At 2:20 AM, the airline emailed that my flight to JFK had been cancelled due to air traffic control safety concerns. Fortunately, I’d slept well. Better to deal with the emotional toll.
I’d celebrated coming under budget while on vacation. Now that would be put to the test. Another tour member had been the first to sound the alarm in the group chat. Dr. Kofi scrambled to rebook those of us who were on the cancelled flight.
One of the biggest challenges was waiting. Looked like I wasn’t leaving until Monday. Since it was very early in the morning in the States, I didn’t message anyone until after breakfast. In the meantime, I contemplated asking Dr. Kofi about a homestay or other cheaper accommodations.
The drama continued with every waking hour. My sister called to let me know that another couple who were on my original NY flight had rebooked on my sister’s DC flight. When I checked, the flight had sold out. The cheapest flight was a three-stop adventure, starting in Brussels. As soon as I’d leave Ghana at 6:40 PM, I’d arrive in Brussels at 5:35 AM to depart six hours later. Not too bad, followed by a two and a half hour layover in DC.
I was the only one on this itinerary. At least one person expressed concern over me flying solo. I must admit, traveling as part of a group had been nice, but at the same time, I was happy to go home.
After breakfast, I attended an impromptu meeting off of the reception area. The plan was to have someone take me to the airport by 3 PM.
Around noon, I messaged my supervisor back in the States about getting flextime for Monday, along with three pictures from the trip. I managed to log into the work platform to make an official time-off request for Monday.
I thought about intermittent fasting. I had too many cedis to spend all at the airport, but was motivated to give it the ol’ college try. I still didn’t want to use my credit card until I returned to the States.
Even though I’d be the first to leave Ghana , I’d arrive home hours after the second group who would depart Ghana around 10:20 PM.
Rumor had it that JFK workers were on strike, so rebooking for Monday may not work out either. I should’ve known that the source of the JFK workers’ strike rumor were two of the New Yorkers in our tour group themselves. They were cynical about the situation, but there was also an IT issue. Adding to the confusion, one member posted an article written on July 24th that an airline worker strike may occur today. Another article, another vote for weather-induced cancellations.
Although some people’s final destination was NY, those who had other final destinations, could rebook on another airline and get a refund. Only three of us did that. Another couple were booked through Amsterdam.
One of the worst things, the repeated good-byes. Yet I looked forward to posting my updates via our group chat.
Nonetheless, I was still in a weird mood. I didn’t want to leave the hotel room. I made a mental note to spend all those cedis at the airport. My mood had me thinking that I didn’t want to spend US dollars in Brussels nor use my credit card. If I had to put a name to my mood, I would have called it “stubborn.”
After landing in Accra, I’d wished that my medium-sized gray luggage had had a distinct marking, so I could pick it out from all the others. I rummaged through my suitcase and rediscovered hanger loops on my silky pajama pants. I pulled them off and tied those pale yellow pieces to the handles. Now, I could distinguish my common-looking suitcase, providing it didn’t get lost.
I called the credit card company to make sure I didn’t embarrass myself when in Brussels and attempt to use my card. I was definitely going to buy something, but I didn’t want their currency. Thinking about my immediate future help me escape my foul mood.
A resort employee picked up the suitcase on time. So, just pool servers who, for some reason, were the inefficient ones.
I had a last-minute interesting discussion with the tour guide while he drove me to the airport: “funeral terrorism.” He explained how aggressive mourners “celebrate” the death of someone, which was big business with billboards, a lot of people, food, drink and so on.
I captured one more traffic scene before we entered the airport area.
As soon as I walked in, I checked the departure board. A friendly woman told me that I’d arrived too early to check in. She escorted me to a seating area, saying she’d help me check in later, then escort me to a lounge where I could wait comfortably and eat all for $60.
So, I waited and read for about 30 minutes when the A/C caused me to use bathroom. I walked around afterwards, mainly to stretch my legs. I checked the departure board again. I saw that that friendly woman had pointed out the incorrect row where I needed to check in. As a matter of fact, other passengers were already in line.
We weighed our luggage first, then proceeded to another airline worker to show our passport. In the slowest part of the line, we checked our luggage. As I stood in that slow line, I replayed my conversation with that woman. I’d mistakenly told her that I was going to “Amsterdam” instead of “Brussels.” All was well since I’d caught my error in time.
When I finally checked my luggage, I did a double-take because one of the employees looked as if he could’ve been related to one of my parents’ longtime friends. I wish I could have taken a picture, but I didn’t dare just in case that part of the airport was considered a sensitive area.
An even slower-moving security line provided some entertainment, witnessing other impatient travellers bumrush one of the two lines. Not everyone was late for boarding. Some were merely self-important.
