Here I am again. I would probably not be blogging had I not found myself trapped in Boston. The Marriott in which I was staying was around thirty minutes from the airport in no traffic. With the Red Sox game that evening, I decided to leave at three to give me plenty of time to make my 5:30 flight. Go Red Sox. I found myself in a new black suburban with two other travelers on the way to the airport. One was from Florida, and the other was from the UK. Our driver was probably in her mid thirties, from Boston, and dang proud of it. Everyone seemed to really like talking, except for the Brit and me. I loosened up a bit with time and had a few laughs. We would all find out later why my British companion was so quiet.

The freeway was a parking lot, and I got a good long, slow look at the city as the time passed. Mr. Florida liked to talk about hurricanes, beer and lobsters. I asked questions, and the little British guy looked out the window. Time was moving, but our car was not. We all heard a siren and saw a fire engine trying to get through traffic. We were on a bridge, but everyone still tried to make room for the fire engine to pass on the right. Mr. Florida reached out to pull the mirror in to make room for the truck, and Mr. UK expressed his concern for Mr. Florida’s arm. Apparently, a serious accident was responsible for the delay.

As I slowly began to accept the fact that I would not make my flight, the Brit began to accept that he was not going to make it to the privy. He suddenly had the driver’s attention.
“We need to pull over now.” The driver looked back in her mirror trying to gauge the seriousness of the situation.
“You mean here in the middle of the overpass?”
“Yes, it’s either going to come out in here or out there.”
Everybody started laughing, except of course, the Briton. He hopped out and quickly ran around the door and relieved himself. Unfortunately, such a spectacle does not go unnoticed. In no time, the Brit had three lanes of undivided attention. The symphony of horns began, and our party was doubled over with glee, driver included.

As you know, I missed my flight. The Sky Cap would not take my bag, and I watched the debates and the Red Sox game from the airport Hilton.

It was oddly depressing to watch Boston beat the Angels on TV when they were just a few miles a way. Nearly everyone in Boston was celebrating their team, and I was sitting alone in the muted roar of jet exhaust. I knew I should have at least tried to get there. After the debates, I drifted to sleep, knowing I would be getting up at 3:30 Utah time.

Would you believe I almost missed my flight Saturday? I gave myself two hours to get ready and get to the airport. After all, I was already staying at the airport. By the time the shuttle dropped me off at Delta’s terminal, I had around thirty-five minutes to departure. All the lines were very long, and they won’t take your bags if you’re inside thirty minutes of departure. I did something I have not done in years. I cut in line. I explained my situation to the guy in front, and he let me in. When I got to the ticketing agent, he tried to send me to the end of the line because I had cut. I plead with the second ticketing agent, and he allowed me to check my bag because there was no way I would make my flight otherwise. I was grateful, but I felt like a slime bucket for a good five hours.

I have completely lost my faith in airport security. Some of you know I have slipped through security with knives undetected, but this demonstration of incompetence is unreal. The ticketing agent gave me two boarding passes. Since this is normal, I thought nothing of it. I also don’t make a habit of reading all the information on a boarding pass. I generally need to know my gate and my seat. I don’t think I’ll ever take my name for granted again, for my boarding pass was carefully tucked behind Steve Andrews’s.

As far as TSA, Delta and Boston were concerned, I was the respectable Steve Andrews, en route to San Diego. As Steve, I made my way through security with my official Sam Carter ID. They checked me off like they do everyone else, and I was set to go. To my everlasting gratitude, I had chosen the wrong terminal, and I had to exit and go through security again. I almost made it through the second time, but I got picked for the baggage search. TSA asked for my boarding pass and ID, and they’d caught their criminal.

You have seen the movies; the dimly lit, smoke-filled rooms. The donuts on the table you’re not allowed to eat ‘till you talk. The two-way mirror that you somehow forget is two-way when you’re sitting there. This all came to mind as six TSA officials discussed this strange man with a secret identity. There were so many ways I could quickly shape my future, or perhaps even end it. One word, bomb, and I would have been tackled and killed. A mad dash for either exit or terminal would have ended only in gunfire. I could not indulge these fantasies too much. I had a flight to catch.

Needless to say, I made my flight this time. I like Boston. I like it a lot, but I have to admit that getting out of there was probably tougher than getting out of hell, or perhaps Liberty Park on the fourth of July.

There you have it. Gear up for another dry spell.