The trip that almost wasn’t

I am not spontaneous.

That’s why it’s so remarkable that we were headed to Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport on Friday, October 11, bound for a Fall Break weekend trip to the Big Apple for a full slate of Broadway shows.

Our youngest son, Carlton, turned 16 on October 10, and as we brainstormed the weekend prior on the best way to celebrate, we latched onto a hairbrained and totally out-of-character idea: a last minute visit to New York to see some shows and enjoy the city in autumn. We had taken a family trip to New York just before Christmas in 2022 and had a blast, and we believed we could plan a successful New York getaway without much lead time.

Last December during the family cruise we took to celebrate Carla’s 50th birthday, we decided to plan trips with our boys individually, allowing us to strengthen our bonds with each of them doing what they wanted where they wanted.

Carlton’s 16th birthday seemed the ideal time to take his trip, which was easier to schedule because he’s still under our roof. Plus, Carlton’s fall break fortuitously lined up with my fall break at Oglethorpe University where I work.

In a week’s time we booked flights, hotel rooms, tickets to three shows, dinner reservations at three restaurants and planned a full agenda of supplemental funtivities Carlton would enjoy. Carla’s master planning culminated in a highly-anticipated lineup of “The Great Gatsby,” “Cabaret,” “Once Upon a Mattress” and even brunch at Ellen’s Stardust Cafe with the singing servers.

We had everything set by October 8 and couldn’t wait to go on this adventure together. We celebrated Carlton’s birthday with Carla’s mom on his actual birthday, October 10, with dinner and a hearty “Yee-haw” at Texas Roadhouse, one of Carlton’s favorite spots. We opened gifts at Mama’s apartment before busying ourselves with packing. I called to check in on my parents who had just weathered Hurricane Milton in Central Florida. They made it through with a couple of leaks and tree limbs scattered across the yard, but were otherwise OK. The final hurdle for the trip had been cleared.

When we turned in for the night, Gene Kelly sang, “New York, New York, it’s a wonderful town!” on loop on my mental playlist. I couldn’t believe we were actually going to do it.

But… we live in the Atlanta suburbs. Every journey must account for the predictably terrible traffic. At the height of our anticipation, we had neglected to calculate the misery and delay that I-285 inflicts.

The plan was to leave the house at 7 a.m. for a 10:05 flight from Atlanta to Newark. It usually takes about 45 minutes to get to the airport, and on a Fall Break Friday, we expected lighter than usual traffic. Google Maps confirmed that travel time when we left the house. We were a few minutes later than I wanted to get going, but we were still well within the window to arrive at the airport in plenty of time to park at the new West Deck and take the ATL SkyTrain to the terminal.

How naive we were.

In the 15 minutes between leaving our house and reaching I-285, Google Maps changed our arrival time at West Parking from 8 a.m. to 8:15 to 8:45 and finally to 9:05. With our boarding time scheduled for 9:40 a.m., my blood pressure began rising in similar increments.

Alternate routes were out of the question. Had the traffic alerts come before we left, we could have taken I-85 through town and been fine. But instead, here we were, inching along on the east side of I-285, jammed in with all the tractor-trailers, looking at nothing but red on our GPS screen. The best laid plans of mice and men were going awry quickly.

When we finally reached the scene of the multi-car pile up that closed all but one lane of traffic, I was panicking. It took everything in my power to hold it together, and I was determined not to ruin everyone’s day by engaging in the time honored tradition of “fatherly angry lecturing” at a time when it would not be heard or appreciated.

When we finally broke free of the snarl, I accelerated to what felt like lightspeed after crawling at a snail’s pace for 45 minutes.

Literally on the fly, we had to give up on the much cheaper option of the West Parking Deck and invest in the Daily Parking Lot, which was closer to the terminal and much more likely to give us our best chance of somehow making the flight.

But when we arrived at South Parking, not only was the Economy Lot closed because of the construction of a new parking deck (which we knew), the Daily Lot was full. That left only the dreaded Hourly Lot, which everyone knows costs approximately $578 per second to park in.

The upside of the Hourly Lot is that it is super close to the terminal. We were checking bags, which I never do when traveling solo, adding another obstacle to making our flight. Checking our bags curbside to save time turned out to be a bust when we saw the line snaking around the building.

We took our chances inside the terminal. Feeling the mounting pressure of the fleeting seconds tick by, I fumbled at the kiosk. Carlton’s frustration at my technological ineptitude allowed him to experience, not for the last time, what it’s like to deal with aging parents and technology.

We printed the luggage tags, miraculously navigated the drop off with just enough time to make it to our gate if security cooperated.

We dashed to what we thought was the entrance to the main security checkpoint (no, we don’t have TSA precheck or Clear) only to be directed, “Christmas Story”-Santa-scene-style, to the start of the line, which was “back there.” The security line was long and not moving. I knew we were toast.

Carla and Carlton were more hopeful and asked me to think positive thoughts. I have missed enough flights in my day to know when I’m going to miss one, and I firmly believe in the British adage, “It’s the hope that kills you.”

We shuffled through the queue, and I began checking my Delta app for alternative flights. This did not prove fruitful and only elevated my anxiety. Every flight was full. The first flight with seats out of Atlanta wasn’t until 8 p.m., about a half hour into what would have been act one of “The Great Gatsby.” I had to mentally and emotionally commit to making the 10:05 flight.

And then the most inexplicable and providential moment of the entire morning happened. Like the parting of the Red Sea or the arrival of Gandalf and the Riders of Rohan from the East at Helm’s Deep at first light on the fifth day, the line suddenly began to move. More TSA checkpoints opened, and somewhere Frank Sinatra started singing “Start Spreading the News.” I gave into the possibility of hope.

Once clear of security, the plane train proved to be our fastest option to Terminal A, and together we decided I was the best chance of reaching gate A2 at the far end of the terminal in time to hold the door. Like a hip-swiveling speedwalker, I bobbed and weaved through the sea of turtle-paced travelers who were either just arriving or had planned better and didn’t have to sprint to their gates.

I reached the gate in a full sweat as the agent said, “Wallace?”

“Yes… There’s two more of us coming,” I huffed. “Did we make it?”

“You made it!”

I was elated. She could have been handing me the Nobel Prize.

Carlton rounded the corner with Carla a few seconds behind him.

“We made it!” I said. 

They acted all cool like they knew we would make it the whole time. The clock above the gate read “10:00.” We were the last passengers to board, and by the time I collapsed into my middle seat, I didn’t even care. We had defied the odds, made the flight with seconds to spare, and the rest of the weekend could go on as planned.

And it did. We had the best time. Our trip was everything we had hoped for and more. We were so glad we were spontaneous and made important memories with Carlton. It was a 16th birthday he’ll always cherish.

The moral to this story is threefold: Don’t ever trust Google Maps, don’t ever take I-285 if you have to get anywhere by a certain time, and always, always, always plan to arrive at the airport three days before your scheduled departure time to avoid unexpected delays.