That line allowed me plenty of time to study the row of duty free shops. Once I cleared security, I made a beeline to purchase $60’s worth of chocolate. I saved one small dark chocolate bar for my flight with free wine.
My airport dinner was 200 cedis ($20). Good thing I had enough money for a selection of chocolate and food with a shot of Baileys. I spent the last 30 pesewas on a large chocolate lollipop with four pesewas remaining.
Good thing I was already squatting over a toilet when I read the warning sign on the back of the door. Perhaps such signage would better serve the public if it was displayed on the customs cubicle when passengers landed in Accra.
First stop: Cotonou, Benin. DRY flight. Still ate some chocolate. I shared chocolate with the woman who sat beside me, who liked it because it wasn’t too sweet at 60%.
After the 44-minute flight from Accra to Cotonou, we were both directed to change seats. I went from an aisle seat to window seat in a row just forward of the bathroom. I risked using it. Not too bad for an airplane toilet.
I clarified with a flight attendant that the next flight served wine and pre-ordered a dry red, which was the right kind of “dry” to pair with dark chocolate.
That airline’s plane had more leg room. Just as I’d become comfortable in my new seat, another flight attendant asked me to move. Back to my original seat. Since the window seat was open, I upgraded myself. A third airline worker checked my ticket and stated that the guy beside me was in the wrong seat. I’d moved from my second seat because a little girl sat in the aisle seat; therefore, I should not have been moved in the first place since families needed to be seated together.
My wine was overdue. I felt like crying like one of those babies on the plane.
After landing in Brussels, I reunited briefly with the woman who had been my original seat mate. They had also wanted her to return our original row 44. She’d refused.
We walked for a long time together since the terminal wasn’t near anything. All those morning walks with Dr. Kofi had conditioned me for this. Thank goodness I didn’t have to use the bathroom because the nearest one was very busy and I didn’t see another until after clearing security.
The Brussels airport didn’t give a damn if the water bottle you carried was airline-issued. Anything over a certain amount of milliliters, they’d throw it out unless you wanted to go back through security. I would’ve chugged that bad boy on the plane had I known.
The departure board only went to 11:20 AM, not noon; so, I sat down, not knowing my gate number prior to security.
Another long walk. At 6:30 AM local time, I reached my gate with only five and half hours to spare. Luckily, there were nearby USB-C ports to charge phones and airpods while listening to audiobook.
Thanks to homeland security, I showed my passport again, along with the boarding pass, to two different people. The first person merely confirmed that the name matched. The second person at the desk was very friendly, asking questions like a customs agent. Inquired about my Ghana visit. I volunteered that I’d taught in both Tanzania and Egypt. Passed that hurdle with flying colors. Glad I didn’t have the other guy. He seemed business as usual, asking people sterile questions such as US address.
Promptly at 10 AM, the sign for IAD popped up. Once past customs and security, I was immersed into the world of duty free with pathways, reminding me of IKEA. I, of course, ignored all the shopping and focused on getting to the gate.
Rain started moments prior to boarding. I stood in a winding amusement park boarding line. Fortunately, I walked past a group who hadn’t gone through homeland security. I was happy to see a neck pillow and blanket waiting in my seat. Made up for the fact that I had a middle seat.
Lunch choices for rows up to 53 were beef, chicken or mushroom pasta. For rows 54 and higher, the flight attendants asked with a big smile, “Would you like pasta?” To which I replied, “Well, it’s better than nothing.”
My attempt to haggle with the cute flight attendant for a free Bailey’s failed. That brother wasn’t in the mood although I’d perfectly argued that since they had run out of two meal choices, I should get a free Bailey’s. He reiterated that the only free alcohol was beer and wine. I was no longer in the land of everything being negotiable.
Descending into DC, turbulence rocked us like a rollercoaster. A nearby baby started crying. The woman, who sat in the window seat, finally needed to use the toilet, but it was too late.
I announced that I’d start crying if turbulence didn’t calm down. I led my section of the plane in applause once we touched down. Then I stated that we all needed to put our feet down to help slow the plane down “Flintstone” style.
I happily ate a spicy poké bowl with a mango flavored lemonade. For once, I didn’t want alcohol, bread nor chocolate. The vacation was truly over.
Like a bad omen, my original gate was A1C. Too on the nose for someone who was pre-diabetic. I changed flights because my original flight was overbooked by one. I switched since I traveled alone. Plus, I received a $300 voucher, good for a year.
With all these changing time zones, I remembered to take a malaria pill after 6 PM local time. I walked to the water fountain, then entered the nearest bathroom. As soon as I questioned to myself, “What are all these men doing in the women’s restroom,” I immediately turned around and entered the correct bathroom.
Delay. Delay. Delay. Delay. Cancelled. That had truly been the most rotten ending to a fabulous vacation. I still hadn’t reached my final destination. At least the plane hadn’t crashed.