(Un)Christmas 2010--the bad news

Everything was going so well...cab was on time, line to check in was short, security line was short, coffee was strong and hot, the book I'd brought to read is really, really good. And then they made the announcement. There was a technical issue with our plane, and boarding would be delayed. They would update us on the situation in an hour. So...we waited another hour. And a half. We waited, as more and more people in safety vests walked back and forth through the departure lounge, and the flight attendants started to take off their blazers. We waited, and I though about the train that I was supposed to catch in Newark to make it home to Christmas with my family. And then an airline representative came on the loudspeaker and told us that there was no way the plane was getting off the ground and we should all go pick up our bags from carousel 6. Merry Christmas!

I elected to allow the airline to book me into a hotel. I only felt a little guilty as I covered the University of Edinburgh emblem on my sweatshirt and told the rep that I would need a single room. The tears rolling down my face were real enough, and at least this way I could watch t.v. and have a real meal for my lonesome holiday. And the staff here at the hotel has been absolutely wonderful: we innundated their hotel, over a hundred of us, on Christmas morning, and they have been nothing but accommodating, getting us all rooms quickly and with zero hassle. Though I suppose at this point they must have had quite a bit of practice at dealing with the airlines' failures.

My home away from home away from home.

Nice view, at least.

I'm booked on the same flight tomorrow, and this time my whole family is coming to Newark to pick me up. So, assuming I get out of Scotland at all, we can all have the traditional "Boxing Day on the New Jersey turnpike" celebration.

I keep telling myself that things could be worse. I'm in a nice room, had a nice meal, watched a very nice "Cinderella" performed by the Birmingham Ballet Company.

Even emotioanlly abused slave laborers get to be with their loved ones for the holidays.

Man shoulder...the only (reliable) way to fly

 Unless all signs really do point to yes--yes, God really does hate me--in which case I should just ask the airline to pay for a burial plot here instead of yet another adjusted itinerary, since I will clearly die in this Caledonian land. I think I've cried myself out now (thank goodness, because if housekeeper had had to bring one more roll of toilet paper to my room, I think they would have also have felt the need to send up a doctor) and just have to get through the next twelve hours of so. Please, send happy thoughts my way; with those and some fairy dust I might actually make it off the ground.