Flight
Mom and I are at the Mall of America in Minneapolis, Minn., not because we're on vacation and had a tourist desire to shop at this massive indoor retail emporium, or maybe stroll through the Mary Tyler Moore House – probably the only two reasons to spend a day in this mid-western stopover city. But because our connecting flight to San Jose, Calif. is delayed at least 24 hours due to storms on the east coast that grounded flights and brought spring break travelers to a standstill.
We are on our way to see my brother and sister-in-law and their extended family, and celebrate Passover with them.
When we got dropped off at Newark International Airport a morning ago, we knew the trip wasn't going to get off to a good start. All the flights out of Newark were already delayed. Our 6:00 a.m. direct flight to San Francisco was immediately cancelled. We learned that across the country, more than 2,400 flights were canceled and 10,000 were delayed. We spent the next few hours schlepping from the departure gate to customer service, to another gate, and another – just to see if we could get on some other flight or a connecting flight on standby. Herds of fellow stranded travelers stopped to read the arrivals and departure board and then stampeded to a queue at the check-in desk, only to be directed to yet another gate area, with an imaginary herd dog leading the charge. This drudgery went on ALL day and it became abundantly clear we were not going to arrive in California anytime soon. We messaged our family of our delayed plans.
Late in the afternoon, we actually boarded a flight for Minneapolis, the only available plane to take us out of Newark. We arrived in Minneapolis in the evening, to find the Minneapolis/St. Paul International Airport in exactly the same chaos as the one we had just left. Stranded: The Sequel. We kept bumping in to the same groups of people we had seen in Newark; we were on the same travel journey. In between talking to the gate agents, we commiserated with our cast-away-mates. The situation in Minneapolis was deteriorating rapidly, with flights being cancelled one by one. The departures board was lit up with halted planes. Full stop. There were NO flights leaving at all. More than 75 flights had been canceled and nearly 400 were delayed due to a ripple effect from the east coast weather. We would need to spend the night in Minneapolis. Our luggage was continuing the journey without us, locked in the cargo hold of our original flight to San Francisco.
A lady we were chatting with in the gate departure area offered a solution. If we were interested, we could use her apartment in Minneapolis to stay overnight. We politely declined, not wanting an obligation to a stranger, but she insisted we take her keys, and wrote out the address, and her phone number. She was explaining that the place was vacant and that she only used it as a pied-á-terre when she was in town. We'd need to turn on the water and heat. She handed us the keys and wouldn't take a "no." Mom took the keys and graciously thanked the woman for her kindness, even though I could see the skepticism on her face. We gave each other a glance, a silent, concurring nod.
The airline was handing out flyers with a list of hotels and told us to call to find accommodations ourselves. All the extras in the cast had the same flyer and everyone was on their phones at the same time. Mom and I agreed a hotel was a much safer and less creepy spot to spend a night in a strange city. I started dialing. No surprise, each hotel was full. No room at the inn. It was already after midnight, and sleeping at the airport didn't seem like a good option, so I Googled "hotels nearby" and began making calls. After several unsuccessful attempts, the desk clerk at Hilton Home2 Suites picked up. Yes, they had rooms. Reasonable price. Not far from the airport. We miraculously found a taxi outside and set off for our midnight oasis. We pulled up to a brightly lit and welcoming building, a relief after our day-long trials. We checked in, and learned that the hotel was brand-new and had opened just a few days earlier. The rooms were all suites. I had a carryon bag full of shoes and nothing else useful in it. Mom had a purse. We didn't even have a toothbrush. The hotel gave us each a little toiletries kit, and we settled in for the night, exhausted. I stripped off my only clothes (who knew many more days I'd need to wear them) and crawled under the sheets.
This wasn't our usual annual visit with my brother, but more of a compromise since we didn't go for Thanksgiving as we had for the past 20 years. The previous August, Mom had announced her decision to sell the house, and my brother grilled me on her reasons for wanting to move. She and I were at odds: I didn't want to move; she was finished debating it. I was trying to explain it all to my brother. He turned it around: it was all my fault. He ranted how I never contributed anything, and this was my doing. He was relentless as a pitbull, and I refused to let him continue to berate me and make me feel worthless. What had I done? Only selflessly stood by my mother, cared for her, and stayed right there with her for years, while he lived his life in a bubble in California. I hung up on him, and decided I would no longer speak with him or put up with his bullying tactics to make me feel bad about myself. In the fall, he tried to convince my mother to come for Thanksgiving. He went so far as to book flights for the two of us, but I held firm and told Mom I would not go. He was livid. He wanted her to come by herself. They would arrange wheelchairs for her at the airport. That made her wince – she did not think of herself as elderly or disabled, even though traveling was difficult. Putting it in those terms made her feel awful, but they didn't notice. I knew perfectly well she would not travel without me, nor would she want to stay with them on her own. She tried to mediate a truce. I did not want to negotiate; my brother would not apologize. That left us at a stalemate.
In the meantime, Mom and I sold the house to a builder, and moved into a rental townhouse for what would be the last year of her life. She desperately wanted to visit her grandchildren, and I finally agreed to accompany her to San Jose in early April.
We woke to a clear day in Minneapolis. Day two in the same clothes. The hotel had a free breakfast buffet, and a shuttle bus service that could take us to the nearby Mall of America and pick us up when we wanted to come back. Our rescheduled flight wasn't until the evening.
We hopped on the shuttle bus. We were the only passengers and the bus took us directly to a main entrance near Nordstrom – our shopping comfort zone. Mom could not spend much time on her feet before she would tire, but browsing in a quiet mall was relaxing compared to the chaotic airport. We explored a little, marveling at the indoor amusement park, a super-sized candy store, and 500 other shopping possibilities, an overwhelming selection. She was already worn out after only a few minutes. I wandered a bit more on my own, while Mom sat at a table in the food court area. Then I came back and joined her for a coffee. I took some photos and posted them on my Facebook page. The only comment was from my sister-in-law. "Glad you were able to make lemonade," she said.
I cringed. I wondered how one person could be so enthusiastically snide and obtuse at the same time, and yet utterly oblivious to the reality of our plight. My mother was only traveling because she wanted to see her grandchildren and was willing to tolerate her physical limitations to make the arduous journey. None of it was easy for her. We were simply biding time until our flight.
Late that afternoon, we got a confirmation that our flight would be departing Minneapolis. We took the shuttle to the airport, and at long last boarded a flight to San Jose.
It took two more days to track down our luggage, just in time to get dressed for the Passover Seder. Why is this night different from all other nights, we ask. Because I'm wearing a different shirt, I answered to myself.
We spent the rest of the week in California, and Mom got to see her three grandchildren. It would be her last visit to San Jose, and the last time they saw her. A year later, she died, with only me by her side.
After we returned home to New Jersey, I submitted all the receipts for our unexpected travel expenses due to the cancelled flight to Delta Airlines. We received a check in the mail for the full amount a few weeks later. It made up for the out-of-pocket expenditures. But nothing could make up for the insensitivity of my family.
Lemons, indeed.
