Opinion | Welcome to New York: the flight’s not waiting for you

Just when you think you’ve got it all figured out, life has a way of surprising you. Unsplash

A young, comfortable traveler sometimes has to be humbled with the reminder they’ve still got more to learn. 

A few weeks ago, my mom and I arrived at John F. Kennedy (JFK) airport in New York two hours early. She was catching a flight back to Seattle and I was heading to Orange County. After a long week attending the College Media Association Conference, I was exhausted.  

Alexandra Davenport, junior English major

I love to travel. Over the years, I’ve gone to different states in the U.S. including Hawaii, and other countries including Mexico, England, Switzerland, Italy and more. When my family first went to Mexico when I was two, my mom said, “Let’s roll!” and I actually started rolling around on the Seattle airport floor.  

At JFK March 13, I got through security quickly through Transportation Security Administration's PreCheck, since I fly often — meaning I don't have to take off my shoes. We all know the airport floor is nasty and that you better remember to wear socks; though I wish someone had told two-year-old Ali that before she rolled around on the ground.

Then, I bought bottled water, found my gate with American Airlines and waited. And waited. And kept waiting.  

The gate seemed awfully close to the entrance, but I figured I was in the right place after I checked my boarding pass and matched up the 8 with the gate number. But at 4:45 p.m. — when my flight was scheduled to start boarding — I came to an alarming realization.  

It’s 4:45, why isn’t my flight boarding?  

I looked up at the screen that said the flight information at Gate 8.  

Italy? I’m not going to Italy! 

Pulling up my boarding pass once more, I saw my fatal mistake. 

“Now boarding. Terminal 8, gate 32,” it read.  

I’d messed up big time. Not gate 8, Terminal 8.  

I’m gonna miss my flight! 

My phone rang; it was a New York number calling.  

“Alexandra Davenport, flight 2117 is leaving in two minutes,” the disembodied voice on the line warned. “Are you close?”

“I’m running down the escalator; can you hold the plane for five minutes?” I begged. “Please wait for me!”

Precursor: I did a lot of begging within the next few hours.  

“I have to close the door in two minutes,” the man replied curtly. “You’re too far away.” 

My stomach dropped and my throat closed as I acknowledged that I wasn’t going to make it. I ran all the way to the gate only to watch as the plane pulled out.  

I called my mom to tell her what had happened, simultaneous to her flight nearing take off. When I first shared the news, she thought I was joking. She told me to call my Dad and Auntie Anne.

The conversation left me riddled with guilt, and I knew it was up to me to find a solution. At 4:55 p.m., I rushed over to the American Airlines counter and asked if there were any flights to Seattle, Orange or Los Angeles — anything to get out of New York.  

“I’m sorry, there are no more flights out today anywhere,” the woman at the counter said. “We’re all booked. I can’t get you something until the morning. You could try another airline.” 

Before I went to New York, people had told me how big JFK is. But despite the warnings, I ambitiously assumed my prior travel experience was adequate preparation for navigating the airport on my own.

In retrospect, I was much too cocky.  

JFK is huge. If you haven’t been there, there are different terminals that you have to take the “AirTrain,” to get to — the slowest little vessel on planet earth. I think the Disneyland tram is faster.  

My mom texted me to try Alaska Airlines, and so I booked it to the AirTrain at 5:12 p.m. I made my way to Terminal 7, where I promptly informed a new woman behind the counter about my predicament.  

“It’s spring break; we have no more flights out tonight that have open seats anywhere,” she replied.

 I never thought I’d want to leave New York so badly.  

Across from the Alaska counter was United Airlines. I figured I’d try my luck there, but was met with a similar response. There was one available seat out of Newark Airport, but there was no way I’d make it in time.  

As much as I just wanted to sit on the floor and have a good cry, I didn’t. No time for that. Instead, I found myself frantically calling my dad and aunt back and forth, who were attempting to help me track down a new flight.

“Hold on, I see two seats open on a flight to LAX on Delta,” my Dad said.  

