprise? Illegal immigrant? No, she is boarded, she is a transit passenger, she should be okay.
In FRA, things seemed stable: on time, a quick lounge visit, a beer for courage. Pat even checked at the gate—boarding pass accepted.
Then: last minute, the dreaded ❌. Again!
This time it was triggered by an exit row. “I,m on the aisle, I won’t have to open the door,” Pat noted cheerfully. “I just want the seat.”
Arriving in Athens felt surreal, almost mythical. She half expected a lyre to play as she exited. She crossed the street to the hotel, feeling victorious, exhausted, and slightly fermented.
Then, closely, she checked Gabriel’s London flight info.
3 December!!!???
W T F?
Panic blossomed.
A scroll of doom?
The wrong day?
Was Gabrielle trapped in Heathrow’s multiverse?
But no alarms sounded from London, and the tracker showed her plane taxiing. Pat exhaled. The plane has departed. Hopefully, Gabrielle is on it. Silence seems golden.
And so Pat waited, hopeful, imagining at last the glorious reunion: Two weary travelers, two triumphant survivors of modern aviation, meeting in Athens at long last…
…for the stiffest of stiff drinks.
“Surely, the gods are toying with us, but we determined travelers shall prevail.”
