I Blame Nashville (Airport)

I've been home from Ohio for a week now. I had mostly scheduled my posts for when I'd be out of town, but now that I'm back, I have some stories to tell. (I did start a bit last week with the tale of Loveland Castle.) 

Last year, when I went to visit my brother, weather was an issue during my return flight. Waiting for an opening to land in Denver lasted so long, I missed my connecting flight home. Sigh. Yet, at no point did I blame Denver for this. I'm not sure why. 

(I did not want a repeat, so when booking my flight, I made sure not to use Denver as my layover this year.) 

I do, however, blame Nashville. 

When booking my flight this year, I noted that the layover in Nashville would be almost four hours. (We were due to land at about 1:15 PM. The flight was close to on time. We were due to take off at 5:55 PM.)  Considering last year, I was fine with that. 

After deplaning, I went in search of a monitor so I could locate my next flight. The destination cities were in alphabetical order. Los Angeles... Las Vegas... some M city... Um. Wait. You're missing something. I was flying into Long Beach. I checked again. No Long Beach. 

Did I get on the wrong plane? They scanned my ticket before getting on board in Columbus. They would have said something. (I had seen them say something to passengers before, so they do confirm you are where you should be.) 

I checked my phone and the airline app. It gave me a gate number. D6. I was somewhere in the upper Cs. 

Okay, so here's a diagram of the airport: 

The red arrow is where I deplaned. The blue arrow is the gate my phone told me was the gate I'd be leaving out of. The distance between the two was roughly a half a mile. (This will become important in a bit.) 

I hiked to my departure gate. I checked the screen, but it didn't show my destination yet. I didn't expect it to. I was way early. But I double checked with the lady at the counter, and she confirmed that this was where my flight would be. I found a seat and relaxed. 

An hour or so later, I got hungry. I headed back up the way I'd come to find a Burger King. (About halfway up the concourse.) I double checked the monitors. Now it said I'd be departing from gate D7. Okay, then. 

I didn't want to walk all the way back, so I sat at the gate nearest where the restaurant was, and I overheard a flight going to Milwaukee getting ready to board. It was going to be the pilot's last flight, as he turned 65 the next day (and the FAA mandates pilots retire on their 65th birthday). His son, daughter-in-law, and grandson were all joining him on the flight. 

I headed back to gate D7. Double checked the screen. The flight after the current flight was not Long Beach. It wasn't even close to Long Beach. We'd been moved again? 

The departure screen still read D7. My phone? C22. All the way back. 

That seemed like a monumental hike. Deep sigh. No help for it. 

I struggled. And clearly I looked like I was struggling because an airport worker pushing a wheelchair asked if I needed assistance. Sigh. (I declined. Yes, it was a hard slog, but I could do it.) 

By the time I got to the Cs (all the way through the whole C concourse, basically back to the red arrow in the image), the monitors had finally caught up. Long Beach: C22. Only, now my phone said C23. 

I sat down and texted my brother. Whining. (I still had plenty of time before my flight. I'd get home that day. But now I was wiped out.) And that's when he noticed my gate had been changed. Again. To... 

D4. 

I couldn't face it. I sat for a bit. I had to make that hike. Again. 

But I'd have to do it sooner or later. I gathered my tatters of energy, and I set out again. This time I started my walking app so I could measure the distance. And at least no wheelchair pushing staff were around to point out how terrible I looked. 

D4 showed Sacramento as the destination, but a good hour before my supposed departure. My phone continued to show D4. And the monitors had finally caught up. 

Throughout this, I was getting texts about my flight being delayed. 5:55 was a distant memory. It became 6:08. Then 7:15... 

My brother did some sleuthing. The airplane scheduled for our flight was coming from Washington, D.C. And it hadn't left yet. 

I watched the Sacramento peeps line up and board. Those of us who remained looked around. Was this the Long Beach gate? Would we get moved again? Yes, there were others who knew my pain as it was their pain. And we noted the changes in our departure time... 

And suddenly departure time was 6:08 again. Huh? Via my brother, I knew the flight hadn't left DC yet. They were stuck on the runway. 

The pilots showed up. The flight attendants showed up. No airplane, but the staff was there. That we would be boarding soon was announced. Um... 

I don't know which plane it was, but they had given up on our expected plane and found us a different one. Good enough. 

An airplane arrived. Passengers deplaned. Our pilots and flight attendants boarded to prep. And then we could board. 

6:08? Nah. It was more like 6:45 by the time we left. But I did not care. I was on a plane headed for home on the same day that I left. I was good with this. 

We were supposed to arrive at 8:15. The flight was supposed to be 3 hours 50 minutes. We landed at roughly 8:40. (Time zones are so much fun while flying. We were on the edge of sunset for a good hour at least.) 

Whew. Home. 

And now I have another airport to maybe avoid. (Will I avoid Denver in the future? Will I avoid Nashville? Meh.)

And that was a good reminder that I need to continue my daily walks. Which I will do once I've recovered from this trip.