Home again, home again, jiggedy jog!

Can there be no more wonderful feeling than that of coming home after a journey?  No matter how delightful a trip has been, there's no place like home.  It was especially true this time.  My return home had a slight hiccup that occurred leaving Boston.  The plane was in full take-off mode when---it stopped.  Did they realize I was a white-knuckler?  No matter, we spent over 3 1/2 hours analyzing the problem with our "flap", replacing a part, and taking off again.  There has been legislation governing the amount of time passengers can spend in the airplane on the tarmac.  We were offered the chance to "deplane", with the strong message that that would delay our eventual departure.  Only a few people got off, with plans to try some other route. Most of us were hoping that the delay would be short and we would manage to make our connections in Atlanta.   The crew kept mentioning time on the ground.  So politically correct.  All I cared about was whether it would take off intact and land in a similar condition.  And would it get me home.  Obviously, not as scheduled (Saturday, October 1). 

As an "older" woman traveling alone, I was understandably concerned about where my airline of choice, Delta, would decide to put me up in Atlanta.  What struck me was the realization that 10:30 at night is comfortable when I know I have selected my destination, but not when "big brother" is in control.  And my unease wasn't soothed by the long wait for the motel shuttle with a group of strangers.  As it turned out, the Quality Inn Convention Center where Delta sent me was a comfortable, clean motel.  I slept like a log.

The next morning I took the shuttle back to the airport in time to use my breakfast chit at Pascal's, an Atlanta institution.  I love having lunch or dinner there, but had to settle for scrambled eggs with a wonderful biscuit. Yum!  Then through security and on to my gate.  Another hiccup--the "Plane Train" wasn't working.  I've tried to find out on the internet exactly how far it is from the terminal to various concourses with no success.  Take my word for it--it's a long way.  I was pleasantly surprised at the comfort of my shoes that I had mainly selected for their ease in putting on and off for the security checkpoint (no more Nikes!).   And some of the people movers weren't moving.  Joy.  I did spot an emergency resuscitation unit about halfway between Concourses B and C.  And finally, I reached Concourse D.  Deep breath.  And an uneventful flight to Melbourne, FL, where I had left my car.  Oh, that gorgeous Florida sunshine while I drove South on US1 along the river to Vero Beach.  My blase New Yorker husband barely looked up from the newspaper when I walked in.  Ho hum, she's back!

In my next post I'll tell you all about my wonderful, relaxing week on the Cape.  With some spectacular (she says modestly) photographs!