Leave Time For A Flat Tire
At our hostel on the eve of our return to the States in 2018, my three travel buddies and I discussed when to schedule our shuttle to the Budapest airport. Our flight that late August day was at mid-morning, and some wanted the most sleep possible before the long day ahead. They suggested an 8a.m. pick-up.
Hmmm, I said. Why don’t we make it 7:15, I said. Always leave time for a flat tire, whispered my inner voice. This has always been resoundingly good advice when faced with the sort of inflexible deadline that flight departures represent. When the conversation persisted, I said it out loud: “It has served me a time or two to leave time for a flat tire.” Our shuttle picked us up at 7:15 a.m.
We had planned for this trip all year: four days each in Budapest, Prague, and Split, ending with a drive across Croatia back to Budapest to get home in time for the new school year faced by my three teacher-companions. Since buying our air tickets, one of us had renewed her passport, which involved a name change after a modification of her marital status. No problem, she thought; she had all the paperwork necessary to explain the discrepancy with the flight ticket.
Check-in was smooth...for three of us. But paper evidence was no match for the computerized presence of her mismatched names. We were referred to another desk across the departures hall. Two of us dialed customer service for United Air, and were tortured by Rhapsody in Blue on looping mode. So there we were. One was embroiled in an infuriating dilemma. Two of us were on hold. The fourth sat with the luggage and fretted. We needed help from whoever was on the 3 a.m. call desk 5,600 miles away. The minutes ticked by.
Finally! After 30 minutes, a voice interrupted the earworm music. I quickly explained the urgency of our situation. Boarding on the distant concourse was getting ready to begin, and we weren’t even anywhere near the (long) security line. Happily, the faceless person in Houston got it, and within a few minutes the nice man from Swiss Air who had endured our entreaties cleared the way with a few efficient clicks of the keyboard. We ran.
Yes: leaving time for a flat tire (real or metaphorical), especially when traveling in the aviation system, is a very good rule. For decades, this habit has served me well, including that one time before cell phones when we casually pulled up at my mom’s house for a ride to the airport, only to find her beside herself. “Where have you been!?” We’d had a lovely breakfast—oblivious to the fact that daylight savings had sprung the day forward by an hour. By then we were truly on the edge of too late to make the plane, but the time built in for a flat tire saved that trip.
The very long hallway to my room!
And then there is the recent trip to Japan. On my own and functionally illiterate for several days, I overnighted at an airport hotel at Haneda Airport’s Terminal 3 upon arrival. After a nap, I sussed out what I would need to do the following day to access the domestic terminal via a free shuttle, and where to go when I got to Terminal 1.
The next morning, then, I was feeling a little smug when I said “sayonara” at check-out and headed off. I knew what to do! After boarding the shuttle for the ten-minute ride, however, I was jolted by one of those moments no one enjoys. I checked my bag, knowing I would not find my passport holder, because already I knew it was still in the security safe back in Room 9212. [Insert a few (silent) expletives here.]
I looped back to Terminal 3, briskly walked the ten minutes to the hotel, not-so-patiently rose up the escalator to the lobby. After exchanging pleasantries with the lady at the desk, I explained my increasingly urgent dilemma. I smile to remember the hustle she showed as she ran off to the elevators and what I knew was a long, long hallway to retrieve my folder. Soon, I could hear her running steps before she rounded the corner to hand me my passport. Arigato! Domo arigato! Domo arigato gozaimashita!! I couldn’t say it enough, or smile more broadly.
On the return to Terminal 1, during the walk, the wait for the shuttle, the shuttle ride, I knew. I knew while I checked in my bag. I knew as I passed through security and walked out to the gate. I knew, thank goodness, that it was a very good thing that I had left time for that flat tire.
