Atlanta is arguably the capital of the South, but it is undeniably home to the world’s busiest airport.
By virtue of its geography, the visionary decision to build an international airport here, and the less-than-visionary decision to intersect three major interstates in the heart of downtown, the well worn joke about Atlanta goes something like this: “If you die anywhere in the South you have to go through Atlanta to get to heaven (or the other place).”
I feel blessed to live in the greater Atlanta metropolitan area, even more so since my work commute no longer takes me to Midtown or Downtown. I have often availed myself of the convenience of traveling from Atlanta because I can usually get anywhere in the world without a connecting flight. And because Delta calls Atlanta home and services nearly every route I could possibly need to travel, I have wracked up SkyMiles over the years allowing for a number of free flights at key moments when I needed to see family or take a special trip.
But before this sounds like a testimonial for the Atlanta Convention and Visitors Bureau or Delta Air Lines, let me recount for you a recent experience of the downside of the hub-and-spoke air travel system.
On August 6, a series of severe thunderstorms ripped through Atlanta causing numerous flight delays and cancellations. Thousands of people were stranded all over the country and particularly along the Eastern Seaboard.
I had cashed in some SkyMiles for a three-day weekend visit to my parents in central Florida, which meant I was flying in and out of Orlando, an extremely popular destination anytime of year but particularly during the summer when the resorts and theme parks beckon tourists from across the country. Flights were full and the Orlando airport bustling on that fateful day.
Having been conditioned to arrive early for all my departures after a series of mishaps and missed flights in my 20s, I made it to my gate with an hour to spare before boarding. I found a comfortable seat by the window and started listening to podcasts.
Little did I know what the rest of that fateful Sunday and Monday morning would hold.
Five minutes before what would be the first of three calls to board my 4:30 p.m. flight to Atlanta, my Delta app notified me the flight was delayed by 45 minutes. Unfazed, I texted Carla, and returned to my window seat and my podcasts.
On my third attempt to board, they opened the jetway doors at the exact moment my weather app alerted me to a severe thunderstorm warning for Fulton County, Georgia.
That’s the moment I should have either found a rental car and returned to my parents house an hour away, or booked a hotel room for the night. But, alas, hope springs eternal on a summer Sunday afternoon in Orlando.
I looked around and noticed there were three other Delta flights from Orlando to Atlanta all in various stages of delay, including the flight that was originally scheduled to leave an hour before mine. That’s also when I noticed the longest line in the gate area – Delta’s rebooking counter.
All the signs were there. This was not going to be a smooth evening of air travel.
Naively hopeful, I boarded about 7:40 p.m., three hours after it had been scheduled to depart. By my calculations, I would be home by 10:30 and still be able to get a decent night’s rest before starting a busy work week.
Our flight was routed around rough weather, so it took a little longer getting back to Atlanta. By that point, those trying to reach other flights had lost all hope of making their connections, so the anxiety level on the plane had degenerated into resignation. I felt sorry for those whose final destination was not Atlanta and was consoled by my circumstances.
At least Atlanta was my final destination. At least I was traveling alone and didn’t have to worry about my family’s comfort and mental state. At least I didn’t check a bag. At least I had 12 hours of podcasts to keep me entertained.
All my “at leasts” vanished when we touched down, and instead of immediately taxiing to a gate, the pilot announced all the gates were full, and it would be at least 45 minutes before we would be let off the plane.
I have sat in Atlanta interstate traffic many times in my 20 years as a metro-area resident, but I had never sat in Atlanta airport runway traffic.
After 90 minutes, the pilot returned to the intercom to inform us that after the storms passed, the tower had 80 flights landing in roughly the same time period. The air lines were scrambling to get the delayed planes on the ground out so the arrivals could get to their gates. He then told us we were number 40 in line.
Even with my rusty math skills I quickly calculated my total wait time on the ground in my Boeing 767 would be three hours.
I have never felt a hint of claustrophobia on an airplane, but at that moment, a twinge of something akin to fear gave me a shudder. I had entered the mental toughness stage of the test of endurance, and I had to quickly find a way to distract myself from the fact that I could see from my tiny window a jetway to freedom a hundred yards away.
So close, yet so far.
As the flight attendants finally passed out the snacks they had been prevented from serving during the flight because of the turbulence, I began working to convince myself that I was actually still in the air. That seemed preferable to the sensation of being trapped and wasting time. Afterall, if I was still airborne, I would not focus on the fact I could be at home in my own bed, or at least having a normal supper beyond Sun Chips and Biscoff cookies.
It’s an odd sensation to be locked into a long metal tube when you’re sitting on the ground. For some reason, when you’re in the same tube hurtling through the air at 600 miles per hour, it doesn’t seem as bad.
When we did finally reach a gate and I emerged from the jetway, I found myself at terminal F, the international terminal. If you are familiar with the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport, you know that the international terminal is so far away from the main parking lot that it has a separate entrance on a completely different interstate than the entrance to the domestic terminal.
Sure, they have a fun little “plane train” underground to take you between the terminals and ground transportation and baggage claim. But after an air traffic day like this, even though it was well after midnight, the airport was crowded, the walkways were jammed and there were stranded travelers lying on the floors near electrical outlets charging their phones.
I overheard one traveler say, “It looks like the apocalypse in here.” It looked – and smelled – like a disaster area. Over an hour later, I emerged from the parking deck and headed up an almost deserted I-85 toward Gwinnett County.
When my head hit the pillow after 3 a.m., my only emotion was gratitude. At least I was home. At least I was safe. At least the flight hadn’t cost me anything.
In fact, the next morning when I awoke after too few hours of sleep, I had a friendly email from Delta awarding me 5,000 SkyMiles for my trouble.
My chief takeaway from the adventure? Atlanta is the capital of the South, but maybe having the world’s busiest airport isn’t a prize we want to win.
What was your worst travel nightmare? What were the coping mechanisms that helped you through it? What were the “at leasts” that kept you going? Share your story in a comment. Misery loves company.
New South Essays 