Travel Unravel

A fitful night of packing dreams in which I play whack-a-mole with all the things I need to carry: as soon as I jam the last thing into the bag, something else appears that needs to go. Arrive at Logan and Verizon netbook can't connect to Verizon WiFi, so I waste an hour delving into five voice mail layers (twice) to get to a person at Verizon who can help. I eventually do and she does and I'm online in time to get a quick bite to eat and hop on the plane.

Carried over the Atlantic on the constant crying of an 8-month-old and his frazzled parents. They are trying so hard and so lovingly to quiet him, but he's having none of it. I'm exhausted and try to drown him out with a favorite tune mix, but it's no good. I end up checking my watch every 30 seconds to see if we're there yet.

When we land in Dublin, I ask an airport employee whether I'll need to go outside security once I have my luggage to check in for my next flight. He tells me, oh by the way, that I probably won't get on the next flight, since all flights were being grounded due to volcanic ash. I think he's kidding. He's not. An Icelandic volcano is wreaking havoc with the airspace. "Upstairs is bedlam," he warns.

He's right on all counts. There are thousands of people milling about under displays that list flight numbers, destinations and CANCELED after them. My destination, Cork, doesn't say canceled, but it's later than most of the others (I have a 3-hour layover). Does that mean there's hope?

I try to get to the Ryanair ticket counter. I can't get near it so I ask an airport official about the Cork flight. "All Ryanair passengers over there," he says, pointing to a mass of people. Turns out it's a line - or queue, as it's known here - of unfathomable proportions.

It begins halfway across the airport, snakes up and down five or six times, ends at a rope so other travelers can cross the terminal, and picks up again a few yards away. An airport official periodically escorts half a dozen people from behind the rope, across the open area (which is actually clogged with travelers and luggage and strollers), and lets them in another roped off area to continue the wait.

I get in line. I haven't been to the restroom. I haven't eaten. I don't have any water. I have two pieces of luggage on wheels that want to go in separate directions as I drag them behind me. We stand and stand and stand. The line inches ahead. After two hours, I have traversed four of the up and down snakes. I'm beyond exhaustion. My flight-swollen feet are trying to bust out of my shoes.

An official appears, breaks open the barrier corralling us, and shunts a number of us towards a counter where helping people wait. "Cork?" I ask. "Counter 6," he says. Counter 6? Where the hell is that? I find it. An agent stands behind the counter helping one person. There is no line.

The huge queue was only for people with canceled flights and the Cork flight hasn't been canceled. The gate closes on my flight in 20 minutes. I speed down to security. There's a logjam. An official appears and sends half a dozen of us to the other end of the terminal where there is no line. I'm hurrying to get shoes off, plastic bag with liquids out of carry on, laptop in its own tray. I forget to take off my jewelry and set off the alarm. I'm wanded and dejeweled and wanded and sent back through the detector.

As I reconstitute myself I look for the gate number on the board pass scrunched in my hand - no gate. "Where's the gate information," I ask the attendant. "Look at the display," she says.

I bolt out of security searching for a display. Ah, there's one. Cork flight: gate 211. 211 - where is that, England? Good god. Now I'm on the move, flying along people movers and down corridors, breaking into a jog as the seconds tick by.

I arrive breathless at the gate. Panting and gasping, I ask the gate agent if the flight is boarding. He's not impressed with me. "Not yet," he says. And then, glancing at my boarding pass says, "But you're on Ryanair. This is Aer Arann." What? I have the wrong fucking flight? "Where am I supposed to be?" I ask, my voice framed in desperation. "I have no idea," he says, now clearly disgusted. "Check the display."

Oh my god. So now I have the wrong gate, wrong flight, wrong airline. And my flight closes two minutes ago. I peal out of gate 211 frantically searching for a display. All the ones I find list only the flights for the gates in the immediate vicinity. Finally I find one that lists flights airport-wide. Sure enough, there are two to Cork and mine is at gate 103. On the other side of the airport.

Mustering my last erg of strength, I sprint to gate 103. As I burst onto the scene, I find a serenely calm and quiet seating area of passengers with no gate agent to be seen.

Can this be it? Not even boarding after the gate is supposed to be closed? Or did my flight leave already and are these people waiting for the next one? But the display shows the right flight number and departure time. I finally ask the fellow sitting next to me if he's waiting for the Cork flight and he is. I made it.

As I queue up waiting to board, I can feel the blisters swelling on my feet. Although I don't want to jinx the thing before we're actually airborne, I'm already grateful for not having to spend a volcano's age in Dublin airport.