I tried to book a seat on my phone but continued to get an error notification. I figured there was a glitch and the seats were already booked.   

But at 5:30 p.m., I felt in my gut that I needed to start going over to Delta Airlines at Terminal 4. The AirTrain took 10 minutes to arrive, and during this brief intermission, I was on the phone with my Dad, crossing all my fingers that by some sort of miracle, he would be able to book that seat.  

I looked up, closed my eyes and prayed that it would work.  

Finally, at 5:45 p.m., my Dad booked the final seat on the plane, which was boarding at 6:50 p.m. Because we were in such a rush, we forgot to input my TSA PreCheck number. Whoops again.  

On the train, jittering nervously, a pilot asked if I was okay.  

I showed him my boarding pass.  

“It’s gonna be close; you need to hustle,” the pilot said. “It all depends on security. Ask a Delta lady to get you through.”

He gave me directions to my gate, which shaved off at least five minutes of precious time I desperately needed. I didn’t have time to be wandering around looking at signs; I had to make this flight. 

I sprinted off the train and spotted a Delta attendant.  

“Please, please, I missed my flight on American, and I have to get through security,” I pleaded. “I have 30 minutes to make my flight.”

The attendant led me over to security, and my eyes immediately widened; I was in shock. The airport looked like Christmas. There was such a large crowd, I couldn’t even see where the line started.  

“I have TSA PreCheck, but I didn’t enter it on my pass,” I said.  

She took me over to the desk and tried linking it to my boarding pass.   

Error. Error. Error.  

“It’s not working, you need to go try to convince them to let you through,” the attendant said. “Go now.”

After I scanned my boarding pass, the attendant almost didn’t let me through.  

“Ma’am, you don’t have PreCheck,” the guard said. “I see you missed your flight on American and had precheck over there.”.  

My heart sank, but I couldn’t give up. I was in the final stretch.  

“Please, I have to make this flight,” I beseeched. “I just want to go home, I’m begging you.”

And then another miracle happened.

“Just this once, go,” he said.  

I cut in line and got through security. Because of my pilot friend, I knew exactly where to run. Down the stairs, turn left, go to the end of the hall, left again and all the way down to Gate 33.  

If I hadn’t left Terminal 7 when I did, I may have not made it. If I’d missed that AirTrain, I wouldn't have made it. If that pilot wasn’t on the train telling me where to go and what to do, I could’ve gotten more lost. If Delta didn’t let me go through TSA PreCheck, I definitely wouldn’t have made it.  

But there I was, 10 minutes to spare, sweating and out of breath, thanking God that I was going home. And only two hours later than my previous flight.  

“I’m a buzzer beater. I always work well under pressure,” Dad said when I called to tell him I made it.  

In contrast, I looked insane running around the airport, gasping for air to talk to people; not just because I was running, but because I felt anxiety tightening in my chest.  

Later, I would find out that my original American Airlines flight actually left 10 minutes early. Don’t get me wrong, I should’ve been there way before 10 minutes pre-boarding, but why couldn’t they have held the door for two more minutes?

Nevertheless, the disappointment I feel in myself is still raw despite a solution being reached. I put myself and people I love through a two hour panic.

But that’s the thing I appreciate so much about my family — when we need each other, it doesn’t matter where we are or what we’re doing, we drop everything to be there.  

When I was 6-years-old, my grandpa sat me down to tell me that when I made a mistake, I should say to myself, “That’s not like me, I’ll do better next time.” This one line has resonated with me since, reminding me that I can’t dwell on the past.  

This fiasco was a humbling awakening: I still have plenty of growing up and learning to do. I’m going to keep making mistakes, and I have to be gracious with myself in the process.  

But I’ll learn from it, and hopefully others will too. Next time I’m traveling by plane, I certainly won’t forget to look at the flight display board, get to the gate early, check the screen at the gate and then check three more times.

“That’s not like me, I’ll do better next time.”