Fight and flight.

DEC. 10, 2010

For once, my travel partner and I made it to our destination – this time, the airport – with time to spare.

“We got there with an hour and a half, and yet you still managed to have to run to the gate,” he just commented, reading beside me.

It’s true.

After making it through security and to the gates, I had half an hour before takeoff to the bathroom. Imagine my dismay at the one occupied stall, complete with lineup.

When I managed to make it out of the washroom, my partner was the only man left at the gate. And he was talking animatedly to four federal officers.

So I quickened my pace to a run as I moved his way.

Remember how our passports weren’t stamped as we drove through the borders of the US or Mexico, and how we didn’t require visas to travel through the continent?

Turns out that was now a problem.

He and I separated for a moment, and I tried talking nicely to an officer who spoke English about how we got through to Cancún with no US or Mexican stamps.

My partner was at the gate, trying to get the message through to a stern-looking officer with a crew cut.

After delaying departure by about ten minutes, I took the English officer over to the desk, where my partner was flailing his arms (note: he says he was “moving my arms with purpose and gusto”).

“Search me! I have nothing! We have nothing!” he shouted in a higher pitch that usual.

The crew-cut officer mumbled to the airline attendant, discussion the possibility (or impossibility) of a later flight.

I started pushing tears to my eyes, while my partner continued his exasperated speech.

The crew-cut officer waved his hands.

“Fly.”

“What?” we said in unison.

“Fly, fly.”

With a string of graciases and a quick step, we boarded the plane.

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